Hana Khan Carries On

by Uzma Jalaluddin

  After what felt like an hour but was probably no longer than sixty seconds, we arrived at the LookOut Level. Rashid was at the very front, and he waved as the crowd pulled him out. I exchanged a look with the cheerful elevator operator. Without a word, she shut the door and we began a rapid descent to ground level.

  Aydin managed to walk out of the elevator without help, making it through the main door before sinking to the concrete ledge at the entrance. I took a seat beside him and quietly passed him a bottle of water. He removed his sunglasses and took a long sip.

  “I’m terrified of cats,” I said after his breathing had settled somewhat.

  Aydin grunted. “Don’t do that,” he said. “I don’t need your pity.”

  I ignored him. “Yusuf had a cat when we were kids. Whenever I went to his house, she would wait at the top of the stairs for me to walk past. And then she would jump on me, flying through the air like an avenging tabby angel.”

  Aydin smiled weakly. His face was starting to look less green.

  “Yusuf said his cat loved me, but I knew she just liked to hear me scream.”

  We sat in silence for a few more minutes. Rashid sent me a selfie from the observation deck, a huge grin on his face.

  “You paid for your ticket. You should go back up there,” he said.

  “Are you kidding me? I’d pay money not to go up that elevator ever again. Every time someone visits from out of town, we take them to the CN Tower. I’ve been here approximately two hundred times. I should be thanking you.” I was babbling. Aydin’s reaction had taken me completely by surprise. His arrogant self-possession was one of the most consistent—and irritating—things about him.

  “I haven’t been here since I was five years old,” Aydin said, breaking my nervous silence. “I came with my mother and father. I was so excited. But on the way up, Mom had a panic attack. I think she was afraid of heights too.”

  I looked at Aydin. His color was back to its usual warm brown, but there was something glazed about his eyes. I scooted over slightly. He was speaking into his lap, hands curled into tight fists. I wanted to reach over and loosen that grip.

  “I didn’t know what was happening,” Aydin continued. “She started gasping for air as soon as we got on the elevator. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look on her face. My dad was so embarrassed.”

  My eyes were fixed on his, but he wasn’t looking at me, or anyone else. His gaze was fixed on the past.

  “That’s awful.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  “She tried to enjoy herself for my sake, I was so obsessed with the tower. My father kept scolding her. Finally I started to cry and we left. It happened so long ago, but the minute we got on that elevator, it all came back.”

  This time I did reach over and gently squeeze his hand. We sat in silence, not looking at each other. Rashid sent me another picture of him walking on the glass floor, his face glowing with excitement. I showed Aydin the photo and he took a shaky breath.

  “I’m sorry I ruined this for you,” he said in a small voice.

  I imagined five-year-old Aydin, caught between his terrified mother and his stern father. I wished Junaid Uncle were there, so I could slap his disdainful face. “Don’t,” I said. “Please don’t apologize.”

  We lapsed into silence once more. I glanced over at him and saw that his ears were slightly pink with embarrassment. “I’m sorry I stepped on your shoe,” I said.

  He smiled, relieved. “I’m sorry I criticized Three Sisters when we first met.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, looking out at the nearly empty pedestrian walkway. “Rashid and I are hatching a plan to destroy you.”

  Aydin laughed out loud, startling a pigeon perched beside us. “There’s the Hana I know. You were being so nice I was starting to worry.”

  “I do have a reputation to maintain.”

  His breath was warm, and his dark brown eyes crinkled at the corners. “I like it when you’re mean to me,” he said.

  I stood up abruptly. “I think Rashid is going to be a while. Want to get some ice cream?”

  Aydin blinked, then nodded. “Sure, but I’m paying. Don’t argue.”

  * * *

  • • •

  It was an eight-minute walk to the Dairy Queen from the base of the CN Tower. Given his easy, loping stride, no one would have guessed that the tall man in silver sunglasses beside me had just suffered a panic attack.

