Hana Khan Carries On

by Uzma Jalaluddin

  StanleyP

  The coincidences kept piling up, and when you mentioned your cousin and building a dam, I had my proof. Finally.

  I closed my eyes and tried to breathe. Of course my cousin was somehow behind this mystery. Rashid might as well change his name to Loki, or maybe Shaitan. I looked closely at the photo and realized that it was more than recent. There were stalls and tables set up in the background, and I could make out the signs for the street festival. He’s here, right now.

  StanleyP

  I have the advantage at this point, so let me officially introduce myself. My real name is Aydin Shah. I’m a 27-year-old Muslim man who used to live in Vancouver but recently moved to the center of the universe, Toronna. I have no siblings, my mother died when I was five, and my father is a jerk who somehow blocked all your texts in the past few days. Also, I recently opened up a restaurant on the same street as the most perfect girl in the world. Hello, Hana.

  Aydin/StanleyP had returned home. And he still didn’t know about his mother. I wrote back, not sure what else to do:

  Salaams, Aydin.

  It was time to rejoin the fight outside.

  * * *

  • • •

  I had been gone for less than thirty minutes, but when I emerged from Three Sisters, the festival was completely transformed. The street was now bustling with people browsing stalls and munching on snacks. The number of protesters had grown as well, to about forty people, all yelling, chanting, and holding up hateful messages.

  Except now they had company. The counterprotesters had shown up as promised, two dozen in total. They waved placards of their own that read: all are welcome! and we say no to hate! Though they were outnumbered by the black-T-shirt army, they were just as loud. I spotted Yusuf in the middle of the throng, clutching a megaphone and working the crowd, Lily by his side. My do-gooder friends simply couldn’t help themselves. Lily caught my eye and gave me an uncertain smile, which I returned.

  Imam Abdul Bari stood on the fringes. When he caught my gaze, he smiled beatifically. The sight of his silent courage, despite his recent devastating loss, made me stand a bit straighter.

  A trio of little girls skipped past, dressed in jumpers or dresses paired with sneakers, trailed by their parents. A couple walked hand in hand, the woman in hijab, the man in jeans and a T-shirt. They were followed by a larger family, a teenage boy trailing his elderly grandparents, the grandfather in starched white shalwar kameez and a brown felt prayer hat, grandmother in a neatly tied sari.

  The Three Sisters booth wasn’t as busy as Wholistic Grill’s, but a steady stream of customers lined up for our specialties. Mom stood beside the stall, nursing a cup of strong chai. I hugged her from behind, startling her. “What are you thinking about?” I asked.

  “How long it has been since your father and I visited India,” she said. “Kawkab Apa reminded me that I have not been back since your nani died.” I remembered that—the call in the middle of the night, my mother’s quiet weeping at the news of her mother’s death, the scramble to find a plane ticket so she could get back to India in time for the janazah, how we had all pulled together and split her shifts for the five days she had been away.

  “We might go back, for a few weeks this time,” she added.

  “What about Fazeela?” I asked.

  “She’s got a few months before the baby comes. And she has Fahim, and you,” Mom said. She looked around again, sipping her chai. “I didn’t want to participate in the street festival this year, but I’m glad we did. It has been . . . nice, despite our unwelcome guests,” she said, nodding at the protesters. She paused, and I knew what she was about to say before she spoke. “I have decided to sell the restaurant, meri jaan. It might not be what you want, but it is my choice and I am at peace with it.”

  Mom had been telling me, in so many different ways, for weeks. She waited while I absorbed the news. I took a deep breath, pulling myself together. I would be all right, and my mother deserved to think about herself for once. It was time she got to choose.

  Choice. That was what my parents had gifted me. There is nothing more powerful than being able to make up your own mind about something. Nothing headier than reaching out your hand and saying, This. I choose this.

