PRAISE FOR
Ayesha at Last
“A delicious and entertaining novel.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“There’s an overabundance of Pride and Prejudice retellings, but few are as thoughtful and creative as this stellar debut from an author to watch.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“Jalaluddin cleverly illustrates the social pressures facing young Indian-Muslim adults. . . . A highly entertaining tale of family, community, and romance.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Ayesha at Last is light and incandescent and deeply pleasurable from start to finish.”
—The Christian Science Monitor
“Jalaluddin constructs a timely and enlightening narrative that validates the experiences of many South Asians and Muslims today, while weaving in universal themes of identity, class, and discrimination. . . . Ayesha at Last’s fictional universe acts as a microcosm of a diverse and oft-misunderstood community, and Jalaluddin’s compassionate and sensitive writing about it radiates off the page.”
—NPR
“This sweet debut novel ticks all the boxes for one of summer’s best reads: it’s smart, witty, romantic, and utterly charming.”
—Canadian Living
“Come for Darcy reimagined as a hyper-conservative young man and Elizabeth Bennet as a wannabe poet frustrated by family obligation; stay for Uzma Jalaluddin’s warm portrait of life for twentysomething Muslims in suburban Toronto struggling to honor their heritage while pursuing their dreams.”
—The Globe and Mail
“[An] irresistible debut.”
—Goodreads
“An uproarious romp, filled with farcical cases of mistaken identity, disastrous proposals, and a big Bollywood wedding.”
—Toronto Life
“This is the book I’ve been waiting for since my long-running Jane Austen obsession. Move over Darcy, Khalid’s in town.”
—S. K. Ali, author of Morris Award finalist Saints and Misfits
“Uzma Jalaluddin blazes a brilliant new trail with Ayesha at Last, a captivating romance set in the Muslim community, brimming with humor and heart. You will fall in love with Ayesha and Khalid—an Elizabeth and Darcy for our times.”
—Ausma Zehanat Khan, author of A Dangerous Crossing
“Ayesha at Last is the modern Pride and Prejudice retelling I never knew I needed. Warm, witty, romantic, and relatable. Honestly, Darcy who? Khalid is everything.”
—Alisha Rai, award-winning author
“Ayesha at Last is a beautiful testament to the power of family, kindness, and getting out of one’s own way.”
—Entertainment Weekly
Berkley Books by Uzma Jalaluddin
AYESHA AT LAST
HANA KHAN CARRIES ON
A JOVE BOOK
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2021 by Uzma Jalaluddin
Readers Guide copyright © 2021 by Uzma Jalaluddin
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
A JOVE BOOK, BERKLEY, and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Jalaluddin, Uzma, author.
Title: Hana Khan carries on / Uzma Jalaluddin.
Description: First edition. | New York: Jove, 2021.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020050115 (print) | LCCN 2020050116 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593336366 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593336373 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PR9199.4.J3515 H36 2021 (print) | LCC PR9199.4.J3515 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020050115
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020050116
First Edition: April 2021
Cover design by Rita Frangie
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
pid_prh_5.6.1_c0_r0
For my parents, Mohammed and Azmat Jalaluddin,
who taught me the importance of community, even as they built one.
Contents
Cover
Praise for Ayesha at Last
Books by Uzma Jalaluddin
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Ana’s Brown Girl Rambles
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Secret Family History
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Acknowledgments
Readers Guide
About the Author
Ana’s Brown Girl Rambles
[Transcript]
Here are the rules:
This is a single-person podcast.
Not a variety show.
No interviews.
Not a comedy hour.
I’m also not going to tell you my name or any specific biographical details, except the following: I’m a South Asian Muslim woman in my twenties. I was born and live in the city of Toronto. And I love radio. Really love it.
I also love the free form of podcasts. This particular podcast will be about having a place to ask questions, without worrying who might be listening and judging.
I’m talking abou
t the Big Questions, future friends.
Such as: What do you want out of life?
What do we owe the people we love?
How do our histories and stories influence who we become?
And how do you know that the thing you want is actually the thing you want?
