Hana Khan Carries On

by Uzma Jalaluddin

  I wished him good luck and signed off. I wasn’t sure why I had lied about my family business. I suppose I didn’t want anyone, even my loyal listener and friend, to know the truth about me and Three Sisters. I wasn’t ready to feel that vulnerable, not over a situation that had only begun to feel dire in my own mind.

  As I drifted off to sleep, I felt better knowing that StanleyP had my back. Even if his suggestions were ludicrous, they would at least make me laugh. He was slowly becoming a necessary part of my life. I could admit that to myself, at least.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I planned to corner my cousin the next morning over breakfast and get him to spill every last detail he knew about Kawkab Khala and what she was really doing in town. I was confident Rashid would crack quickly—the boy had zero game.

  Except, when I emerged from the shower, Rashid had disappeared. I resolved to catch him at Three Sisters, after I had made my father and Fazee breakfast.

  My sister was awake when I knocked on her bedroom door. She hadn’t had much of an appetite lately, but I urged some toast and fruit on her anyway. The small television was on, and her eyes remained on the morning news as she absently answered my questions. Yes, she was feeling fine. Yes, she had slept well. No, she didn’t feel like chai this morning.

  I was worried about her. Then again, I was worried about a lot of things. And I still had to speak to Rashid. I set off for the restaurant.

  I was so wrapped up in my thoughts I didn’t notice Yusuf on the sidewalk behind me until he tapped me on the shoulder. “Ready for that coffee?” he asked.

  I really wanted to talk to Rashid, but talking to Yusuf about the new restaurant was important too. We walked to Tim Hortons.

  The Tim Hortons coffee shop was smaller than Three Sisters, but it was filled with neighborhood folk grabbing caffeine or a snack before work, young moms seeking a sweet treat for their kids, seniors socializing with friends. I went to order while Yusuf snagged a table at the back, far away from the quartet of retired uncles engaged in a deadly game of gin rummy.

  Mr. Lewis was at the counter, and he smiled at me when I joined the line. My answering smile faded as I recognized the man standing beside him—Junaid Uncle. Aydin’s father ignored me, spoke a few quiet words to Mr. Lewis, and left.

  “What did he want?” I asked Mr. Lewis when it was my turn to order. A cheerful white man in his late fifties, Mr. Lewis, balding and slightly overweight, was dressed in his usual white polo and dark pants. He shrugged at my query.

  “Wanted to know if I was willing to sell the store. I told him no, thank you, and offered him a complimentary drink, which he turned down. Not the friendliest guy, that Junaid fellow,” Mr. Lewis said, filling two cups with fresh coffee and handing me a cookie, my usual order. “He was willing to pay over market value, but I told him this is home and I plan to stay. Heard he’s been hitting up all the stores, kicking the tires to see who he can shake loose. Patel at the convenience store might sell; he’s been thinking of retiring.”

  Mr. Lewis’s chatter masked my pounding heart. I remembered Junaid Uncle’s words from the BOA meeting the night before: Every last one of you will be bankrupt within five years. If the Shahs started throwing money around Golden Crescent, how long would people hold out before folding?

  I returned to Yusuf, disturbed. “Tell me what you know about the Shahs and Wholistic Grill,” I said abruptly, setting his coffee before him.

  Yusuf didn’t know much, only that the restaurant would be opening soon, that it was a gourmet diner, and that the menu would offer things like upscale halal burgers, fries, and shakes. He also told me that Brother Musa had not been impressed with Aydin and Junaid Uncle’s behavior at the meeting. I was sure he hadn’t appreciated my contribution either.

  “The whole street is behind your family, Hana. The last thing we want is big business gentrifying Golden Crescent. I’m going to organize a protest during their launch and try to get some traction for this story with local media.”

  Clearly Yusuf and his father hadn’t heard about Junaid Uncle’s attempts to buy out the other businesses on Golden Crescent. I filled him in, and he promised to tell his father. I wasn’t confident Brother Musa would be able to do much. Offering to buy businesses wasn’t illegal.

