Hana Khan Carries On

by Uzma Jalaluddin

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  StanleyP

  I have a question for you.

  AnaBGR

  Yes, I am your smartest and most conventionally attractive friend.

  StanleyP

  I already knew that. With your business, what are you fighting for? Is it simply survival or something else?

  Such a serious query from the usually bantering StanleyP, but the question was interesting. I was on my break, seated on a bench on the Golden Crescent strip, enjoying the sunny weather. I typed my reply.

  AnaBGR

  I guess I don’t want to be collateral damage on someone else’s march to victory.

  StanleyP

  Yes, but why? Does it come down to money?

  AnaBGR

  In the way that everything comes down to money, yes. But it’s more than that. Imagine if someone knocked on the door of your home and demanded you leave. Could you abandon it without fighting?

  StanleyP

  But what if your home was old and falling apart? Maybe it’s time to adapt or die.

  AnaBGR

  Only someone who judged my home from the outside would say that. I know that what’s inside is worth the fight. That being said, I’m firmly Team StanleyP. Crush your competition and make them beg for mercy.

  StanleyP

  I don’t think my competition is the begging sort.

  AnaBGR

  Well, my campaign is going well. I’ve got them on the run.

  StanleyP

  I’m proud of you. Don’t do anything you regret later.

  AnaBGR

  I regret nothing.

  StanleyP

  Take it from this battle-hardened bot: the biggest regrets take a while to manifest, but they get you every time.

  I pictured Aydin’s face the previous night, before I walked away. Was StanleyP right? I didn’t want to talk about it anymore. It was bad enough that I could think of little else.

  AnaBGR

  What else is happening in your life? Tell me something interesting.

  StanleyP

  Nothing. You are the sole source of light in the barren wasteland of my life.

  AnaBGR

  Exactly as it should be. Now tell me what’s really up.

  StanleyP

  Nothing . . .

  AnaBGR

  Uh-oh. Are you cheating on me with another podcast? Traitor.

  StanleyP

  Never. But I might have met someone IRL.

  I straightened and reread StanleyP’s words. He had met someone out in the real world? I wasn’t sure what to think. What about me? I wanted to write. We met first. But my virtual friend hadn’t made me any promises, and I had actively discouraged him. Now that I thought about it, the frequency of our texting had slowed down recently. We seemed to have settled into a less flirty, more friend-zone banter. Still, his admission hurt. I wondered if I had read more into the relationship than he had, and my face grew hot with embarrassment. His next message reassured me.

  StanleyP

  This is weird, right?

  AnaBGR

  A little.

  StanleyP

  Forget I said anything.

  AnaBGR

  It must be something if you mentioned it in the first place.

  StanleyP

  Have you ever felt a spark for someone almost despite yourself?

  I pictured Aydin’s face. Nope, I didn’t know what that was like at all.

  AnaBGR

  Sounds serious.

  StanleyP

  More frustrating. I’m sure it will pass. Tell me more about your plans for routing the enemy. Will there be confetti cannons when you win?

  A good friend wouldn’t just let it go like that. A good friend would say something. But was that all we were now? I hated being an adult.

  AnaBGR

  I could have ignored you the first time you messaged, but I responded instead, and that turned out pretty awesome.

  StanleyP

  It is true that I am both pretty and awesome.

  AnaBGR

  I’m serious. You’re my favorite virtual person.

  StanleyP

  Likewise.

  AnaBGR

  And I’m not friends with cowards.

  StanleyP

  Ouch. Okay, I’ll think about it. Thanks.

  When I looked up, Zulfa was emerging from the florist shop, a bracelet of jasmine flowers curled around her slender wrist. After our meeting the night before, I felt a lot more comfortable around her. She was genuinely nice, unlike her moody, aggravating friend.

  “Pretty flowers,” I called, and she made her way over to me.

  “The florist gave it to me as a gift. Everyone on this street is so kind. I just put in a big order, for the grand opening,” Zulfa said. “Aydin asked me to shop locally whenever possible.”

