Hana Khan Carries On

by Uzma Jalaluddin

  “You implied that Aydin is just like his father,” I said. “Greedy and manipulative.”

  My aunt smiled evilly. “Young women enjoy the bad boys and the beautiful boys,” she said.

  “I’ll take neither, thank you,” I answered, and returned to my laptop. I googled “podcasts about family” and started reading. My aunt crept closer, and I could feel her looking over my shoulder. I snapped the lid closed and sighed deeply.

  My irritation must have been highly entertaining for my aunt; she was regarding my face with a thinly masked grin. “In my day, twenty-four was ancient for a woman,” she said.

  I scowled, but then the back of my neck prickled with sudden awareness. My aunt was trying to tell me something, I realized, in her eccentric Kawkab Khala way. “But you said you didn’t get married until you were in your forties.”

  “For years my parents tried very hard to find me a husband, from my seventeenth birthday until the year I turned twenty-four.”

  Silence as I absorbed that information. “What happened when you turned twenty-four?” I asked.

  Kawkab Khala smiled slowly, flicking her half-finished cigarette to the ground. “Let me tell you a story,” she began.

  * * *

  • • •

  Twenty minutes later, my face was frozen in a mask of amazement. “You . . . That didn’t . . . What . . . ?”

  My aunt played with the button of her white silk shalwar tunic.

  “Why did you tell me this?” I asked after a few seconds of incoherent babbling. I was still processing the remarkable story Kawkab Khala had told me. The details made my head spin, especially considering their context in 1970s India.

  She shrugged. “Everyone already knows the story. It is a badly kept secret back home. And I know you are a storyteller, so I thought you would enjoy it. Can you guess the lesson?”

  “Always carry a gun?” I said weakly.

  Kawkab Khala gave me a look.

  “Learn to climb trees?”

  “I was thinking of something more relevant, such as ‘Find your principles and see your story through to the end, no matter what.’”

  I looked down at my closed laptop, my abandoned attempt at finding a story worthy to launch my broadcasting career, and then back up at her. My aunt was a woman ahead of her time, I realized. She hadn’t been afraid to make bold decisions and carry them out with little worry for the consequences. I wanted to live like that.

  I took a deep breath and whispered, “Bismillah”—in the name of Allah—to steady myself. “Kawkab Khala, how would you like to be on the radio?”

  * * *

  • • •

  Thomas was in Marisa’s office when I arrived at the station later that afternoon. He poked his head into the hallway when he heard my footsteps. “I was just about to text you. Glad you could join us,” he said loudly.

  I was late again, and he wanted to make sure Marisa knew it. I tried to muster the energy to be angry at him, but I was too excited about the story Kawkab Khala had told me. It would make a perfect episode for our radio show, if only I could convince Marisa and Thomas.

  As I took a seat, they exchanged a glance. “I know you’re not happy with the way things went down with Nathan Davis,” Thomas said.

  I frowned at his understatement.

  He continued. “Even though it accomplished our goal of getting funding and the executive team’s attention. Marisa and I were thinking, maybe you could tackle something fun and light for our first episode. How about a story about henna designs and the way they’ve changed over the years? We could talk about entrepreneurs and focus on women-run businesses. It would be positive representation, something quirky and relatable.”

  I blinked at Thomas. The idea wasn’t terrible, even if it was on the list of stereotypical topics I had expressly told him to avoid. Perhaps it meant they would be open to my ideas after all. “Actually, there’s another story that I think would work really well. I’d like to talk about families in the GTA, the way that family background molds us, hurts us, helps us. The theme would be secret family histories. I would interview parents, grandparents, and kids about a defining experience in their family.”

  Thomas and Marisa exchanged another glance, but I barreled on, full of ideas and excitement. If only they could hear Kawkab Khala’s story, they would understand. “I’d like to start off by interviewing my aunt. She’s visiting from India, and she has the most amazing story from when she was a young unmarried woman.” I quickly filled them in on the remarkable story Kawkab had shared. When I finished, I waited for their enthusiastic response.

  Instead, my boss and fellow intern remained quiet. “How do we know this story is true, Hana?” Marisa asked carefully. “Forgive me, but that does not sound like something a young woman growing up in India would actually do, does it? It all sounds quite . . . progressive for such a conservative country. We don’t want to be accused of fabrication.”

  My boss had never traveled to Asia. Was Marisa accusing me, or my aunt, of making up the story? I glanced at Thomas to see if he agreed with her assessment, and he shifted uncomfortably.

  Marisa continued. “I suggest we start small and build our audience. Tell our listeners the stories they want to hear, not the ones we wish were true. With two young, diverse hosts, it is important to avoid anything that might be seen as propaganda.”

  My head reeled at her words, and again I turned to Thomas, suddenly suspicious. “What story will you be working on while I research the one on henna?” I asked.

  Thomas cleared his throat. “That other story Nathan wanted. The one about radicalization.”

  “You mean Muslim radicalization, right? Not radicalization among other groups, like the rise of the alt-right, for instance? Or about how the word radicalization has been used to justify war and the curtailment of civil rights for marginalized populations around the world?”