  Aydin looked at me as we walked, and I saw twin versions of Hana staring back. I was much shorter than his six-foot height, the reflections distorted. I adjusted my bright blue hijab and white tunic. Something had changed between us on the ride down the CN Tower, leaving me feeling raw and a little shy.

  We stopped in front of the Dairy Queen. Both of us started to speak at the same time, and I laughed and gestured for him to go first.

  Aydin shifted uncomfortably and reached into his pocket. “I bought you something,” he said, handing over a small velvet pouch.

  Mystified, I opened the drawstring and a heavy metal object fell into my palm. As I examined the tiny cube, he coughed in embarrassment.

  “It’s a radio keychain. When I saw it at the Golden Crescent convenience store, I thought of you. Mr. Patel says it really works.”

  The mini radio had an old-fashioned dial and was painted a delicate gold and white. It looked expensive, like something you would buy at a boutique, not our local convenience store. I fiddled with the tiny knobs on the side and then looked up at Aydin. His ears had turned pink again, and he had trouble meeting my gaze.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said gravely. His face lit up with the first genuine smile I had seen since I gave him the free plate of biryani. “Thank you.” I carefully pocketed the keychain.

  “Consider it partial reparation for past behavior,” he said, and my heart lurched.

  “Mom says we won’t last the summer,” I blurted, desperate to change the strange vibe between us and return to our usual hostile roles.

  Aydin stilled, and I continued. “You were right. She has debts. We aren’t making the money we need to stay open.”

  Silver lenses reflected the sunlight, blinding me. I needed to see his face. I reached up and removed his sunglasses, my fingers brushing his hair.

  His brown eyes were stricken. “I didn’t want to be right,” he said. “I didn’t want this to happen.”

  I knew Aydin wasn’t opening his fancy halal restaurant simply to put my mother out of business, but the result was the same. He was on one side and I on the other. My loyalty was clear, even if my feelings had become less so.

  I liked him. He was smart and funny, hardworking and focused. When he looked at me now, I saw acceptance and an easy affection that just felt right. But it didn’t make a damn bit of difference.

  “We’re Muslim, Aydin,” I said. “We believe that all this is exactly what was supposed to happen. Even if we weren’t looking for any of it.”

  In the Dairy Queen I let him buy me a chocolate sundae. It was cold and sweet and I didn’t say thank you. On the walk back he held out his hand for the sunglasses, but I had tucked them into my bag. Maybe a part of me wanted something that belonged to him.

  We walked in silence to the base of the CN Tower. There we met up with Rashid, and the three of us headed to the aquarium.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The jellyfish tank was ethereal—a wide glass tube that extended to the ceiling, illuminated by a haunting blue light against which giant jellyfish floated like ghostly tentacled aliens. The imam was right. It was glorious.

  “Cool,” Rashid said after thirty seconds. He snapped a picture for his Facebook page before walking off in search of the seahorse tank.

  Aydin remained beside me. The light from the glowing tank reflected off his face so that he glowed too. “Aquariums make me sad. All these animals caught or bred
for captivity, living their life in cages for our amusement. It’s a metaphor for life.”

  The jellyfish couple in front of me had their tentacles entwined as they danced around each other with slow, practiced movements. I wondered how long they had been stuck in that tank together. I wondered if they hated it and yearned for freedom. Or did they even realize they were trapped?

  “Sometimes I wish we weren’t enemies,” Aydin said, his gaze intent on the jellyfish. “I wonder how we’d be if things were different. Do you think we could have been friends?” His eyes focused on mine in the reflection.

  “Maybe,” I replied, though I knew the answer was yes. It would be easy to be friends with Aydin. We would just stop fighting against everything and simply . . . be. It would be the easiest thing in the world, if only things were different.

  * * *

  • • •

  We had an hour before the gates opened at the stadium. Feeling a sudden hunger, we decided to grab some pizza. I wondered what Aydin was thinking, if he was regretting what he had said.