  Across the lane, a young man near the Wholistic Grill booth caught my eye. He was dressed in a white T-shirt and dark jeans, silver sunglasses tucked into the neckline of his shirt. As our eyes locked, I realized I felt another, equally powerful sentiment: You. I choose you.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Aydin didn’t walk over right away. Instead he held up one finger, motioning for me to wait. I watched him cross the street, to where the protesters and anti-protesters were busy yelling at each other, on the verge of violence. It was difficult to stand still and watch. My need to talk to him, to discuss our relationship as StanleyP and AnaBGR, and most especially the last remaining secret between us—that his mother was alive and wanted to meet him—was overwhelming.

  The mood across the street had grown uglier. Original Black T-Shirt was facing off against Yusuf now, screaming and red-faced. As I watched, he reached forward and grabbed Yusuf by the shirtfront, pulling his hand back to swing. I had a sudden memory of the man who had tried to hurt Aydin downtown before I pulled him away from harm. Across the street now, Lily did the same, yanking Yusuf back; they stumbled together, a near parody of the downtown attack. Constable Lukie stepped forward just as I started running toward my friends. Our street festival was about to descend into an ugly brawl.

  “Nobody wants you here, Islamist scum!” Black T-Shirt yelled, just as Aydin reached the vanguard of the racist protesters. From my vantage point I could see that Aydin wore a small smile, his demeanor calm. The protesters surrounding Black T-Shirt began to jeer and yell at him, but he didn’t react. Instead he turned briefly and scanned the crowd, almost as if he was waiting for something.

  I watched his smile widen slightly, and then I heard it too. A drumbeat. It came from the Golden Crescent neighborhood. Everyone in the hateful tableau swiveled their heads, searching for the source of the noise.

  The first drumbeat was joined by a second, and then a third. Three young men emerged from the other end of the street, each dressed in a vibrant red shalwar and cream-colored kameez pants, golden turbans perched cheekily on their heads. The drumming originated from the dhols the men carried; the barrel-shaped, double-headed drums were supported by long lanyards looped around each drummer’s neck and across the chest, leaving their arms free. Using curved drumsticks, the musicians hammered out a beat that grew steadily louder as they marched toward Aydin, until the noise was deafening.

  “What’s happening?” Rashid shouted beside me. “Was this part of the plan?” He took out his phone and began to take a video of the unfolding scene.

  I shook my head, bewildered. “Aydin said he would invite some performer friends, but I didn’t know any details.”

  My cousin broke into a grin. “He is using war tactics to intimidate the enemy. Look how they cower in fear.”

  The black T-shirt army and even the counterprotesters seemed more confused than scared, but they had all stopped yelling. In fact, everyone had stopped what they were doing, including the festival attendees and vendors. All eyes were riveted on the scene in front of us, transfixed by the sight and sounds of the musicians in their colorful clothing.

  The three drummers stood in a line behind Aydin, their hands flying as they hammered out a heart-pounding rhythm. The beat rose to a crescendo as it came to a climax. Then they all stopped and executed a neat flip of their drumsticks in unison, catching them as they turned around to face the festivalgoers.

  “Golden Crescent!” the man in the center bellowed. “Are you ready to party?” This was greeted by only a smattering of cheers and claps, but the drummers were undaunted. They began to play once more, a lively, danceable beat this time. Six dancers, dressed
casually in track pants and T-shirts, burst from the crowd as raucous, cheerful bhangra music began to pound from speakers set up surreptitiously around the edges of the street. The dancers began to execute an elaborate, high-energy choreographed routine, their movements broad and punchy, jumping into the air and landing in tandem, arms flailing and legs skipping and leaping. The festival attendees and vendors went wild, clapping and hooting and stomping their feet to the pounding, bass-heavy beat.

  They thought it had all been planned, I realized—the protests, the dancers—all working together like a flash mob. I noticed that Aydin was dancing too. He tried to keep up as best he could, but he was obviously an amateur, and the effect was hilarious. He was a few beats off, his movements wild and erratic. When I caught his eye, he winked at me, just as the music changed and a familiar Taylor Swift tune, “Shake It Off,” began to play.