There you have it, listeners: my mission statement. I promise no frills and a clear voice. I promise nothing of substance and nothing but my truth. I promise to take this seriously, but I’m also definitely making it up as I go along.
Whoever and wherever you are, welcome to Ana’s Brown Girl Rambles. I can’t wait to start a conversation with you.
COMMENTS
StanleyP
This popped up in my podcatcher. Nice first episode. I’m always interested in the big questions.
AnaBGR
Is this for real, or are you a catfishing bot?
StanleyP
Real. Just pinched to make sure.
AnaBGR
Wow. Well, thanks for listening.
StanleyP
Sure. I’ve been asking myself the same questions, so thank you for the company.
AnaBGR
Definitely a bot. You’re way too polite. And now we’re trapped in a thank-you cycle.
StanleyP
No escape from the thank-you vortex. This is home now.
AnaBGR
Except I know the safety words: You’re welcome.
StanleyP
Bots never give up. Until next time, Ana-nonymous.
CHAPTER ONE
StanleyP
Happy five-month pod-iversary! According to inaccuratestatistics.com, most podcasts don’t make it past month four, so you’ve beat the odds! I’d get you flowers, but that would imply I knew your name, mailing address, and flower preference, and that would cause my bot senses to melt into a confused puddle.
AnaBGR
That might be amusing. Okay, my real name is . . .
StanleyP
Wait. What? Seriously?
AnaBGR
Psych. Psych psych psych!
StanleyP
So cruel, when I’m trying to congratulate you. Any news on the mysterious dream-job interview?
AnaBGR
No news is good news, right?
StanleyP
Definitely. Especially when you’re going after the highly specialized job of . . . unicorn wrangler? Toddler exorcist? Erotic knitter?
AnaBGR
An erotic knitter can’t possibly be a thing.
StanleyP
You’re saying you’re definitely NOT a paper-folding priestess.
AnaBGR
That’s as likely as anyone under the age of 40 actually being named Stanley.
StanleyP
I’ve offered to reveal my true identity. Aren’t you a little curious about the incredibly hot, accomplished, muscular man behind StanleyP?
Was I curious about StanleyP? He had no idea.
I was in the corner booth of Three Sisters Biryani Poutine, the restaurant my family owned and ran in the heart of the Golden Crescent neighborhood, in the east end of Toronto. I was supposed to be cleaning in anticipation of customers, but instead I was texting StanleyP, my very first and most loyal listener.
Over the past five months, we had moved from polite commenter and podcaster to friendly acquaintances to genuine friends who texted every day. All without exchanging a single personal detail. Yet when I closed my eyes, I could imagine his smile. It would be shy, tentative. He would be kind—a thinker and listener, with a mischievous glint in his eye. I knew I would love his laugh.
The phone pinged in my hand. I looked down at the direct-messaging app we had started using a few months after he first began commenting on my podcast.
StanleyP
I think you might be the person who knows me best in the world right now. And I don’t even know your real name.
My fingers hovered over the screen. I could tell him who I really was. I pictured myself typing it out:
My real name is Hana. I’m 24 and I live with my parents in the most diverse suburb in the world—Scarborough, in the east end of Toronto. You already know that I’m a South Asian Muslim, but you don’t know that I wear hijab and I work two jobs. One is at Three Sisters Biryani Poutine, the restaurant my mother has been running for the past 15 years, and another at CJKP, a local indie radio station where I intern. Though “work” is a bit of a misnomer—neither position pays me actual money, and both positions have a limited life expectancy. The former because our restaurant is in trouble, and the latter because my internship is coming to an end and I have no idea what comes next. I’m trying not to panic about either situation.
Nope. StanleyP didn’t need to know any of that. Better stick with simple biographical details:
I have an older sister named Fazeela and a brother-in-law named Fahim, and in about four months they will make me a khala (that means “aunt,” in case you are a non-Urdu-speaking StanleyP). As for my dad . . .
I hesitated.
As for my dad . . .
It had been a long time since I had had to explain about Baba to a stranger. It used to be a daily occurrence as we navigated among hospitals, doctors, nurses, physiotherapists, and personal support workers. As Baba’s condition stabilized, his world had shrunk, along with the need for explanations to strangers. In that surreal way that online friendships worked, StanleyP was still, technically, a stranger. A stranger I spoke with daily, one who knew my deepest hopes and fears, but not any details about my real, lived existence.