  That was surprising. I didn’t think our local resources would be good enough for Mr. Silver Shades. “That’s considerate of him,” I said cautiously.

  “He’s planning to source all the meat from the halal butcher on Golden Crescent, and the vegetables and fruit from Brother Musa.”

  Not the actions of a man whose goal was to evict every single business on the street. Though maybe that had been more Junaid Uncle’s hyperbole than Aydin’s actual plan. I made a noncommittal noise and then redirected the conversation.

  “How long are you in town?” I asked Zulfa.

  “A few weeks only. I’m here to help out with the launch, mainly. I should say, Aydin and I are helping each other out.” A slight blush stained her cheeks, making her look even more delicately beautiful.

  “I can’t imagine Aydin helping anyone but himself,” I said, then wished I had kept my mouth shut. Whatever my personal feelings, he was Zulfa’s friend.

  But she only laughed. “Don’t let that serious face fool you. Aydin is one of the most generous people I know. He’s helped me out a lot recently, but he has his demons, just like everyone else.” Zulfa hesitated. “Aydin is usually quiet around people he doesn’t know. He doesn’t seem to have that problem with you.”

  “We seem to bring out the worst in each other,” I said. “Which makes sense. We can’t stand each other.”

  Zulfa shook her head. “I can’t speak for your feelings, of course, but Aydin doesn’t hate you. You know he’s an only child, right? His mom died when he was really little and his dad never remarried. He’s always tried to live up to who his father wants him to be—this really focused, profit-driven businessman. I think he’s probably more like his mother. My parents say she was creative and gentle. It’s sad when people twist themselves up to be someone they’re not, isn’t it?”

  “He’s lucky to have a fiancée as understanding as you. When is the big day?” I asked, hating myself. I didn’t care. I didn’t.

  “We’re still working out the details.” She winked at me. “I like that you call him on his bullshit, Hana. Maybe you both need someone who gives as good as they get.”

  She left me at Three Sisters to continue her tour of Golden Crescent businesses. I tried to imagine what growing up with Junaid Uncle must have been like without the balancing effect of another, softer parent. Every time Aydin had turned cold, I realized now, his father had been nearby, or at least present in his thoughts. And Junaid Uncle had been the one to hurl threats at the neighborhood and try to buy out the other businesses, not Aydin. The son had tried to talk down his father. He had tried to talk me down too, I acknowledged ruefully. Had I been wrong about Aydin all along?

  Back at Three Sisters, the few customers finished their meals, and I helped with cleanup before setting the tables for dinner. During the lull before dinner, Rashid insisted that we take advantage of our lack of cust
omers to paste more summer-festival flyers around the neighborhood. Together we zigzagged down the street, taping up flyers on storefronts and lampposts, at the mosque, church, and temple, and on the neighborhood bulletin board in the community center. We left a stack of flyers with Mr. Lewis and another at the halal butcher shop.

  As we neared Wholistic Grill, I slowed down. Aydin was outside the restaurant, talking on his phone. My face grew hot.

  “Why are you turning red?” Rashid asked, looking at me.

  “It’s really warm out today,” I said, waving my hands in front of my guilty, blushing face. I looked around for a place to hide. There were no stores near us, so I ducked behind a tree.

  “Why are you turning even redder?” Rashid asked, following me. He had a sudden thought. “Do Canadians get heat stroke if the weather rises above twenty-one degrees Celsius? Or are you trying to avoid Aydin?”

  “I’m not avoiding him,” I said, contorting my body so Aydin couldn’t see me.

  Too late. He was walking toward us.

  “As my accountant parents always say, it’s better to deal with issues directly instead of cowering. Be the blade in the hand, not the snake in the grass,” Rashid said.

  I was starting to wonder if accountant was a New Delhi euphemism for Mafia.

  “We had a strange conversation yesterday,” I explained, desperate. “Can you please handle him?” I paused, not wanting him to misunderstand what I meant by “handle,” given my newly birthed suspicions.