  I took another sip of my coffee and glumly broke the cookie in half, offering Yusuf the larger portion. I was too sad to enjoy the snack.

  My friend had no such compulsion; he finished his piece in two bites and then leaned back, sighing. “It’s been so long since we just sat around and talked. I used to see you almost every day on the way to school. Now it’s a quick hello when we pass on the street,” he said.

  I felt a pang at his words and filled in the image of the person Yusuf was careful not to name. Lily would be with us on the bus downtown, hanging out with us as we ate lunch. Our recent late-night conversation had been the first time I’d talked to her in months.

  “I guess this is part of growing up. No time for friends when there’s money to be made,” I said lightly. We looked at each other and giggled, and just like that we were kids again, laughing at an inside joke.

  “I’m thinking of doing something big,” Yusuf said after a moment. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small jewelry box. I straightened, eyes flying to his face. “You’re the only person I can talk to about this,” he continued. “Do you think Lily and I have a shot?”

  “Shouldn’t you have figured that out before you bought a ring?” I reached across and opened the box. A small diamond ring winked back.

  “I want her to know I’m serious, that I want to be with her forever. Do you think she will say yes?” Yusuf asked.

  I sighed. “I think the two of you are in different places right now.”

  “Because she’s going to be a doctor and I’m in social work? I don’t care about that.”

  “No,” I explained patiently. “Because your parents don’t approve, and neither do hers. Not now, maybe not ever. Are you okay with that?”

  Yusuf shrugged. “They’ll come around, once they realize we want to get married.”

  “You don’t know if that’s what she wants! You have to talk to her. Be honest about how hard things will be. You might have to leave Golden Crescent, start over somewhere new.”

  “But do you think it will work out?” Yusuf persisted. He had always been like that, had always needed repeated reassurances before he did anything.

  “If it doesn’t, Fahim thinks you should marry me,” I answered with a straight face.

  We looked at each other and burst out laughing.

  “Your mom loves me, and your dad doesn’t hate me,” I pointed out.

  “Definitely makes sense. Let’s do it. Hana, will you marry me?” Yusuf got down on one knee and batted his lashes at me.

  I laughed and looked around the restaurant, hoping no one had noticed our silliness. Aydin stood in the doorway of the Tim Hortons, hands frozen at his sides. His eyes moved from Yusuf, on bended knee, to my face. He quickly exited the shop, and I motioned for Yusuf to get up.

  “We can’t get married. You’re too pretty for me,” I said. I hoped my friend hadn’t noticed our unintended audience of one rival business owner, or I would never hear the end of it.

  “If it’s not me, I’m sure there will be plenty of other offers. Maybe a stranger with a murky past or something,” Yusuf said, looking suspiciously innocent.

  We made our way out of the coffee shop toward our respective stores. It was time to corner Rashid.

  * * *

  • • •

  Rashid was busing tables, taking orders, and making conversation with our few customers as if he had been working in a restaurant all his life. I finally got him alone when he went outside to throw out the trash.

  “I have to talk to you,” I said.

  Rashid instantly looked guilty. “You should hear my
side before you jump to conclusions.”

  “Just tell me the truth. You owe me that much.”

  Rashid closed his eyes tight. “Fine, I admit it. I played baseball with the enemy this morning—and I liked it! Please don’t be angry. At least, not until I make a few more friends. I don’t handle loneliness very well.”

  I blinked. “You played baseball with Aydin?”

  “Yes. He was terrible. He kept dropping the ball and asking if you and Yusuf are an item. I told him you’re too smart to fall for that ullu.”

  Ullu was Hindi for “owl,” which was a total burn in India. I would have to work on redeeming Yusuf in my cousin’s eyes. “He’s not so bad,” I said, but Rashid misunderstood me.

  “I’m so glad you feel that way. I think Aydin might have a small crush on you, and as the object of many unrequited crushes, I know the important thing is to let your admirers down gently.”

