Hana Khan Carries On

by Uzma Jalaluddin

  I burst out laughing, and Afsana Aunty’s eyes danced with her revelation of my acerbic aunt’s long-ago crush. I was beginning to understand how those two could be friends.

  “That was a different life,” Kawkab Khala said, smiling indulgently.

  Afsana Aunty nodded and played with her empty cup. When she looked up, I could see that Sad Aunty was back. “Thank you for the suggestion, Hana,” she said finally. “But I am not here to play tourist.”

  “Then why did you come to Toronto?” I asked, unable to help myself, knowing I was being rude.

  “Because I could not forget,” she said, her voice sure.

  Afsana’s words must have meant something to my aunt, because Kawkab Khala smiled grimly. “Fetch us some of those biscuits from the cupboard, Hana jaan, and then you can go. I’m sure you have far more interesting things to do than spend the afternoon with two old ladies,” she said. “Perhaps you can work on your poker face. I suggest you practice lying to the men in your life—they tend to be the most gullible.”

  “I’m not a liar,” I grumbled as I set down the tin of sugar cookies between the women.

  Kawkab Khala raised an eyebrow at me. “Good choice, beta. I doubt you have the constitution for deception.”

  In a battle of wits with my alleged aunt, I was starting to realize, she would always get the last word. I grabbed my hijab and my phone and left the house.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  As I walked into Golden Crescent, looking for a man to lie to, I noticed that Wholistic Grill was not surrounded by its usual bevy of trucks, contractors, and construction equipment. An official-looking man with a clipboard stood with Aydin and his father by the entrance. Junaid Uncle noticed me and turned to say something to his son. When Aydin looked up, I gave him a little wave. He didn’t wave back.

  What was I doing? I shook off my guilt. Maybe the man with the clipboard was their architect. Maybe they were having a perfectly normal meeting at their extremely empty worksite, right before their launch. Sure.

  It was lunchtime, but our restaurant was empty. Mom was in the kitchen, talking to Fahim, when I poked my head inside to greet them. Rashid leaned against a wall near the sink, looking serious for once.

  “What’s going on?” I asked Mom. She glanced at Fahim, who nodded.

  “It is time you knew, Hana jaan. I’m sure you are aware that things have been difficult lately. Unless something changes, we will be forced to consider our options by the end of summer,” she said.

  I inhaled sharply. “Do you mean close the restaurant?” Mom nodded. “Why didn’t you tell me things were this bad?” I asked.

  I watched a parade of emotions cross my mother’s face: sadness, fear, and then resignation. She had lived with the knowledge for months, I realized. She was prepared for this, even if she had stayed positive for the rest of the family.

  “We’re not making enough money to cover basic expenses, and I’m afraid once the other restaurant opens . . .” She trailed off. “Your father and I talked it over last night, after looking at our accounts. I had hoped we would be okay, but we are not.”

  Rashid piped up. “Hana Apa and I have volunteered to organize the summer festival this year, and I am certain it will be a success. Allow us to work on advertising and publicity, and I am sure the increased attention will turn things around for the restaurant. We will rise to the challenge like the Chicago Cubs in the World Series.” He tapped his nose. “We must think as they did in Moneyball.”

  We all looked at him blankly.

  Rashid focused on my mother. “Please don’t make any decisions until after the street festival. We will get the word out more widely, advertise through print and on social media. Let us not forget the lessons of Field of Dreams.”

  We looked at him blankly again, and he threw up his hands. “Haven’t you watched any baseball movies?”

  “We’re more of a soccer family,” Fahim said. “Fazee loves Bend It Like Beckham.”

  Rashid ignored him. “We need to get everyone excited and take advantage of the widespread animosity against Junaid Shah. No one likes him right now, and they will support each other. Next week, who knows who the villain will be?”

  He reached behind the counter and pulled out two large stacks of flyers printed on brilliant goldenrod paper: advertisements for the street festival. Rashid grinned at my surprised expression. “You have no idea how vicious the accounting business can be in Delhi. My parents trained me to attack first and think later.”

