Hana Khan Carries On

by Uzma Jalaluddin

  Marisa leaned forward. “Nathan, Hana and Thomas have a unique perspective that reflects the changing demographics of our city. They’ll bring in new listeners and new stories.”

  Davis’s eyes started to gleam. Corporate loved the idea of untapped markets.

  I had to say something. I stood up and forced a laugh. It sounded more like a strained cough but succeeded in capturing everyone’s attention. From my new vantage point, I realized Thomas and I were the only people of color in the entire room.

  “Thomas was just joking. Our show aims to be different, not to retread tired storylines about diverse communities. I’m sure we don’t need the same old narratives about South Asians and other groups . . .” My voice trailed off as Marisa furiously made cut it motions with her hand. I took a deep breath and ignored her. “I have a few other story pitches that would interest a wide range of people instead of a single target demographic,” I said, and outlined my ideas.

  “We already have people doing those stories,” Davis said. “What we don’t have is an insider’s view on why immigrant communities have resisted adopting mainstream Canadian values. It would also be great to have the occasional Bollywood movie review. And I’m sure everyone wants to know where to find the best ethnic food.”

  The men and women around the table chuckled at that, and even Marisa smiled weakly. Davis’s words had thawed Thomas, who began to nod vigorously.

  “Why don’t you put together two episodes and let’s see what happens. Marisa can send me your formal proposals,” Davis said, and turned away from us. We had been dismissed.

  “You will love what Thomas and Hana come up with,” Marisa said. “Not to mention the uptick in ad revenue. It’s win-win, Nate.”

  StanleyP’s advice floated back to me, and for one crazy moment I wondered if Thomas was my anonymous radio friend. His behavior had closely mirrored StanleyP’s words: Know your enemy. Hit them where it hurts. Make them bleed. Thomas knew what I most wanted to avoid in any radio show we did about race and culture, and he had gone straight for the kill.

  At least now I knew StanleyP’s advice really worked.

  * * *

  • • •

  I headed out to the Thinking Wall, except someone had beaten me there.

  “It’s Hana, right?” Big J said. “I thought I was the only one who knew about this spot.”

  “There are no secrets,” I said. “There is no loyalty.”

  Big J laughed, eyes closed and head tilted back against the sun-warmed brick. “Welcome to the cutthroat world of radio broadcasting. It’s Game of Thrones with microphones in there.” When I didn’t respond, he continued, “Marisa told me you and your friend were planning to pitch a show to Nathan.”

  “He’s not my friend.”

  An unreadable expression crossed his face. “I see.”

  “Friends don’t use their friend’s identity to sell out.”

  Big J was standing a respectful three feet away, but I spotted the amused sympathy on his face.

  “Are you Muslim?” I asked suddenly.

  He smiled, and I realized he was kind of cute. He was sporting a Blue Jays baseball cap pulled low over his wide face. His blue eyes were fringed with lashes so dark his eyes looked as if they had been lined with kohl.

  “My parents are from Yemen, but we’re Jewish. My full name is Jonathan Sharabi.”

  I smiled at him. He was one of my people after all.

  “When I first started in radio, I worked at this small college station in Manitoba. My producer was named Luanne. She was great, really open-minded and interested in including all sorts of voices at the station. She wanted me to talk about what it was like to be Arab and Jewish, as if it were strange to be both.” His voice was magnetic, warm and captivating. “I did it, because I was new and I wanted to make her happy. I interviewed my parents and some other people at synagogue. It was okay.”

  “But,” I prompted.

  He shrugged one shoulder. “After the story ran, they asked me to do another one just like it. I think it was about kosher food or something. I said no. Life’s too short, you know?”

  I wiped my eyes and stared at the sky. Big J leaned against the wall and closed his eyes again. After a moment, I did the same thing.

  I liked that Big J hadn’t asked what was wrong or why I was crying. He didn’t try to cajole me to look at the bright side of things or to be grateful for any opportunity received. He just got it.

