Hana Khan Carries On

by Uzma Jalaluddin

  Thomas stared at me, willing me to reverse my position, to backpedal.

  I closed my eyes. Bismillah. Time to go all in.

  “I went into broadcasting to tell stories about real people,” I said, gaze steady on her face. “Not to reinforce the projections of strangers. I can’t be party to perpetuating harmful stereotypes about brown people and Muslims. Promoting the same old narrative about the dangerous outsider will cause harm to my community. I know, because it already has.”

  “That’s unfair. We want to hear everyone’s stories,” Marisa said.

  “No, you don’t,” I replied. “You want to hear me retell the stories you tell yourself about people who look like me.”

  Thomas had remained silent during the entire exchange. He spoke up now. “Hana, let’s talk about this. We can work things out.”

  I felt a deep well of sadness at his words. It was too late, and we both knew it.

  “No, Thomas. Hana has made it clear that she can’t work here or work on her assigned projects without compromising her moral compass,” Marisa said. “She is free to move on to a situation that better aligns with her beliefs.”

  Was it better in the end to find out where you stood and leave with that knowledge? No matter what I said, Marisa would never understand the experiences that had shaped me. Then again, I found her pretty baffling too.

  I held out my hand. “Thank you for the opportunity and for your guidance, Marisa. I hope our paths cross again someday.”

  She grasped my hand. “Be good, Hana.”

  I packed up my things from the office. It wasn’t until I walked out of the station that the trembling began. I had to place my hands on my knees and take deep breaths until my vision cleared.

  I had worked for months to secure that internship. It was meant to be a step toward a better, more secure job in broadcasting. All that work and effort, all those hours of filing and archiving, of holding my tongue or getting my ideas shot down, had come to nothing. The prospect of job security my father wanted for me—that I had dreamed of for myself—had now completely vanished from my life. The restaurant would close, Aydin would win, and my career in broadcasting was over.

  What had I done?

  * * *

  • • •

  I woke up frantic from a shadowy nightmare. The blanket lay in an untidy heap on the floor and I was sprawled out on the sofa, arms and limbs splayed. I sat up and looked at my phone. It was late morning. Someone (most likely my mother) had left my favorite breakfast for me on the coffee table: upma, a savory ground-wheat porridge of rava cooked with onion, mustard seeds, curry leaves, dry-roasted red chilies, and toasted whole cashews.

  I microwaved the upma while the kettle boiled for chai, then took both back to the sofa. The first bite burned my tongue, and the fiery red chili woke me up completely. The scalding-hot chai did nothing to calm my mouth. Instead, I closed my eyes while my taste buds throbbed.

  Had I really quit my internship? Had I really accused Marisa of not listening to the diverse voices on her staff? Where had that fiery Hana come from?

  My eyes paused on Kawkab Khala’s elegant black cashmere shawl embroidered with orange flowers, draped over the armchair in front of me. This was definitely all her fault. She was an agent of chaos, encouraging me to want more, to expect more, from everyone in my life.

  My podcast had shifted also in the past few weeks. Ana’s Brown Girl Rambles had started as a place for me to record my random thoughts. It had evolved into an audio diary, and judging from my rising listener count, there was active interest in the stories I was telling. The thought warmed me, and I opened the editing software on my laptop.

  After I finished working on my latest podcast episode, I pressed Play on what I had so far of Secret Family History. Weeks ago Big J had asked what was stopping me from working on the story in my heart. Now, thanks to my impulsive actions, I had all the time I needed to finish it.

  My aunt’s voice over the microphone was throaty. “What do you want to know, Hana?” she had asked, impatient. She had been fun to interview, if only because she so clearly thought the enterprise a complete waste of her time.

  “That story you told me, Kawkab Khala. Do you remember? When we were outside in the backyard? I thought I had heard all the stories from back home, but that one was new to me.”

  My aunt snorted. “You North Americans. You hear a few stories from your parents and you think you know everything about people you have never met. When was the last time you visited India, Hana jaan?”

  I smiled now, remembering how awkward I had felt. “Um . . . when I was twelve? We went for Hamid Mamu’s wedding.”

  “Your Hamid Mamu is a fool. I told him not to marry that girl. Why are men such idiots, Hana? He is dancing attendance on her now. I could have told him he would repent in leisure. The girl had sharp eyes.”

  “About that story . . .”

  Kawkab Khala sighed. “Have you ever interviewed anyone before?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I replied. “Just not family.”

  “Family is who you should have thought to interview first,” my aunt answered.

  “That’s what I’m doing, Kawkab Khala, but you keep changing the subject.”

  “I don’t understand how talking into this microphone is considered radio. Where is your antenna?”