  Thomas shrugged uneasily. “He seemed to be interested in a story that was more . . . focused and timely.”

  I exhaled. “You’re not even Muslim,” I said.

  “You could fact-check, darling,” Marisa said. “Make sure he gets the tone right.”

  “Yes, we wouldn’t want Thomas to get the tone wrong,” I said. My eyes pricked with tears and I stood up.

  “Hana, please,” Marisa said. Her voice was so gentle I had to bite my lip to keep from bursting into sobs. “A story about something fun, such as henna, will be more palatable to our listeners, less likely to offend. You could talk about the way henna art has been embraced by regular Canadians. Leave the political topics for later. The key to success in this business is to camouflage the message in bite-size, easily understandable chunks. You understand, yes?”

  In her own way, Marisa was eager to make amends, and I felt my fury drain away at her words. She had no idea what she had suggested, I realized. How her words had minimized me and the stories I wanted to tell, the ones that didn’t fit with her tidy understanding of what would appeal to our audience. She thought my story ideas needed camouflage to appeal to our listeners. Except I couldn’t hide who I was—something always gave me away.

  I thought about Baba. He had advised me to be pleasant and amenable at work so that I could start to plan my future. I knew how much my security mattered to my parents, and to Baba in particular. The accident had left him vulnerable, and he had few options for future work. I couldn’t disappoint him too.

  “I’ll start doing research on the henna story,” I said.

  If Marisa refused to see the potential in Kawkab Khala’s story, I would work on it myself. I recalled my aunt’s words from earlier that day: Find your principles and see your story through to the end, no matter what.

  [Transcript]

  Welcome to another episode of Ana’s Brown Girl Rambles.

  We spend our lives working, hoping, planning, and—if you’re relig
ious like me—praying for opportunity. I come from a family of entrepreneurs, people who aren’t afraid of risk, but who have also paid a price for throwing themselves out of the plane without a parachute. I love that about them, and I recognize that trait in myself. I am heedless sometimes, and I say things I don’t mean when I’m angry, or if I think the people I love have been hurt. I suppose that makes me human.

  I don’t have a lot of family in Canada. Like many immigrants, my parents moved here and made a life for themselves far from where they grew up. No cousins or aunts and uncles to hang out with during Eid. No grandparents to spoil me on my birthday or to tell my parents to chill when they disciplined us. But now I have some family around me, here on a visit. They feel like strangers, yet we are linked in unexpected ways. I see traces of my own features on their faces, or they smile like my mother. They know my stories, and my parents’ stories, and their parents’ before them. It is the strangest thing to have felt alone in the world for so long, and then to find you have roots that run so deep they are anchored in the bedrock, leading back to a place I have only ever visited as a tourist.

  But I am made up of more than my roots; I have grown aboveground as well. My branches reach out in different directions. My limbs have faced wind and snow and ice and rain. Leaves open to the sun and close in the dark. I guess what I’m saying is, I’m grateful for every new root I have discovered lately, and for every new bud that sprouts, despite everything.

  I was pleased with the episode, but for the first time since I had started the podcast, StanleyP didn’t leave a comment. Strange.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  When I checked Wholistic Grill’s Facebook page a few days later, I discovered I had sparked a lively debate online. My smear campaign was clearly hitting its mark; Wholistic Grill had even posted a response to my anonymous attack.

  Wholistic Grill Management

  Thank you for your continued interest in our restaurant. We are very excited to serve the Golden Crescent neighborhood, and we would like to reassure customers that all meat served at our restaurant will be hand-cut halal. Once we open, the official certificate from our halal supplier will be displayed and available for inspection.

  I had a feeling Zulfa had had a hand in that carefully crafted message. As I read the comments, I could see the damage I had inflicted was extensive. The rumor mill was doing its predictable thing, and guilt sparred with pride inside me.

  COMMENTS

  YusraTK

  Halal is really important to me and my family. I’d rather spend my money in a restaurant where I’m sure about the meat.

  Dawud Kamal

  Who cares about halal

  Zeeshan R

  Dude, she said she did, wtf.

  Dawud Kamal

  Halal, zabiha, not halal, who cares. Eating meat is cruelty

  YusraTK

  Wrong forum, Dawud Kamal. Personally, I’d like more assurances that the owners are Muslim. These so-called halal certificates can be easily forged. Who knows the owners?

  AhmadKhan

  Not local, I heard.

  YusraTK

  They’re just trying to capitalize on halal because it’s trendy. Big corporations want to make money off our community. Where were these big greedy companies 10 yrs ago? I’m not eating there.

  Dawud Kamal

  You all dumb.

  AhmadKhan

  You make some good points YusraTK.

  Zeeshan R

  Not giving them my money either.

  Hating myself, I logged into the anonymous Facebook account I had created and added new comments to the fire. I had settled on my course of action, and though I didn’t like the way it made me feel, it was also clearly having an impact. Maybe Aydin would take his father and his restaurant and slink away to another part of the city, far away from Three Sisters. I started typing, improvising as I went.