  My cousin thought Aydin had a crush on me? Not possible after the way I had yelled at him. I dragged my mind back to the real reason I had sought out Rashid. “I want to talk to you about Kawkab Khala. She mentioned something about her nickname last night. I think I’m missing some family history here.”

  Rashid’s face instantly shut down. He hefted the garbage bag into the dumpster and dusted off his hands. “I should get back inside. The imam was about to tell me a funny joke about Friday prayer and the difficulty of keeping wudu after eating channa.”

  “What about Kawkab Khala?”

  “Kawkab Khala is here to visit with family. That is all.” He went back inside the restaurant.

  My cousin was hiding something. Well, he wanted to visit Canada, and around here we believed in a little thing called snooping.

  I followed Rashid into the dining room and watched as he laughed at Imam Abdul Bari’s jokes. Nalla was wearing a beautiful green abaya with white embroidery down the front and on the cuffs of her sleeves. The imam waved me over and I hugged his wife in greeting. Her shoulder blades felt sharp beneath the dress. I wanted to hold her even closer, but I was afraid I might hurt her. Years ago, Nalla had been my Sunday school teacher. She had told the best stories about the prophets, acting out all the parts and even bringing in props.

  After a few moments of conversation with the imam and Nalla, I grabbed a water jug and filled glasses, smiling and making small talk with our regulars. In the far corner, an older woman wearing a pale yellow cotton shalwar kameez sat in front of an untouched plate of biryani.

  “Are you enjoying your food?” I asked when I filled her glass. She jerked, large brown eyes flying to my face as fingers clutched the folds of her cotton dupatta shawl.

  “I’m sorry, Aunty, I didn’t mean to startle you. Can I get you anything else?”

  The woman looked away. She looked to be my mom’s age, maybe older, but unhappiness had been carved into her drooping shoulders. Her voice was so low I had to stoop to hear. “I am waiting for Kawkab,” she said in Urdu.

  “My aunt?” I asked, surprised.

  Again she knotted her fingers in her dupatta. “Please, can I have some more water?” she said.

  Her glass was full. “How do you know Kawkab Khala?”

  “Meri dost,” she said. My friend. “Please bring Kawkab?”

  My aunt was in the kitchen, chatting with Mom. She rose instantly when I told her about Sad Aunty.

  In the dining room, Kawkab enveloped her friend in a hug that lasted a long time. They spoke quietly, their voices too low for interested parties to overhear. My curiosity only grew.

  My phone pinged. StanleyP was back, ready to offer advice on how to crush Wholistic Grill.

  StanleyP

  Since I don’t have more specific details about your business, here’s some general advice to drive your competition into the ground. I come from a family of canny entrepreneurs, so heed my words. Step 1: Know your enemy. Find out who you are working against. Observe them in their natural habitat, among friends, family, strangers, enemies. Step 2: Hit them where it hurts. Are they afraid of public humiliation? Losing money? Worried about their family? Once you figure this out, then you can decide how best to make them bleed. Step 3: Be gracious in victory. Always offer to compromise, but make sure you’re left with the better hand.

  AnaBGR

  I’m actually scared right now.

  StanleyP

  I stand at your service, milady. Go forth and conquer.

  AnaBGR

  Did you manage to fix that complication slowing you down?

  StanleyP

  I think I have a better handle on the situation. I plan to implement my own plan of attack soon. Stay tuned. I anticipate success.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I spent the commute to Radio Toronto brainstorming ways to subtly, anonymously sabotage Wholistic Grill, according to StanleyP’s three-step plan.

  After I had come up with a few options, I focused my attention on ideas for the show Thomas and I would be pitching to Nathan Davis. We had worked out a plan already, but I wanted to have a few extra ideas ready to go. Perhaps an episode on public schools versus private schools and how students from marginalized backgrounds navigated both worlds. Or we could do a show about the way government census data was used to set policy that impacted everyday life for brown, black, and indigenous populations.

  A tiny flare of excitement ignited in my chest. Maybe our show would actually change something or start important conversations. And any of those stories would help secure my place as a respected journalist, not just another token ethnic voice repeating outdated, same-old narratives.