  Rashid walked ahead, oblivious to both of us. He was taking videos again, of the CN Tower, the aquarium exterior, and downtown Toronto street life.

  A beefy white man in a dark T-shirt planted himself in front of Rashid. My cousin looked up and smiled. “Hello, brother,” he said.

  “Hey, terrorist,” the man said, voice booming.

  The man was flanked by two other large men. One had his head shaved, and the other wore a shirt with a raised white fist against a black background.

  My heart began to pound. “What did you call him?” I said, and my voice shook.

  The man looked at me, dismissive. “I wasn’t talking to you, bitch. I was talking to your little brown friend here. Why are you taking videos of the tower? Where are you from? You got a passport, buddy?” The man took a step closer to Rashid.

  Aydin stepped up, subtly moving me back. “Take it easy,” he said, hands out in a calm-down motion. “We’re just walking around, enjoying our city.”

  “Enjoying my city. It’s not your city, asshole!” The man’s face turned an ugly shade of red and spittle flew from his mouth. “Stay in your own fucking country!”

  A small crowd had gathered around us, but they were silent, watching the drama unfold. A few had phones out, filming.

  “This is my country,” Aydin said quietly. “This is her country,” he said, nodding at me. “And this man is our guest. Maybe you should stand down.”

  Blood pounded in my veins. What had we done to attract this type of attention? I reached up and fingered my hijab, a bright blue- and-cream patterned chiffon that matched my blue jeans.

  The man with the shaved head pointed at Rashid, who was still filming. “Turn that thing off right now! You planning an attack on Toronto, that why you’re taking all this video?” The man stepped closer to Rashid and reached for his cell phone.

  “No English,” Rashid said in his cultured Indo-British accent. “Many apologies, but I cannot understand a single word you are saying.” He backed up a few steps.

  The three men followed. “You don’t belong here!” the first man yelled. “Give me that phone!”

  Rashid leaned back and threw his phone in a perfect arc to Aydin, who caught it one-handed. “What phone?” Rashid asked, all innocence.

  Everything began to happen in slow motion.

  “Fuck you!” the first man roared, and lunged at Aydin. Frightened, I yanked on his shoulder, pulling him away from the man’s fist, but the momentum made me lose my balance. I fell, landing hard on my back, the breath knocked out of me.

  “Hana!” Aydin yelled, crouching beside me.

  Despite the sharp pain in my hip, I noticed the second man charge. At the last second Rashid neatly sidestepped, then pushed the man forward so that he toppled face-first onto the concrete a few feet away.

  While our would-be attacker was being helped up by his friends, Rashid signaled to me. “We should go.” My cousin’s voice was quiet and unwavering. How could he be so calm?

  My hands were shaking. I caught the eye of a young woman in the small crowd that surrounded us, and she looked away. A glance at Aydin reflected my own mix of emotions back at me: shock and fear.

  Aydin helped me up, hands grasping my elbows. I was dazed, blood pulsing in a drumbeat through my veins, my back and left leg already sore as I processed what had just happened. We had been attacked on the streets of downtown Toronto. Those men had tried to assault both Aydin and Rashid, yet somehow I had been the one who ended up sprawled on the ground.

  We hurried around the corner, all thoughts of lunch forgotten. I looked back, but the men seemed uninterested in giving chase. Or maybe they were waiting for backup. What if they came after us, armed?

  I touched my hijab again, wishing I had chosen a color that blended in better. The thought made me want to laugh and cry, and I realized I must be in shock.

  Aydin was still holding Rashid’s phone. “I’m calling the police,” he said.

  “For what?” my cousin asked.

  Aydin and I looked at him. “Those men attacked us!” I said.

  Rashid started to laugh. “They were probably drunk. If I called the police every time someone called me a bad name or tried to steal my phone, I would never get anything done. Come on, we can buy lunch at the stadium. I heard they sell halal hot dogs.”