  On the sofa I laughed out loud and pressed Pause. It was still rough; it needed editing, but there was something there. I could feel it.

  By now I was certain that news of my unceremonious firing had trickled throughout the station’s small office. I wondered what Big J would think of me when he heard. I wondered if he would still want to help, or would he ignore me now?

  There was one way to find out. Muttering a brief prayer, I sent the first five minutes of the podcast to Big J with a quick note. Maybe he would like what I had done. He had expressed interest before in working with me. Perhaps he could help me find another position too. I had nothing left to lose, really.

  [Transcript]

  I’ve been thinking lately about the lies we tell ourselves and the secrets that define us. I mentioned in the last episode that I recently came face-to-face with hate. I had been hoping things would improve, but instead they’ve gotten worse, in almost every way possible. Both personally and professionally, I have been targeted and attacked. Worse, the most important people in my life have been targeted as well, which has been painful to watch. We’re trying to pick up the pieces now, trying to figure out what to do next and how to move forward.

  Strangely, something good has come out of all this pain. I’ve realized that I have to be more honest about what I truly want. I also need to be brave enough to confront the things that have held me back—in some cases, myself.

  What does this have to do with the lies we tell ourselves and the secrets we harbor? During the course of the past few weeks, I’ve realized that I am guilty of believing soothing lies, the lies that have allowed me to function in my world. I have turned away from things that niggled at my conscience, that went against my principles, and rationalized my behavior as the price one pays to get ahead. When I finally confronted just a few of those lies, I ended up losing my job.

  I don’t have much of a safety net, so the consequences of confronting such hard truths are real, and terrifying. Still, I feel lighter for it, better about myself and stronger. I know now what I will and will not tolerate. I know where my line is, and what I am willing to lose to defend my heart.

  While I am scared of what the future will bring, the uncertainty has been refreshing in a strange way. I know who I am in a way I never have before, and know what I’m willing to sacrifice to stay true to myself. I guess that’s not a bad lesson to learn at any age.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  My phone was flashing with dozens of messages when my alarm, muffled under the sofa cushions, went off the next da
y. I swiped, and my eyes landed on a text from Yusuf.

  Nalla died last night. Janazah today after zuhr prayer at 1:30 pm. Spread the word.

  Rapid footsteps on the stairs. “Hana!” Mom called, urgent. “Wake up, wake up!”

  My fingers were numb. I put my phone facedown on the seat cushion beside me.

  Imam Abdul Bari’s wife had been at Three Sisters just last week, looking weak but luminescent in her green dress, smiling at her husband’s jokes. She couldn’t be dead.

  Mom stood in front of me in her cotton nightgown, face pale. “Nalla—” she started, but I shook my head.

  She collapsed onto the couch beside me, breathing hard. “She was my age.” Mom’s voice was unsteady. “Even younger. Inna Lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un,” she recited. Surely to Allah we belong, and to Him we return, the Quranic verse Muslims utter when hearing of a death, as reflexive as an observant Catholic genuflecting. I echoed her words.

  She stood up. “I’m going to the restaurant. They will need food, for after,” she said.

  She meant after janazah, the funeral prayer that’s part of the Islamic ritual of burial. Muslims are encouraged to perform funeral services as soon as possible. Nalla had been sick for a long time; we had all known this day would come.

  I dressed quickly and headed to the restaurant with her. Mom was right. They would need food to feed the people who came to pay their respects to the imam at the reception, which would likely be held in the mosque gymnasium.

  Mom, Fahim, and I worked quickly. Mom’s hands flew as she chopped mint and coriander, mixed a marinade for curry, diced vegetables for the grill. I assembled the biryani, doling out a huge tray of half-cooked basmati rice, then layering chicken marinated in a yogurt and garam masala spice mix and covering that with another layer of rice. I topped the dish with saffron, ghee, fresh coriander, and browned onions before carefully maneuvering the covered tray into the restaurant’s oven, where the rice and chicken would cook casserole-style. By midmorning the food was assembled.

  We drove to the mosque, where the parking lot was already full. News of death spread quickly in the community as people texted and shared the information over social media. Everyone knew that if they wanted to attend the janazah prayers, previous plans would have to be rescheduled.

  The main prayer hall overflowed with people, spilling into the hallway. Mom, Fahim, and I carried the trays of food past the crowd, moving swiftly downstairs to the cafeteria. I passed the tray to Sister Fatima, a friend of the imam’s. Her face was somber and her lips trembled as she hugged me and Mom. “She helped so many people, Abdul Bari most of all. I don’t know what he will do without her,” Fatima said.

  We walked back upstairs to the main hallway, where the imam was greeting people. Dressed in a crisp white robe that reached his ankles, hair neatly brushed, he was smiling, but tears dripped steadily down his face, drenching his gray beard. He hugged Fahim, then clasped his hands together and inclined his head to me and Mom.