  “I did notice tension between the two of you during the meeting,” Rashid said. “I was unsure if you wanted Zulfa and me to leave or if you wished to make use of my concealed dagger.”

  I really needed to talk to Rashid about his jokes. “Just go see what he wants,” I clarified.

  Rashid shrugged and set off to intercept Aydin. They talked for a long time, heads bent close together. My cousin returned with a big smile.

  “Aydin gave me these!” He waved two tickets under my nose. “Two tickets to a Toronto Blue Jays game tomorrow! You must accompany me as my guest.”

  “Those tickets are expensive.”

  “He knows I’m a baseball fan, and he said they would go to waste otherwise.”

  Rashid was so excited. I realized I still hadn’t spent a lot of time with my cousin, or even shown him around the city as I had planned. Mom had asked me in particular to take care of Rashid, but so far he had been taking care of us.

  “My schedule is completely free tomorrow,” I said impulsively. “Why don’t we make a day of it? I can show you around downtown Toronto.”

  Rashid grinned like a little boy who had just learned he could have another piece of rasmalai. “Aydin will be so happy to hear you can make it,” he said. My stomach sank at his words. “Back home, when two accountant bosses are unhappy with each other, it is always best if they meet and talk things over. Fewer bodies on the ground that way.” Rashid looked at me. “I mean metaphorical bodies.”

  Why did I get the feeling I had just been bamboozled by the son of a New Delhi mob boss? “Aydin is coming to the game with us, isn’t he?”

  Rashid shrugged. “It would be a bit strange if he didn’t join us. These are his expensive tickets, after all.” His fingers moved quickly over his phone, texting. “He says he has time for the sightseeing too. What luck!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  When we set off for the bus stop the next morning, Rashid had a list of things he wanted to see in downtown Toronto. “The CN Tower, Kensington Market, Graffiti Alley. Oh, and Imam Abdul Bari said I must visit the aquarium and ponder the majesty of creation in front of the jellyfish tank.”

  It was nine a.m. and Yusuf was setting up a display of oranges at his father’s store. He spotted us and walked over.

  “Oh, great, the ullu,” Rashid muttered. I nudged my cousin in the ribs.

  “Where are you off to?” Yusuf asked. He grinned at Rashid, who gave him a small smile and turned away, fingers flying on his phone.

  “I’m taking Rashid downtown.”

  Yusuf frowned. “Just the two of you?”

  “Aydin Bhai will also to be accompany us,” Rashid said, putting on his fake Indian accent, and I gave my cousin a warning look.

  “Why is that guy going with you?” Yusuf asked, eyebrows drawing together.

  “Very much we must discuss a business deal of grave import,” Rashid said.

  “Cut it out,” I said to my cousin. “He doesn’t talk like that,” I explained to Yusuf.

  “Talk like vhat?” Rashid blinked at me. “Is there something comical about the vay I am taaaaalking?”

  “No, no, of course not, Rashid,” Yusuf jumped in. “I can understand everything you say. Your English is very good!” he said loudly, beaming at my cousin.

  I gave Rashid my best do not mess with me look and turned back to Yusuf. “I wanted to show Rashid around the city, and Aydin had Blue Jays tickets, so . . .” I trailed off at the sight of Yusuf’s unhappy expression.

  “You should be careful around him, Hana,” Yusuf said, arms crossed. “I don’t trust that guy. Make sure he doesn’t try anything.”

  I faltered. Try anything? “He’s already trying to shut down my mom’s restaurant. I don’t think he’ll have time to try anything else. Besides, Rashid likes him.”

  Yusuf looked over my shoulder at Rashid, who was still busy texting. “If I didn’t have work today, I’d come with you.”

  A retching sound behind us, quickly masked by a cough. Rashid’s head was still bent over his cell phone.

  I rounded on my cousin after Yusuf returned to the store. “What’s wrong with you? Yusuf is one of my oldest friends.”