  The dancers turned around, facing the festival area, their backs to the black T-shirts. And then Aydin and the dancers started awkwardly twerking, bums shaking and jerking in the protesters’ confused faces.

  I burst out laughing. Around me, the street-festival participants laughed as well. Tears were falling down Rashid’s cheeks as he filmed, he was laughing so hard, and beside him Zulfa giggled. We watched Aydin try to execute a shimmy, followed by jazz hands, before breaking into an awkward running man, while the rest of the dancers continued to shake their bums in time with the beat.

  Black T-Shirt and friends looked around at the laughing crowd, dazed and irritated by the unexpected turn of events. By the middle of Queen T’s flip-off anthem, they had started to peel away, leaving in pairs and singles. By the end of the song, only Original Black T-Shirt and a few of his friends remained. His face was still red, but I suspected more from embarrassment at the backside salutes than anything else. I heard him yell something at Aydin, a final hateful, profanity-laced parting shot, before he too hefted his sign and left.

  The counterprotesters seemed to have the same idea. A few of them joined the impromptu dance party in the middle of the street, but most of them had realized that both the rally and the show were over. Rashid had disappeared with Zulfa.

  Aydin sank down onto a plastic folding chair beside me. Our eyes met and we started to laugh, small giggles at first, but soon we were howling. His shoulders shook with great convulsions of hilarity. Tears streamed down my face and it was hard to breathe.

  I knew I loved him. And that I had to tell him about Afsana Aunty.

  “Hana,” he managed between bouts of laughter.

  “Yes?” I gasped. I was nearly hysterical, half laughing and half crying.

  “I never want to leave this place.”

  “Neither do I,” I said, wiping my eyes. His mother was likely in the crowd. Would he hate me for revealing the awful secret?

  “I don’t want to leave you either,” he continued, his breath warm and sweet on my cheek. “Ana . . . Hana . . . whatever and whoever you want to be, can we please start over?”

  I breathed in his scent—cedarwood chips and sandalwood cologne—and closed my eyes. “I’ll think about it, Stanley Park.”

  When I opened my eyes, I saw Kawkab Khala standing nearby, at the very edge of the festival. From the knowing look on her face, I guessed she had overheard some of our conversation. Afsana Aunty stood behind her, a look of muted terror on her face.

  I stood up, and Aydin rose too, following my gaze. I took a deep breath, channeling the courage he had shown in front of the enraged protesters. I couldn’t let anything else happen until he had learned the truth about himself.

  “But first,” I said, heart pounding, “you have to talk to my aunt.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Aydin flashed me a smile before he turned to face Kawkab Khala and Afsana Aunty. I saw my aunt place a gentle hand on his shoulder, then turn toward her friend and motion her forward. I watched him walk away with the women in the direction of Wholistic Grill. Even from a distance I could see the unsteadiness of Afsana’s steps. She walked as if she were in a dream. How long had she waited for that moment? How would Aydin react?

  A muffled cry, and then Aydin stumbled backward, landing heavily on the wooden bench in front of his restaurant. He shook his head from side to side and then buried his head in his hands, shoulders jerking. I stood frozen to the spot, fighting the urge to run to him, unsure what comfort I could provide.

  Together, Kawkab Khala and Afsana Aunty helped him up, and they all went inside Wholistic Grill.

  An hour later, my phone buzzed with a text.

  Did everyone know but me?

  I didn’t hesitate. No more hiding things from each other. Yes, I typed. My hands did not shake.

  I guess we’re finally even, he wrote back.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  It had been Rashid’s doing all along. Mom told me after the festival that my cousin had bought the restaurant. When I cornered him outside Three Sisters, heaving three bags of trash into the dumpster, he said, “Family is like the Mafia, Hana Apa. Once you join, you’re in it for life. Besides, my parents were looking for an investment opportunity in Canada.”

