Hana Khan Carries On

by Uzma Jalaluddin

What would he say about this decision right now? My parents had sacrificed so much to help get me where I was. They had helped pay my tuition, and Mom had chosen to import kitchen help from India rather than ask me to give up my internship at Radio Toronto.

  If I wanted to work in a corporation, I had to learn how to keep quiet and learn. Maybe this was all part of the process. Maybe I could be a force for good and guide the show away from harmful stereotypes, encourage nuance and variety.

  I leaned my head back again as I came to a decision. I would swallow my pride, look beyond my fears, and stay positive. And my father would finally hear my voice on the radio.

  * * *

  • • •

  Thomas pumped his fist in the air when I told him I would help pitch his stupid idea to Nathan Davis.

  “If we’re going to do this, we’re doing it my way,” I told him. “That means we’re not going to talk about samosas, henna, butter chicken, or terrorists on the show. We’re going to talk about real issues, not broad stereotypes or overplayed narratives. No honor killings, no bindis, no Bollywood, no discussions about radicalization.”

  “Whatever you want, Hana,” Thomas said. “This is our show. We’re in this together.”

  Minority Alliance activated.

  CHAPTER NINE

  On Friday afternoon, Mom reminded me of my promise to pick up Cousin Rashid from the airport. “Take Fahim with you,” she added.

  I told her I was perfectly capable of picking up our future Canadian scholar and present-day kitchen drudge by myself. Also, it would be safer entering an international airport without the company of a six-foot-one bearded brown Muslim man; his cheerful face would immediately raise suspicions. But Mom wasn’t having it.

  Fahim was just as clueless. “Time to catch up with my favorite sister-in-law,” he said, smiling at me. He was working on his dad jokes already.

  “You’ll need help with the luggage,” Mom added, ever practical. “No one visits from India without at least ten suitcases.”

  I insisted on driving, which made Fahim nervous for some reason. I backed our ancient Toyota minivan out of the parking lot and headed for Highway 401. Fahim flinched when I changed lanes without signaling, cutting off a pickup-truck driver, who honked and shook his fist.

  “Are you excited about impending daddyhood?” I asked Fahim.

  He clutched the armrest, knuckles white. “If I live that long.” He smiled to show he was joking.

  “I’m an excellent driver.” I slammed on the brakes, and Fahim’s head whiplashed forward. “Oops, sorry. The car in front of me stopped.”

  “They tend to do that at red lights,” he said.

  His smile was shaky now, but still hanging on. I stomped on the accelerator when the light changed, and zoomed past the snail in the blue Porsche.

  “Maybe you should slow down a little,” Fahim said.

  “Why aren’t you living at my house too, with Fazee?” I asked. “She gets grumpy when you’re not around.”

  “That car’s coming up really fast. You see it, right? The one with the brake lights?”

  Fahim let go of the armrest and was silent. I looked over. His eyes were wide, staring straight ahead. I spotted the car just in time and pounded on the brakes, screeching to a stop inches from a white BMW convertible. The driver gave me the finger. So rude.

  “Hanaan! Are you trying to kill me?” Fahim was breathing hard now. “I didn’t move in because there’s only a single bed. Fazeela started snoring after the first trimester and I can’t sleep.”

  I mulled over his words. It was true that Fazeela was a bed hog. When we were kids and had to share a bed on road trips, she’d yank all the blankets.

  “Your mom told me a customer came by a few days ago after closing. Some young guy,” Fahim said, once his breathing had steadied. “You should be careful who you let in after hours. And always let me know first, okay?”

  Fahim would freak out if I told him about my conversation with Aydin. I had tried to push it from my mind, with limited success. There was no reason to worry my brother-in-law too. “Aydin is harmless,” I assured him. “He wanted some leftover biryani, that was all. We chatted about the neighborhood, our jobs. He seemed nice.” Up until the moment he didn’t, I thought.

  “Is he cute, this Aydin guy?”

  I nearly groaned out loud. “Fahim, drop it.”