  Aydin and I exchanged worried glances but followed. “I still think I should call the cops,” Aydin said to me in a low, tense voice. “They were looking for trouble. They might do something worse to someone else next time. And we should take you to the hospital. Are you sure you can walk?”

  “Nobody said anything,” I said, my voice cracking. “There were people all around us, and nobody spoke up.”

  Rashid walked ahead of us, eager to enter the massive fifty-thousand-seat Rogers Center, known as the SkyDome to longtime residents, with its signature retractable roof. “Let’s get some popcorn too,” he called over his shoulder.

  Aydin and I exchanged another glance and followed him inside.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The pitcher talked to the catcher. The batter took a single swing before spitting on the ground. The first baseman leaned on one leg and made a complicated hand motion to the shortstop. Play paused while the first-base coach and batter conferred.

  Three more hours of this. I was vibrating with so much adrenaline I couldn’t sit still, though my back, hip, and left leg throbbed painfully. I shifted, and Aydin caught the movement, worry clear on his face. He abruptly got up and left.

  “How did you know they wouldn’t come after us?” I asked Rashid, seeking a distraction from the pain. My cousin was shoveling popcorn into his mouth, eyes riveted on the field as if he were watching a tense Hollywood blockbuster instead of a sleepy midweek baseball game.

  “His buddies were hanging back after he fell. If they really wanted to start something, they would have attacked again. When they saw you fall down and the crowd form, they backed off. Besides, I didn’t look scared enough to make it worth their time. Men like that enjoy the fear on people’s faces most of all.”

  I raised my eyebrows, impressed at his analysis. “How many fights have you been in?” I asked.

  My cousin took a bite of his second halal hot dog. “I only fight if I know I’m going to win. That’s the accountant’s way.” His parents were definitely part of the New Delhi Mafia.

  I settled back in my seat. It was comfortable, and we had an excellent view of the game. The stands were only half-filled, mostly with schoolkids on a class trip, retirees, and tourists. I shifted again, and pain shot along my thigh, making me inhale sharply.

  “Here, use these.” Aydin appeared beside me with two ice packs. He placed one carefully behind my back and went to press the other against my hip, then changed his mind and handed it to me instead. He had been fussing
over me ever since the attack, first insisting we go to the hospital and then, when I demurred, fetching me water from the concession stand and arguing with someone about getting me a heating pad. Now he handed me some ibuprofen, which I accepted gratefully. He took the empty seat beside me, dark eyes filled with concern.

  “I’m fine,” I repeated. I wasn’t.

  “You fell because of me,” Aydin said. He blinked and then looked away, a muscle in his jaw tightening.

  “I fell because that crazy racist tried to punch you and I pulled you out of the way. I guess you could say I saved you.”

  “You should have let him hit me. Then I could have called the police and pressed charges.” His fists were balled in his lap, knuckles white.

  “And ruin our perfect outing?” I said, keeping my voice light. “Rashid would never forgive us if we missed the game because of something so minor.”

  Beside us my cousin scowled at a call the umpire had made, eyes fixed on the action.

  “I don’t care about Rashid’s feelings!” Aydin burst out. “I can’t believe this happened in broad daylight, in the middle of downtown Toronto, and nobody did anything.”

  Rashid looked over. “They didn’t want to get involved. I wouldn’t have done anything either, if it had been me.”

  I wondered if he was right. If I saw someone being abused and harassed, would I step in and offer to help? Or would I ignore what was happening, thinking that they would be fine, that it was none of my business? “What can we do to stop this hatred?” I asked out loud. I wasn’t sure there was an answer.

  Rashid smiled at me, and I was struck once again by his calm. I was putting on a brave face and Aydin was clearly trying to tamp down his anger, but my cousin seemed completely unfazed. For the first time I wondered what his life was like in Delhi. I had thought him a sheltered rich kid who had come to Canada to have an adventure. Instead, his reactions made me want to check out the motherland.