  I made a note to ask Kawkab Khala about Rashid’s parents. I wondered what type of “accounting” business they were actually involved in.

  Rashid showed off his handiwork, and we all dutifully admired the flyers.

  “Hana Apa and I have already made much progress in planning,” he lied effortlessly to my mother. “We have another meeting this evening at Tim Hortons, to work on all the details.” My cousin looked at me for confirmation, and I had no choice. I nodded.

  Now I allowed myself to hope that the man with the clipboard in front of Wholistic Grill had been sent for a surprise inspection after all. Maybe it would slow Aydin down and give us time to regroup. He was the reason this was happening to my family.

  That faint flicker of hope on my mother’s and Fahim’s faces was worth any price. I resolved to shelve my guilt and double down on my efforts.

  * * *

  • • •

  In the booth at Tim Hortons that evening, Rashid tucked into his order of a half-dozen assorted doughnuts. “When I return to India, I will miss doughnuts very much. Promise you will mail a dozen every two weeks, Hana Apa. I ask for no other payment for all the advice and mentorship I have provided.”

  I smiled and tried not to think about Rashid leaving. In the short time since his arrival, my cousin had wormed his way into my affections. I didn’t want him to return to India in a year, or four; I would miss his antics and his sense of humor too much. His loyalty had been unflinching, and I had grown used to having an ally on the street.

  “Do you miss your family very much?” I asked.

  Rashid wiped his face and nodded. “I miss my ammi’s parathas. And my abba and I used to drink chai together every morning before he went to the office. There were always people coming in and out of our house; we didn’t bother locking the front door.”

  So much family togetherness sounded wonderful, and suffocating. As if reading my mind, my cousin grinned at me. “Everyone is always in each other’s business,” he added. “I could barely talk to a girl without everyone asking me when the wedding would be.”

  “That must have been difficult for you,” I said dryly.

  Rashid nodded solemnly. “But do not worry about the beautiful Zulfa. Once committed, I am a loyal partner.”

  I smothered my laugh. “I wish you both the best of luck—once you get Aydin out of the way, of course,” I teased.

  Rashid only waved his hand as if swatting a mosquito.

  I took out my notebook and turned to a new page. We had discussed a few ideas already, and I wrote them down while Rashid finished off the doughnuts.

  “We cannot call our meeting to order yet,” he said, mouth full of glazed goodness. “We are waiting for the rest of the planning committee.”

  I pinned him with a look. “What have you done, Rashid?”

  “I told you that I invited Aydin to the street festival, Hana Apa,” he reminded me. “In turn, he informed me that the beautiful Zulfa would help out.” So this was all a ploy for Rashid to flirt with Zulfa. I had to have a serious discussion with him about priorities, as well as family loyalty.

  Aydin and Zulfa chose that moment to enter the coffee shop. They took their seats, Aydin across from me and Zulfa across from Rashid. She immediately took a small tablet from her designer tote, her tone businesslike.

  “I’m so glad Rashid reached out to me. I love local
street festivals, and this will really help out Wholistic Grill,” Zulfa said.

  “Have you encountered problems recently?” I asked innocently. I know, I know.

  Aydin and Zulfa exchanged a look. “Everything is proceeding as anticipated,” Aydin said shortly.

  Zulfa poked his shoulder. “We’re among friends, silly.” She leaned forward. “There have been rumors circulating online that the restaurant isn’t really halal and that the construction site is unsafe, but we’re dealing with it. You know how people love to talk. All part of opening jitters.”

  Rashid made sympathetic noises while I tried not to smirk. “That must be really difficult,” I said. “Rumors like that can devastate a new business.”

  It was fun to watch Aydin’s face turn to stone. His eyes bored into mine. “Nothing I can’t handle,” he said, jaw clenched.