  No wonder my brother-in-law had been so eager to accompany me to the airport. He had been sent on a mission by Fazee to gather intel on my nonexistent love life. I wasn’t sure why she was interested. Mom and Baba had never asked me about marriage plans; they understood I was too busy, that things were too precarious for me to consider a romantic entanglement.

  I had never had a boyfriend, but I had never felt the lack of romance in my life. I was busy with the restaurant, my studies, my internship. In my family and community it was normal to skip the prolonged dating scene and marry quickly once the right guy had been found. Fazeela and Fahim had known they were headed toward a nikah within months of meeting.

  My mind wandered to StanleyP and his increasingly intimate, flirty messages. We had settled on a deadline, more or less. In four weeks we would come to some sort of understanding—whatever that happened to be.

  “What about you and Yusuf? I’d be happy to talk to him if you’re feeling shy,” Fahim said.

  I nearly slammed on the brakes again. “What? No!”

  “Yusuf is practically part of the family, and I can see the two of you together. I could be your love messenger,” he said.

  Thomas would laugh so hard if he heard this conversation. I could picture Marisa’s eyebrows rising at the idea of my brother-in-law “talking to” Yusuf on my behalf. But why can’t you talk to him yourself? she would ask, puzzled. In Canada, women are free to pursue their own lovers, sweetie.

  The thought of trying to explain the rishta proposal process to Marisa made me cringe. In traditional South Asian families like mine, sometimes romantic introductions were made through family, a grown-up version of “Do you like my friend? Check this box for yes and this box for no.”

  “You know Yusuf and Lily have always been a thing. Why the sudden interest in setting me up?” I asked, suspicious. The fact that my brother-in-law was offering to play matchmaker was laughable. He and Fazeela had figured out things on their own before they informed their respective families about their intention to marry.

  “Things are so up in the air right now, with the restaurant and everything else,” Fahim said slowly. “Fazee and I want you to find someone who will be on your side, who can help you get through the hard stuff.”

  I mulled that over, acknowledging the truth of his words. Sometimes it was lonely not having someone who was solely on my side. But that didn’t mean I wanted Fahim and Fazeela to interfere in my love life. “Please don’t talk to Yusuf, or any other guy, for me, bhai,” I said, using the Urdu word for “older brother.” I never called him bhai, so he knew I was serious.

  Fahim was silent for a moment. “Sure, Hana. Just promise you’ll be careful with your heart, okay? You deserve someone who puts you first.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The Terminal 1 arrivals lounge at Pearson International Airport was packed. We were surrounded by aunties in saris and shalwar kameez trailed by sulky teenagers in ripped jeans and belly tops; young white and brown and black men with long beards or goatees or clean-shaven; old men dressed in three-piece suits or lungis; men in turbans; women in hijab; women in long dresses, short skirts, yoga pants, track pants; babies in strollers; children chasing one another through rows of seats—all the beautiful hues of my city on display. All of us going places and getting stuff done and hauling home souvenirs while we were at it.

  Fahim spotted someone he knew, of course. Fahim knew everyone. He picked up friends the way the post office collected packages—con
stantly, and in strange locations. “Khalid!” he boomed across the arrivals hall, waving enthusiastically at a bearded man in a long white robe. Khalid was holding hands with a pretty, smiling woman in a purple hijab.

  I wandered over to the digital bulletin board to check if my cousin’s plane had arrived on time. If it was running on Indian Standard Time, the answer would be a hard no.

  A young man stood on the other side of the board, head bent over his cell phone. My gaze followed the line of dark stubble on his well-defined jawline, the black hair curling under his collar. Silver sunglasses dangled from his shirt pocket. He lifted dark eyes to mine, and we both froze.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked Aydin.

  Aydin blinked rapidly before recovering. “I heard one of the airport restaurants has a two-for-one deal on biryani poutine. You know, to scare off the Americans.”

  I snort-laughed but quickly recovered. “I meant who are you here to pick up?”

  Aydin shrugged, the movement casual. “Anyone who will have me.”

  I gave him a hard look and he smiled, the expression momentarily transforming his handsome face. “I’m here to pick up a friend,” he said.