I picked up my phone and typed carefully.
AnaBGR
It’s easier if we keep things the way they’ve always been. There’s a lot going on in my life right now, and I’m not sure I can handle another complication.
Another, longer pause. Imaginary StanleyP had his brow furrowed, but he would understand, and he would respond. He always had a response.
StanleyP
Is this complication . . . relationship-shaped?
I almost laughed out loud at the question—but then my mother would have realized I was goofing off in the dining room, and made me help her in the restaurant kitchen.
Things had shifted between Stanley and me over the past month. Lately he had been hinting at more but had never come out and asked. But then, neither had I.
AnaBGR
More what-does-the-future-hold-shaped. A relationship would be easier to deal with than family and business stuff.
StanleyP
Our lives are running parallel. I have business-and-family-shaped complications too. That new project I was telling you about is finally happening. No relationship-shaped complication for me either.
StanleyP was single too. A flush crept along my collarbone and up through the roots of my hair, which was pulled back neatly under my bright pink hijab. I shifted in my seat. He probably hadn’t always been single like me, but still. I knew what he wasn’t asking me. And part of me was tempted to not answer back. Instead, I fell back into our usual humor.
AnaBGR
Why can’t I be the complicated one? You always have to copy me.
StanleyP
It’s what a bot does. The Stanbot is also programmed to give excellent advice and tell hilarious jokes, and is available for revelations of real names or the exchange of pictures/phone numbers. Just say the word. I’d love to get to know you better.
My stomach jolted with awareness at his words. I wanted more too. But it wasn’t as easy for me. All the bravery I possessed was currently being put toward other things. I wasn’t sure I had the energy to pursue whatever this thing between us was turning out to be.
I didn’t know anything about Stanley beyond what he had told me. From hints he had dropped, I knew
he lived in Canada and was a second-generation immigrant like me. I suspected he was South Asian, maybe even Muslim, but I didn’t know anything for sure, and I wasn’t quite ready to venture outside the comfort of our cozy anonymous relationship.
I was saved from responding by his next message.
StanleyP
Message me when you hear you got the job.
I closed the app. Mom emerged from the kitchen a few moments later, ostensibly to deliver my lunch but really to check that I was working. I was distracted from my annoyance by the treat she held in her hand: biryani poutine, my favorite.
“Hana, beta, eat fast. Customers could come at any time, meri jaan,” she said, handing me the steaming plate piled high. My mother, Ghufran Khan, was a curious combination of nurturing and stern. She delivered orders in sharp bursts punctuated with Urdu endearments such as beta (child) and meri jaan (my life).
I devoured the mixture of fragrant rice, marinated chicken, crispy fries, savory gravy, and cheese curds. Mom wrinkled her nose and hastily returned to the kitchen. Biryani poutine is . . . an acquired taste. As in I was the only person who had acquired a taste for our restaurant’s namesake dish.
Biryani is a popular north Indian dish, a casserole made from basmati rice layered on top of meat or chicken marinated in yogurt, salt, fresh coriander, a garlic-ginger paste, and garam masala. The dish is topped with ghee and saffron and then baked. Poutine is a regional Canadian dish that first gained popularity in Quebec. It consists of fresh-cut golden fries topped with rich, savory gravy and fresh cheese curds. Biryani layered with poutine was a strange combination that, so far, appealed only to me. Likely because I dreamed up the dish when I was nine years old.
My sister, my brother-in-law, and even random strangers thought biryani poutine was disgusting. Eventually Mom had taken it off the menu after our customers complained, though she still made it for me. It had stuck as the name for the restaurant, probably because Mom hadn’t wanted to pay for a new sign.
I put down the plate, and popping in earbuds and cranking my favorite playlist, I began cleaning. After a few minutes I picked up the plate to take another bite of my lunch, swiveling my hips to TSwift’s infectious pop and using my spoon as a microphone.
Hana Khan Carries On Page 1