  When I arrived in our office, Thomas was at his desk, twirling a pencil. He straightened when he caught sight of me. “Davis arrived early,” he said. “We have a window in about fifteen minutes. If you had arrived any later, I would have had to pitch without you.”

  “Why didn’t you text me?” I asked, scrambling to gather my notes.

  “Things move fast in the world of broadcasting, Hana. There’s no point in having your habitual tardiness ruin our odds. We have a real chance here. You know how rare that is.”

  Radio stations—and media in general—had been facing criticism lately for their lack of diversity. As Thomas had said in his initial proposal, a writer-producer duo who looked like us would have a greater chance of attracting attention and funding. So why wasn’t he meeting my eyes?

  I made sure my voice remained calm. “Great timing. I came up with a few other ideas for episodes that I think will add to our pitch.”

  A knock on the door, and Marisa joined us in the office. She was wearing a crisp white blouse, her hair straightened and blown out for the occasion. A cherry red Hermès scarf was draped around her neck and over one shoulder. She squeezed my arm. “I have a good feeling about this! The outline Thomas put together is stellar.”

  Her words gave me pause, but I decided to share my own story pitches before asking what Thomas considered “stellar”—and why he hadn’t included me when he drafted this document.

  Marisa and Thomas listened to my ideas, brows identically furrowed. “Sweetie, I think it’s great that you want to do some serious investigative journalism, but I’m worried you don’t have the expertise or the name recognition to go after those issues,” she said when I had finished. “When you go into a pitch meeting with a senior executive, you must have an idea that is truly exceptional.”

  “What exceptional ideas does Thomas have?” I asked. My co-intern still wouldn’t meet my gaze. In a distant corner of my mind, alarm bells were sounding.

  Marisa placed a hand on the door handle. “Similar to what you two discussed, only with wider audience appeal. We should go. They’re waiting for us.” Her heels were loud in the hallway as she walked ahead, Thomas close behind. I followed, trying to ignore the queasy feeling in my stomach.

  * * *

  • • •

>   The conference room was large and airless and resembled a basement bunker. Metal filing cabinets surrounded a large oval desk banked by a dozen executives in black leather swivel chairs. Nathan Davis was listening intently to a man in front of a projected Excel spreadsheet, and I took the opportunity to study him.

  Davis was in his fifties, dressed in a dark suit, striped shirt, and muted tie. He looked like a career executive, a man who had spent most of his working life carefully marshaling other people’s ambitions to meet shareholder expectations. His business acumen was legendary; he was responsible for a portfolio of profitable regional and indie radio stations all over the province.

  When he met my gaze, I realized I was staring. “Marisa, I hear your interns have a proposal for us,” he said, voice gravelly.

  Thomas stood up immediately, clutching a tablet in hands that trembled slightly. I had thought we would be pitching together, and I experienced a moment of sinking realization. A quick glance at Marisa confirmed my suspicions. She was looking at Thomas the way a parent does their child at a school play, practically willing his success into being. Thomas and Marisa didn’t want me to speak at all.

  “Dear members of the executive group, thank you for this thrilling opportunity to present our exciting ideas. My name is Thomas Matthews, and I am an intern at Radio Toronto. My partner, Hana Khan, and I have a proposal for a new show that will explore race, religion, and identity in the greater Toronto area. We are both South Asian and have unique backgrounds that will allow us to delve into this topic. I am eager to discuss Indian food, Bollywood movies, and cultural traditions. In addition, as a Muslim woman, Hana’s stories will allow listeners to ‘peer behind the veil’ and learn about important Islamic issues such as radicalization versus assimilation and why Muslim women wear the hijab.”

  I stared at Thomas, speechless. He had designed the pitch exclusively around everything I had said I didn’t want our show to be about. I had been so intent on sharing my ideas that I hadn’t pushed Thomas on his game plan—the plan that didn’t include me as anything other than a mute figurehead.