  “You’re an experienced restaurateur. I’m sure you’ll be fine.” I resisted the urge to bat my lashes at him. I was enjoying myself, I realized. Teasing Stone Aydin was turning out to be the highlight of my day. “If you need any advice, feel free to talk to my mom. She’s been running Three Sisters on her own for fifteen years.”

  “Your mom is an inspiration to entrepreneurs everywhere,” Zulfa gushed.

  “I thought we were here to plan the street festival,” Aydin said tightly.

  Zulfa straightened, her tone businesslike once more. “You’re right. We don’t have a lot of time and there is a lot to get done. Aside from food and merchandise, what makes the Golden Crescent street festival different from any other festival in the city?” she asked me and Rashid.

  I looked at Rashid, impressed by Zulfa’s immediate insight. “We’re a local event, meant for people in the Golden Crescent. We’re hoping to attract a bigger crowd this year, considering the dire situation both of our restaurants are facing.” I nodded at Aydin.

  “Wholistic Grill is doing just fine,” he said.

  “There’s no shame in struggle,” I said. “Running a restaurant is a really complicated process, with plenty of unexpected traps.”

  Aydin caught my gaze and held it. “This trap wasn’t unexpected,” he said softly. The low menace in his voice caused a delighted shiver to run down my spine. He suspected I had something to do with the online rumors, but he had no proof. I bet it was driving him crazy.

  Rashid looked from me to Aydin. “When my parents had trouble with their major competitors, the Patel Accountancy Collective, they solved the problem by agreeing to each carve out their own territory. Less profit for both, but also less bloodshed.” He paused. “Metaphorical bloodshed, of course. Accountants always wish to stay out of the red.”

  Aydin and I both stared at my cousin. Zulfa brought the conversation back to the topic at hand and asked if we had confirmed participation of the other businesses on the street. Rashid said he had already spoken to them, showing excellent initiative.

  Zulfa nodded and made a note on her iPad before turning back to me. “I saw the flyers for the festival and the Facebook event page Rashid set up. Great work, but you need more. Have you thought about taking out a full-page advertisement in the community newspaper? What about reaching out to the Hindu mandir and the Orthodox church to advertise? Or local radio announcements—can you arrange for a discount on airtime at your work, Hana?”

  I nodded slowly. “I can ask,” I said, impressed. Zulfa knew what she was doing. No wonder Wholistic Grill was flourishing under her public relations guidance.

  “People love to support local events. If we can tie the festival to some sort of fundraising drive, that would be even better. You want to empower your attendees and vendors, make them feel they are building community and contributing to an important cause.”

  “My friend Yusuf is active in a local charity that helps homeless and runaway youth,” I said. “There’s also a medical clinic for refugees he helps run, and they can always use funds.”

  “Yusuf is a saint,” Aydin said, looking at the ceiling. “What a catch.”

  “Ullu,” Rashid muttered.

  I ignored them.

  “If we want to brand, we could turn this into a halal food festival,” Zulfa suggested, thoughtful. “In the United States, halal food is a twenty-billion-dollar business, and worldwide it’s worth seven hundred billion.”

  “I don’t think we should label it a halal food festival,” I said after turning the idea over in my mind. “We have businesses on Golden Crescent that cater to a variety of people, not just those who eat halal meat.”

  Zulfa made a note on her tablet. “What about corporate partners or sponsorship?” she asked. “Most of my contacts are in Vancouver, but let me see if I can find local resources.”

  Aydin broke in. “Most festivals have live entertainment. My friend Abas will be in town that week. He’s part of a bhangra dance troupe called Desi Beat. We could book them.”

  I blinked in surprise. It was a good suggestion, and here I had assumed he had shown up to intimidate me.

  Zulfa looked at my cousin. He had a dreamy expression on his face, hand cupping his chin as he stared at her. “Anything you want to add, Rashid?” she asked.

  “With your brains and my looks, our children will be beautiful geniuses. Will you consent to be my wife?” he said.

  Zulfa laughed, shaking her head. “No. But can you show me the baseball diamond? I want to see if the park is big enough to accommodate other performers. Live entertainment is always a big draw.” She threw me a quick smile as she left, Rashid trailing after her like a besotted puppy.