  “Is your family part of the New Delhi Mafia?” I blurted. What if he had bought Three Sisters to launder money, or as a place to meet his underworld contacts?

  Rashid started laughing. “Are you plotting the next episode of Secret Family History already? The restaurant will be safe with me. Don’t worry, Hana; I paid your mother a fair price, only slightly offset by a family discount.”

  He hadn’t answered my question, but I decided to leave that worry for another day.

  “Zulfa told me she is engaged to someone else,” Rashid continued, his voice mournful. “But who am I to stand in the way of true love?” His face brightened. “And she told me she has a younger sister. Hana Apa, how far is Vancouver from Toronto?”

  “Very far, especially for a newly minted restaurateur,” I assured him. But, knowing Rashid, he would find a way.

  Given Aydin’s message, I didn’t expect to hear from him anytime soon. His entire life had been upended, and he would need time to process the new information. I kept myself occupied by helping with festival cleanup efforts. Things had wound down around sunset, and most of the protesters and counterprotesters had scattered by then, leaving their litter behind.

  Imam Abdul Bari was picking up discarded coffee cups and takeout containers. He paused as I passed him a pair of disposable gloves and a garbage bag. “Congratulations, Hana. The festival has been a resounding success,” he said.

  I smiled weakly at the imam and continued to sweep up trash, stopping only at Brother Musa’s store. Beautiful Yusuf stood outside, waiting for me.

  “Hi, Hana. What’s new?” he asked, smiling easily, as if he hadn’t just eloped with my best friend without telling me.

  “Go to hell, Yusuf,” I said evenly.

  His face fell. I realized I had never before spoken to him like that, in anger rather than with my usual affectionate mockery. I didn’t feel any urge to make him feel better, either. Rashid was right: Beautiful Yusuf was an ullu, and it was time for all of us to grow up.

  “Be kind to Lily,” I added. “Or else.”

  * * *

  • • •

  When I returned home a few hours later, shoulders and knees aching from bending, stooping, and cleaning, I half expected to see my aunt seated on the couch, dressed in fine silk and calm vindication. Instead she was nowhere to be found. I went upstairs, but my bedroom was empty. Worse, it had been cleared out.

  Kawkab Khala’s expensive leather suitcases were gone from under my bed, neatly folded outfits and jewelry removed from my dresser. She had also done a thorough rummage through my closet and drawers, piling all the clothes she deemed unsuitable, unflattering, or just plain ugly (according to the Post-it note she had left) into four garbage bags at the foot of the bed. And then she had taken i
t upon herself to rearrange my remaining clothes. She had also moved around my furniture so that the airless bedroom felt more than twice as big.

  There was a long note left on the bed, written on heavy, expensive cream stationery.

  My dear Hana jaan,

  Your room was not comfortable at all. I suggest you make a bonfire of your lumpy mattress and deflated pillows, as I will probably be back to visit sometime before I die. Don’t worry, I’ll make it a surprise, so you can’t think of an excuse and run away before I arrive. I’ll expect a new double bed, and for God’s sake get rid of that leopard-print hijab!

  If you ever come to Delhi, I will take you shopping and try to teach you how to coordinate your clothes so that they will distract from the scowl on your face.

  I flipped the page, grinning.

  I saw what you did at the festival today. I’m not sure if it was one of the bravest things you have ever done or the stupidest. Doubtless you would like to know how my conversation with your admirer went. For that, you will have to ask him. I am sure, once he gets over the shock of learning that he has been lied to all his life, he will forgive you for participating in his deception, however briefly.

  I never got a chance to tell you that I enjoyed your radio program. It was the first time I had heard my story being told to me instead of about me, and it was an interesting experience. I think perhaps you made me seem a bit more adventurous than I am. After all, it took me this long to visit you all in Canada.