  “Tell me what you really want to talk about on a show,” he said quietly.

  I opened my eyes and launched into my pitch about schools, small business, and census data, but he put out his hand. “I’m talking about the story in your heart. The one that got you into this business. The one bursting to get out. After I left my first job in radio, that story kept me going.”

  I paused, uncertain. How had he known my other ideas were attempts to make the race and culture show into something meaningful to me? I opened my mouth to tell him I didn’t know, but instead I blurted out, “I want to talk about family. Not my family. Just . . . family. The way different families work, the dynamics behind relationships, the way that family can both help and screw you up. I want to talk about secret family histories, the stories we keep hidden from the people closest to us, even though they hold the key to everything.”

  It was true, I realized. That was what I wanted to talk about, research, obsess over, to find the perfect stories to narrate. Family is everything, and we are all defined by our secrets.

  Big J looked at me, inscrutable. “Who’s stopping you?” he asked.

  I opened my mouth to say Everyone, but then shut it. We went back to contemplating the sky.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The next day I had a rare day off. A text message from Lily jerked me from my fitful sleep at nine a.m.

  Ice cream for breakfast? Please say yes!

  I stared at the screen, blinking. Who could think of ice cream at that godforsaken hour? I had planned to continue researching ways to shut down Wholistic Grill, but I had had trouble falling asleep, my mind spinning in circles because of Thomas and Marisa’s betrayal. I turned off the screen without replying to Lily.

  Kawkab Khala came clomping down the stairs, immaculately dressed in a pink and cream silk shalwar kameez. I shifted irritably on the sofa, burrowing beneath the blanket. I could feel her gaze contemplating my fake-sleeping form, but she said nothing.

  Ten minutes later, the smoke from green chilies roasting in a pan made me cough. I threw off the blanket, walked into the kitchen, and turned on the exhaust fan.

  Kawkab Khala wordlessly passed me a mug of milky tea. Boiling hot and rich with the taste of cardamom, cloves, and ginger, the brew was strong and sweetened with a heavy hand. It was also delicious. I took another, more appreciative sip.

  “Made from real Indian tea leaves, not that brown water you call chai in Canada,” she said. “By the end of that cup you will be hooked.”

  “Why don’t you drink coffee if you want something stronger?” I asked.

  “In Delhi we drink chai. Also, I own a tea plantation.”

  Of course she did. I rubbed the back of my neck, knotted from a week of sleeping on the sofa, and tried to think gracious-host thoughts. I didn’t get too far beyond I gave you my bedroom. Why do I have to make small talk too?

  Kawkab Khala added three eggs to the pan of green chilies before turning down the heat. Then she buttered toast and carefully divided the scrambled eggs between two plates. She nodded at the tiny kitchen table.

  “I don’t usually eat breakfast,” I said.

  “And I don’t usually cook. Sit down. I have spent time with your sister, but not you.”

  I should have checked on Fazeela. I wondered if she was up or listlessly watching a screen again. I resolved to check on her later and took a single, cautious bite. The scrambled egg
s were creamy, spicy, and somehow fluffy.

  Kawkab handled her fork and knife with the precision of a surgeon. “Thank you for being kind to my friend at the restaurant yesterday,” she said.

  I realized she was speaking of Sad Aunty. “How do you know her?”

  “An old school friend from India. It was a coincidence that we both planned to visit Canada at the same time. I told her to call me once she arrived, so I could introduce her to my family. We are thinking of working on a mutual project together,” Kawkab Khala said.

  I couldn’t imagine my sarcastic aunt working with someone so shy and withdrawn. “Is that why you came to Toronto, to work with your friend?” I asked, remembering my father’s words from a few nights ago.

  My aunt was silent as she chewed, eyes steady on my face. “So suspicious, Hana jaan. The project is a side interest only. I wonder why you cannot fathom that I am here to visit my family. You have the instincts of a journalist.”