  “He started it. Ullu.”

  “Who’s your friend?” Aydin walked toward us, dressed more formally today in a blue shirt, slim black pants, and white Gucci sneakers. His eyes were hidden behind his silver shades.

  “We were talking about Yusuf,” I replied, and Aydin frowned slightly.

  “You have a thing for pretty boys,” he said, removing his sunglasses.

  “They have a thing for me,” I shot back.

  His eyes darkened and he stepped closer. “Oh, look, a tree,” he said flatly. “Would you like to hide behind it?”

  I blushed and walked quickly toward the bus bench. A minute later, white Gucci sneakers appeared in front of me. I didn’t look up.

  “I’m sorry,” Aydin said. “I was trying to be funny. I’m not as good at teasing as you. Maybe we could call a truce. Just for today?”

  I stood up, closing the gap between us. He smelled faintly of soap and that sandalwood cologne I liked, which annoyed me so much that I leaned forward and very carefully stepped on his right foot, pressing down on the soft white leather.

  When I lifted my foot, there was a clear black imprint on his formerly pristine shoe. “Truce,” I said sweetly.

  * * *

  • • •

  Rashid was deeply unimpressed with the bus. “It’s no fun without people hanging from the sides,” he complained. “Where’s the danger? Where’s the sense of adventure?” I was almost positive he was joking.

  The subway disappointed him too. “No wonder Canadians are so boring. Nobody talks to each other. No boys trying to pick up girls and getting smacked with chappals. Where’s the entertainment?”

  “It’s not so entertaining for the girls being harassed, believe me,” I replied. Aydin and I exchanged a glance, then quickly looked away. We hadn’t talked too much on the ride. After he had furiously wiped his shoe clean, we had stayed out of each other’s way.

  Rashid perked up when we arrived at Union Station, craning his head at the imposing beige brick building with its distinctive beaux arts architecture. He bounded ahead as we emerged from the station. “This is more like it!” he said, smiling at a pretty brunette in a floral sundress.
/>   We walked to the CN Tower from the station in silence, Rashid taking videos and narrating his impressions to share with family and friends in Delhi. At the ticket desk Aydin tried to pay for all of us, but I had already bought the tickets online, so we skipped the traditional desi game of Please let me pay, as my honor depends on this show of generosity. I’ve seen grown men almost come to blows when denied the joy of treating everyone. Aydin put away his credit card without a word, and my respect for him grew—slightly.

  There was a line for the elevator to the viewing platform. Rashid continued to take pictures while Aydin continued to wear his sunglasses and ignore me. I should have stomped on both shoes when I had the chance.

  At the front of the line a perky tour guide with bright red lipstick greeted us. “Welcome to the Canadian National Tower!” she said, grinning at the small crowd clustered in front of the elevator. “The CN Tower was constructed in 1976 and held the record for world’s tallest freestanding structure for thirty-two years. It is 553.3 meters tall and is also used as a radio and communications tower. From the top viewing platform you will be able to see all around the beautiful city of Toronto and beyond!” She ushered our group inside the elevator.

  My eyes drifted to Aydin, beside me at the back of the elevator. I noticed he had turned an unhealthy shade of Pale White Man. His head was ducked low, arms crossed tightly across his chest. Concerned, I leaned forward and noticed a trickle of sweat snaking from brow to chin. His eyes were closed tightly beneath the sunglasses, and his breathing was shallow. “Aydin,” I said softly. “Are you all right?” My hand hovered over his arm.

  He didn’t respond. But then, it was a stupid question. He was clearly not okay.

  The elevator began its supercharged ascension to the LookOut Level, 346 meters from the ground. As the other passengers exclaimed over the speed and peered through the partial glass floor of the elevator, I kept my eyes on Aydin, who seemed to be shrinking more into himself the higher we rose. He swayed slightly, and I rested my hand firmly on his arm as his shallow breaths grew ragged.