  Aydin and I were alone. An awkward silence descended.

  “Zulfa is really good at her job, very competent,” I said.

  “Don’t dodge the subject, Hana. I know what you’ve been doing online,” he said abruptly.

  I made my eyes wide. “Are you a fan of RPG gaming too? We have so much in common! Let me guess—your avatar is an ugly, stupid troll.”

  Aydin looked away, lips twitching. I felt a thrill run through me, as if I had earned points by making him laugh. Disconcerted by my reaction, I stood up to leave, but I couldn’t resist a parting shot. “I’m truly sorry to hear your business is in trouble. As you know, Three Sisters has been facing its own crisis lately, so I know how it feels to be attacked by bullies.”

  Aydin stood up quickly, and I realized I might have gone too far. “Stop spreading rumors about my business online,” he growled.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, taking a few steps back. My face felt hot and flushed. Why was Aydin even more attractive when he was angry? There was something wrong with me.

  He kept pace with my steps. “I mean it. All I’ve done is open a restaurant on the same street as Three Sisters. What you’re doing is sabotage. I could press charges for mischief and libel. Take down those posts.”

  “Plenty of people are talking about your restaurant online. Are you going to threaten them all with legal action?” I asked.

  “If I have to. Take down the posts, Hana.”

  I held up my hand and he halted instantly, though he continued to glare. “First, I admit nothing,” I said, ticking off my fingers. “Second”—I pinned him with my sternest expression, channeling Kawkab Khala and the rest of the badass women in my family—“did you honestly think I wouldn’t fight back?”

  This time his expression held grudging acknowledgment. “I guess I didn’t.”

  “Now you know better.” I picked up my bag from the table and headed for the door. He followed, casting quick glances at me as we made our way out of the coffee shop. I waved at Mr. Lewis as Aydin held the door open.

  We faced each other on the sidewalk. “Maybe if you had tried to get to know me first—I mean, get to know Three Sisters and the rest of the neighborhood—you wouldn’t be in this mess,” I said.

  “I’m in this mess because of the lies you spread about m
y business,” he replied.

  “Then you should have known better than to piss me off.”

  Aydin leaned forward. “Maybe I enjoy pushing your buttons.”

  Sandalwood cologne and intense dark eyes made me dizzy. Our conversation was veering wildly off the rails. I didn’t like Aydin, I reminded myself. I wanted him gone, his restaurant a pile of rubble. So what was I doing still talking to him?

  He must have realized the same thing, because he pulled back and put his hands in his pockets. “Yusuf picked an unromantic place to propose,” he said casually.

  I looked at him in surprise. “What?”

  Aydin flushed and ran a hand through his hair. “Nothing. It’s none of my business.”

  “Yusuf and I are friends. Like you and Zulfa,” I said.

  “But not like you and me.”

  We stared at each other again, and my fingertips tingled with that feeling—the one that always seemed to show up when I talked to this man. I willed away the current, but it only traveled up my arms to my neck, warming my face even as his gaze rested once more on my lips. “You and I are lifelong enemies,” I said, my voice raspy.

  “To the bitter end,” Aydin agreed. We continued to stand there, both reluctant to leave.

  “Do you still listen to the radio?” I asked him on impulse. “When we first met, you said you did.”

  “All the time,” he said, surprised. Then, “Have you ever thought about doing a podcast?”

  Puzzled at the abrupt change in topic, I instinctively lied. “I’m strictly radio. I know nothing about podcasting. Why?” That came out so naturally my aunt would have been proud.

  Aydin shrugged. “I can’t make you out,” he said.

  “Likewise,” I said.

  His accompanying sigh was resigned. “Take down the posts. Please, Hana,” he said quietly.

  There was something about the way he said my name that made me feel . . .

  “No,” I said, and forced my legs to start moving, away from him. He might have watched me leave, but I didn’t look back. Even though I wanted to—badly.