  She was changing the subject, but I appreciated the flattery. Besides, she was right. I had no real reason to be suspicious of her motives—just because she hadn’t bothered to let my parents know she would be coming until she arrived with a half-dozen suitcases and vague plans to stay indefinitely.

  “Have you heard anything new about that Junaid Shah?” Kawkab Khala asked, and I shook my head no. I hadn’t seen or talked to Aydin or his dad since our confrontation at the Golden Crescent BOA meeting.

  “Junaid has not changed from when I knew him in Delhi,” she added casually.

  I was surprised. “You know Junaid Uncle?”

  “Everyone in India knows each other,” she said, slanting her eyes at me.

  She was joking, but as I watched her sitting at our ancient IKEA table, a regal, sharp-eyed witch, I wasn’t completely sure.

  “Don’t underestimate Junaid,” she said, taking a sip of her chai. “If one wishes to get the better of such a man, one must be prepared to stoop to his level.” She skewered me with a hard look. “Your mother is an intelligent person, Hana, but she has not accepted the gravity of your situation. She still has hope. You are a few steps ahead of everyone in that respect, I think.”

  I smiled wanly. My pessimism was coming in handy after all.

  My aunt neatly aligned her now empty mug and plate. “Our social circles are small, back home in Delhi,” she said quietly. “Just like in this neighborhood. There have been whispers about the Shah family for years, about Junaid’s business practices from when he first started out. He bribed government officials in Delhi, then razed a tenement to the ground so he could sell the land at a profit. I heard he only grew worse once he’d moved to Canada.” She picked some lint from an immaculate cuff. “No doubt he has raised his son in his image,” she added.

  My aunt stood to clear our plates, and I joined her, thinking about her warning. If Kawkab Khala was right, how far was I willing to go to stop Junaid Uncle and Aydin before they burrowed even deeper into my neighborhood?

  I thanked Kawkab for breakfast and locked myself in the bathroom. StanleyP had advised me to hit my enemy where it hurt most. At the radio station yesterday, Thomas had given me a firsthand demonstration of the element of surprise. I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to act now, to show Aydin that Three Sisters was willing to do anything to survive. Or at least I was.

  Aydin put great store in appearances. He had needled me about our restaurant’s shabby interior enough times for me to know that. He also cared about his reputation. Why else would he have tried to ingratiate himself with the BOA, despite his father’s surly personality? To destroy Aydin, first I had to dismantle his reputation. And through Aydin I would get to Wholistic Grill and his father. I would keep my family safe.

  I looked up the phone number for the municipal Workers Health and Safety Center and dialed. I chose from a menu of options before reaching a receptionist. I explained that I wanted to anonymously report a workplace safety violation, and I was transferred to the right department.

  I explained to the sympathetic woman at the other end of the line that I was the sister of one of the contractors hired by Wholistic Grill, a new restaurant in the Golden Crescent neighborhood. My poor brother had been seriously injured on the job the day before, and though he was too scared to call in the complaint himself, he had described his work environment as hazardous. I was worried he would be more seriously injured if he returned to work, and I was also concerned for the rest of the crew. I improvised the extent of his injuries—severe but not life-threatening—and painted a vivid picture of a worksite that flagrantly flouted municipal regulations.

  “I’m pretty sure this construction is being conducted without the proper permits as well,” I said, then rattled off the address of Wholistic Grill and spelled out Aydin’s full name. The woman promised to look into my complaints. After thanking her profusely, I hung up.

  I was doing the right thing, I reassured myself. Somebody had to fight back against Aydin and his deep pockets. So, then, why did I feel queasy?

  Next I texted Lily and accepted her invitation to go out for ice cream after all. Talking to her would help me remember what I was fighting for. I sent another text, inviting Yusuf to join us. I needed both my best friends around, and if they managed to patch things up between them, that would be a bonus—and proof that I could also put some good into the world.