  I was confused by his familiarity after our last, heated conversation. Looking for a distraction, I scanned the arrivals board. Rashid’s flight was on time, and I made my way to the doors where a small crowd waited for passengers beyond opaque security gates. Aydin fell into step beside me as I unrolled the sign I had scrawled in the parking lot, after I realized I had no idea what my eighteen-year-old cousin looked like. The last time we met, he had been six years old.

  Aydin read my sign, eyebrows raised. “Mail-order groom arriving today?” he asked, lips twitching.

  “You should take your show on the road,” I said.

  “Sadly, I’m only this amusing around you.”

  “You weren’t very amusing the last time we met,” I said. A strange expression crossed his face, too quickly for me to catch. Regret? Surprise? Irritation? Either Aydin was the moodiest man I knew or there was something else going on behind his hot-and-cold behavior.

  “My restaurant advice was well-meant. You overreacted,” he said.

  Definitely moody. How could someone so attractive be so dumb? I shook my head. “Nope. Try again.”

  He pulled a hand through his hair. “I was confused by your smile and your mother’s excellent biryani, and I didn’t know what I was saying?” A tiny flirtatious gleam in his eye coaxed a smile to my lips, which I immediately suppressed.

  “Better, but still not good enough. Let me know when you’ve figured out the rest of your story,” I said. We smiled at each other, and for a moment the air filled with tiny electric sparks.

  A tall lady in elegant cigarette pants and a flowing black silk shalwar top paused and studied my sign. Her dark eyes were coolly assessing, her thin lips painted red and pursed in disapproval. A white dupatta shawl was wrapped tightly around her hair as if she were a 1920s film star.

  “Surely you cannot be Ghufran Khan’s daughter,” the lady drawled in an Indian accent that denoted an excellent convent education. I blinked, and Aydin took the opportunity to disappear into the crowd.

  “Hana Apa!” A burst of motion and I was picked up by a lanky teenage boy. Cousin Rashid, I presumed. His enormous smile engulfed a triangular face similar to mine. His skin was a deep mahogany and his black hair cut close to his head; he wore a red shirt and black dress pants. He put me down, and his skinny wrists strained to grip two shoulder bags and a carry-on suitcase. Behind him a luggage cart groaned with half a dozen suitcases. I was glad now that Mom had forced me to bring Fahim the Luggage Wrangler.

  Rashid whipped out his cell phone and leaned in close. “Smile, Hana Apa!” he said, using the Urdu word for “big sister,” and took a selfie. “I have promised Mummy and Daddy to send pictures and videos of my experiences in Canada.”

  He showed me the photo. I looked constipated, but before I could ask him to erase it, he had already sent the offending image to his family. He straightened and began filming the arrivals lounge. I turned to find the older lady still examining me.

  “Aunty, I don’t know how you know my mother’s name, but I don’t know you,” I said, my voice firm but polite.

  Rashid whipped his camera in our direction and started laughing. “This is Kawkab Khala!”

  That didn’t clear anything up for me. Khala meant “mother’s sister” according to the specific Urdu accounting of family relationships. But my mom had only one sister, Ghazala, and she lived in India.

  “I’m the third sister, beta.” Kawkab Khala smiled at me, revealing uneven teeth. “Your mother’s favorite cousin. I’ve come to visit my long-lost family in Canada. Surprise!” She sailed past me, Rashid scampering after her like a well-trained puppy, leaving me with his two shoulder bags, the carry-on, and the leaning luggage cart.

  What had just happened? I looked around for Fahim, who was still chatting with his friend.

  My eyes froze on Mr. Silver Shades. He was in the middle of the lounge, standing close to a raven-haired beauty in a flowing ankle-length red dress gathered at her tiny waist. They were speaking urgently. The young woman shook her head and, with an impatient gesture, stalked ahead of him on stiletto heels. He squared his shoulders and marched after the girl in the red dress.

  Anyone who would have him, indeed.

  * * *

  • • •

  I grabbed Rashid’s bags and the luggage cart. I couldn’t think about Aydin and his . . . girlfriend? Random beautiful stranger? Airport hookup? I had to stay focused on one turn of events at a time. Such as Kawkab Khala, my alleged aunt.