  InsiderScoop

  Heard Wholistic Grill is in some trouble with the Workers Safety Board as well. Unsafe working conditions.

  YusraTK

  That’s shameful. I’ll spread the word, thanks for sharing. I refuse to support a company that exploits their workers and our community. #CancelWholisticGrill

  Zeeshan R

  Agreed. Keep us posted @InsiderScoop. #CancelWholisticGrill

  Instagram was calmer, but similar sentiments had sprung up on that platform as well, with people latching onto my rumors—okay, libel—and adding their own fuel. My initial comments had been liked several hundred times each, and none of the comments refuted my allegations except for the official statement from Wholistic Grill. Too many people were willing to believe the worst. Clearly I had tapped into a sore spot in the community: who should benefit and capitalize on niche food markets like halal meat. If online sentiment was anything to go by, Wholistic Grill was in for a rough start.

  I couldn’t resist one final dig before I logged off.

  InsiderScoop

  I know the local community is not happy. They’re planning a protest when—or should I say IF—Wholistic Grill opens. I’ll post details here. The Golden Crescent neighborhood deserves better. #CancelWholisticGrill

  I was good at this, and I wasn’t sure what that said about me. I knew what I was doing was wrong. My parents had raised me to be honest, to accept that everything would work out if only I had faith. But they had also taught me stories from the life of Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him. One time the Prophet witnessed a Bedouin man leaving his camel untethered in the desert. When he asked the Bedouin why, the man replied that he trusted God to take care of his animal. The Prophet’s advice? “Trust in God, but tie your camel.”

  I was simply tying my camel, righting the scales of justice in an impossible situation, I rationalized. I almost believed it.

  * * *

  • • •

  I was working on the henna story at home on the couch when Kawkab Khala came downstairs, dressed in a starchy white shalwar kameez with delicate pink embroidery at the hem and sleeves. Her hair was up, and she had a heavy gold chain around her neck and matching gold earbobs.

  “Talking to yourself again?” she asked. She was referring to my podcast. I flushed, but that reminded me.

  “I’d like to continue to interview you for that radio story about your life,” I said.

  “I’ve already told you the story, Hana. I thought you were good at your job,” she said.

  I had gotten to know my aunt in the past few weeks, so I was pretty sure she was teasing. “I need a few more details about that period in time and your reflections. I want to make sure I get a sense of your world so I can do this story justice in the edits,” I explained.

  My aunt smiled thinly at me. “Justice is not for this life, Hana jaan.”

  I jerked at her words. Had she somehow figured out what I was doing to Aydin online?

  Kawkab Khala peered at me. “What have you been up to? No, don’t tell me. You are just like your mother. Terrible liars both, and I haven’t the time for whatever poorly conceived story you’ll invent.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” I muttered.

  “Pity. I hoped to be a bad influence on you. Come on, get dressed. My friend will be visiting shortly, and I cannot have both nieces still in their pajamas,” she announced. I looked back at my laptop with longing but obediently got up to change. I needed my aunt to be in a good mood when we continued the interview.

  Fazee was in her room, and she waved me away when I asked if she wanted to come downstairs. She seemed engrossed in a YouTube tutorial, which was a relief after her past few listless days. When I returned downstairs, Sad Aunty was seated in our living room.

  Kawkab Khala did not think highly of my black yoga pants and white T-shirt. She looked me up and down and sniffed. “Do all Canadian children dress as if they lived inside a dark cave, Hana, or is
it just you?”

  I ignored her and greeted her guest. Kawkab Khala introduced me to Sad Aunty, whose real name was Afsana. We settled down before mugs filled with my aunt’s signature strong chai, milky and sweetened with a heavy hand.

  I took a sip and watched my aunt converse with her friend. She was much gentler with Afsana than she was with me. They spoke of common acquaintances in Delhi, where they both still lived. Afsana was married, with two teenage daughters; she must have married in her late thirties—not common for a woman of her generation. And she had made this first trip to Canada alone, which struck me as strange. Perhaps my aunt enjoyed surrounding herself with unconventional women like herself.

  “What a coincidence you both decided to visit Canada at the same time. Girls’ trip?” I interrupted to ask.

  Kawkab Khala and Afsana Aunty exchanged a look. “Naturally,” my aunt drawled. “And if I have anything to do with it, also a shopping trip for you.”

  She was changing the subject. I turned my attention back to Afsana Aunty. “Do you have family in Toronto?” I asked her.

  Afsana looked to Kawkab for help. “Yes,” she answered, voice a near whisper. Then, more firmly, “No.”

  Curiouser and curiouser.

  “While you’re in town, you should make sure to check out some of the famous sights, maybe go to a musical,” I said, trying to make conversation.

  Afsana Aunty looked bemused. “I come from the land of musicals. Do you enjoy filmi songs?” she asked, referring to the popular music in Bollywood movies.

  “I used to watch Bollywood films with my sister when we were younger. I love the dances,” I answered, and Sad Aunty smiled slyly at me.

  “In Delhi your khala and I would sneak into the theaters late at night. She was in love with Rishi Kapoor,” she said, referring to the famously baby-faced actor from the 1970s and ’80s.