  * * *

  • • •

  IScreams was a gourmet dessert shop that sold the best ice cream brand in the world, Kawartha Dairy. It was a fifteen-minute walk north in a newer plaza, one that contained a Starbucks, an upscale grocery store, and a craft-supplies chain. Lily was already there, nursing Moose Tracks, her favorite flavor—vanilla and chocolate and mini peanut butter cups. I gave her a side hug and ordered my usual, Death by Chocolate.

  “How’s Fazee?” Lily asked when I sat down. “Tell her she can call me anytime. I know being on bed rest can be lonely.” I assured her that my sister was doing well, overall.

  Lily reached out to squeeze my hand before changing the subject. “Tell me you know mystery boy’s real name by now.”

  I didn’t want to talk about StanleyP, his advice still vivid in my mind. I felt guilty enough about what I had done to Aydin. Instead I asked her for a life update.

  Lily took a deep breath, as if coming to a decision. “I interviewed for the residency position. I found out yesterday I got the job,” she said.

  I whooped loudly and enveloped her in a hug, almost crushing her ice cream cone. “Yes, Dr. Moretti! I am so proud of you!” When I let her go, my eyes had welled up with tears. I knew how hard my friend had worked to get there, how much she had worried and fretted.

  Lily remained quiet, toying with her ice cream. “It’s in Timmins,” she said. “That’s more than halfway to James Bay. A seven-hour drive north in good weather. I’ll be working for the Weeneebayko Area Health Authority. My patients will be from the Kashechewan First Nation and surrounding area.”

  I was speechless. For as long as I’d known her, Lily had never lived anywhere but in our neighborhood with her parents. She hadn’t even gone away for undergrad or medical school. She was the most determined homebody I knew.

  The shock must have been clear on my face, because she began talking rapidly, holding my gaze. “I want to make a difference, Hana, not just here but for vulnerable populations. It will be for two years, and I’ll learn so much.”

  “Two years?” I repeated.

  Lily looked uncomfortable. “That’s why God invented Skype, right?”

  “You don’t believe in God,” I said, taking another bite of Death by Chocolate. It tasted like ash in my mouth. I saw so little of her as it was. She would return changed, with new experiences and new friends.

  I forced a smile onto my face. “If you’re happy, I’m happy,” I said. Then the smile turned into something more genuine, and I hugged her again. “Promise you won’t
be too busy flirting with the other doctors and nurses to text me,” I said, and she laughed.

  The door of IScreams dinged and Yusuf entered the store. “My favorite people and my favorite breakfast,” he said, eyes crinkling. He looked at Lily. “Hey, stranger.”

  I mouthed an apology to Lily while he went to order his usual two scoops of vanilla. I could tell she was annoyed, but she only told me to stay quiet about the new job and her imminent move.

  Yusuf took a seat beside Lily and finished his cone in a few bites. He started regaling us with a funny story about his father and a mix-up with the weekly order of berries that soon had us giggling at his spot-on impression of Brother Musa.

  Lily even laughed when Yusuf snuck a bite of her Moose Tracks. “Hey,” she said, holding her cone away from him, “get your own!” When Yusuf reached around and took an even bigger bite, Lily gave him a playful punch on the shoulder. I felt pleased with my handiwork.

  Yusuf then turned to me. “I almost forgot, I talked to my dad about Junaid Shah. We’re going to bring up his threats with city council, see if we can get them involved over his comments about gentrification and evicting local businesses.”

  I filled Lily in on recent events. By the end of my narration she was horrified. “Junaid Shah sounds like a monster!” she exclaimed.

  “His son is even worse,” Yusuf said. “Right, Hana?” I nodded mutely and he continued. “I can’t stand these corporate types. All that matters is their bottom line. We can’t let them throw their money around and try to sabotage Golden Crescent.”

  I flinched at sabotage. Yusuf’s social justice spirit had been activated. Unfortunately, his words had also reactivated my guilt.

  “Aydin is only trying to open a business, if you think about it,” I started, hating the meekness in my tone. Why couldn’t I fight back and actually feel good about it? I shook my head, and both Lily and Yusuf stared at me.