  She would need a bedroom, and South Asian rules of hospitality were clear. There was no way my mother’s older “sister” could be expected to sleep on the couch while there was a bedroom left in the house. As the youngest member of the household, that meant I would be on the couch for as long as Kawkab Khala decided to grace us with her unexpected presence. I eyed her immaculately ironed silk shalwar top, the heavy gold chain around her neck, and her discreet gold jhumpka earbobs. She would probably take over my dresser and remaining closet too.

  I headed toward Fahim, my cousin and Kawkab Khala now trailing behind, and performed the introductions. My brother-in-law nervously raked his fingers through his hair as he looked from Kawkab Khala to Rashid and then back to me, unsure what to do.

  The girl in the red dress strode past us on her way to the exit. She was tall and curvy, skin flawless. Her hair, which looked like it had been professionally blow-dried on the plane, fell in soft, cascading waves down her back. She resembled a sultry Bollywood bombshell. Rashid stared openmouthed, and even the gentlemanly Fahim was having a hard time keeping his gaze modestly lowered.

  Aydin caught my eye. “‘Whoever will have you’?” I asked, keeping my voice light.

  Bollywood Bombshell swayed back to us, trailing a teeny red Louis Vuitton case that was probably stuffed with perfectly tailored dresses, all in a loose-fit size two.

  “Hana, this is Zulfa. She flew in from Vancouver for a quick visit,” Aydin said, and cleared his throat.

  “Well done, brother,” Rashid said from over my left shoulder. He stuck out one hand for a high five. “Perhaps you can give me some tips later on. Or introduce me to her sister?” I shoved my cousin back, coloring at his teenage behavior.

  Zulfa only smiled at Rashid. She was probably used to people acting foolishly around her. “I’m always happy to meet my fiancé’s friends,” she said.

  It took a moment for her words to sink in. Fiancé?

  “We’re not engaged,” Aydin said firmly. “She’s my publicist.”

  That was one I hadn’t heard before.

  Zulfa took his hand. “We’ll be together soon enough, sweetie. I can’t wait for the grand opening.”

  What a strange thi
ng to call your engagement ceremony.

  Aydin jerked at her words. “You don’t have to do that in front of them,” he said, voice harsh. He didn’t even look at me. “They’re not important. We have to go. Now.” A faint pink tinged his ears as they left.

  Kawkab Khala sniffed at their rudeness, and I ground my teeth. Aydin had flirted with me only a few minutes before. Now he could barely look at me, embarrassed that I had caught him with his fiancée—or, rather, his publicist—in the airport. That was twice he had brushed me off after first trying to befriend me. I was done.

  Besides, whatever was going on there was none of my business. I had my own drama, featuring Instant Relatives—just add one airport and no advance warning!

  Fahim had found a second luggage cart. “Good thing we brought the van,” he said, smiling. “Who was that guy?”

  “Stand down, love messenger,” I said. “That one belongs to Miss Pakistan.” I looked at the mound of luggage. “Why do we have baseball bats?”

  “Didn’t Ghufran Khala tell you? I’m applying for an athletic scholarship.” Rashid picked up a bat and swung at an imaginary ball.

  “I didn’t know baseball was popular in India,” I said, quickly taking the bat from his hands before he hit someone.

  “What could be more Indian than baseball?” Rashid asked.

  We made our way out of the airport. Pensive, Smiling, Disdainful, and Athletic—my family. May God have mercy on us all.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Fahim insisted on driving home: something about wanting to live long enough to meet his unborn child. Kawkab Khala claimed shotgun, and I was crowded into the back with Rashid and the overstuffed carry-on bags. I wondered how long my cousin and alleged aunt intended to stay. From the looks of it, the answer might be forever.

  “How is the, er, family?” I asked. I couldn’t recall Rashid’s parents’ names or if he had any siblings.

  “They were sad when I left, but happy I was being accompanied by Kawkab Khala. I have never traveled outside India.” Rashid’s gaze was fixed on his cell phone, which was pointing out the window as he took video of the ride home. “Everyone is so polite here,” he said. A man in a tow truck flipped off Fahim, who, in an effort to restore balance to the universe, was driving ten kilometers below the speed limit.