  “Imam,” I said, my eyes filling. “I will miss her so much.”

  Abdul Bari nodded, mouth trembling. “Her heart is at peace at last. She was in so much pain.”

  Aydin stepped forward from behind me and clasped the imam in a long embrace. I hadn’t noticed him standing there. The adhan, the call to prayer, began and the crowd moved into the hall. Aydin kept a firm hand on the older man’s shoulder as they walked in together.

  After zuhr, the crowd waited while the plain pine coffin was wheeled to the front, where the imam stood. It was covered with an embroidered green velvet cloth, the only flash of adornment in the simple Islamic burial rites. Abdul Bari reached out a hand and gently placed it on Nalla’s coffin. He rested it there, eyes closed, the tears streaming freely, while his congregation watched. All around me men and women cried openly, weeping into tissues.

  “My mother chose Nalla to be my wife,” Abdul Bari said, his voice reed thin through the microphone. “We were strangers to each other, but Allah placed love in our hearts, and we nourished it for over twenty-eight years with affection, laughter, and respect. We were never blessed with children, our fondest wish, but our faith helped us. My dearest Nalla, my love, I will miss you every day I have left on this Earth. Wait for me at the bridge to the afterlife, so that we may enjoy one another’s company again, dearest one. So that we may live with the children who went before you, the ones who are keeping you company now.”

  My nose stuffy from crying, I closed my eyes as the imam began the janazah. As one, we raised our hands to our shoulders, and the brief prayer began.

  It was over too soon. There were too many people. It was hard to breathe. When the imam had recited the last Assalamu alaikum wa rahmatullah, I edged my way out of the prayer hall and quickly walked through the seldom-used ornate glass front doors, hurrying down the main stairs, which faced a busy intersection. I collapsed on the bottom step, head in my hands.

  Someone sank down next to me. I didn’t need to look up to know it was Aydin. He must have spotted me leaving. “I couldn’t stay inside either,” he said.

  “I can’t imagine losing someone you love that much,” I said, wiping my eyes. “Abdul Bari will never forget what that felt like, watching his wife die.”

  Aydin’s hands were tangled in his lap. “I don’t remember my mother’s funeral. Dad says I was there, but I don’t remember it at all. I must have wiped it from my mind. Maybe the imam will forget too, after some time.”

  My eyes were fixed on the traffic in front of the mosque—cars speeding toward various destinations, pedestrians on sidewalks, everyone immersed in their own world, ignorant of the quiet, everyday heartbreak unraveling inside the mosque.

  “I wonder if I will ever love someone the way Abdul Bari loved Nalla,” I said. I wasn’t sure if I was asking Aydin or myself.

  He reached over and gently clasped my hand, his touch warm. His hand was large, and more callused than I would have expected. It felt right, holding his hand, and I saw it now: We fit together somehow. Despite the grief that lay behind us and the murky future ahead, we just fit.

  * * *

  • • •

  The hearse was outside, and Nalla’s plain pine coffin was loaded into the back by the imam and a few other men. Burial was traditionally done as soon as possible, preferably within twenty-four hours of a death.

  I made my way to the mosque’s kitchen, where Mom and some other women were putting away the food for the funeral reception that night. I picked up a tray of salad and placed it in the fridge.

  “Aren’t you heading back to Three Sisters?” I asked. “Lunch crowd.”

  Mom shook her head, wiping her forehead. “We closed for the funeral. I’m needed here.”

  I couldn’t remember any other time Mom had shut the restaurant. Our family vacations had consisted of quick two-hour trips to the mall.

  “Let’s go to the cemetery. They have this covered.”

  Mom didn’t want to, but I insisted. Nalla had been our friend.

  There was no Muslim-owned cemetery in the city, so our mosque had bought a small piece of land in an existing Catholic cemetery, to the east of the city, where we buried our dead.

  Muslim burial rites are simple. Coffins are plain pine, bodies wrapped in a cotton shroud after being given ghusl—ritual purification—by community volunteers. Graves are traditionally unmarked by anything more than a number. Some families have plots with simple engraved plaques bearing names and dates, but many graves don’t even have that. The Muslims in our community who cared about being buried among their brethren tended to be those traditional enough to eschew the ornate symbols of death that adorned the Catholic part of the cemetery.

  A fleet of cars was already there, and at least a hundred people milled around outside. The sky was overcast but the sun sat high, shining determinedly through the clouds. It was warm, and I could see the imam wipe a
light sheen of sweat from his forehead before he dabbed his eyes with the same handkerchief. He had removed the long robe he usually wore in front of the congregation, revealing a bright pink Hawaiian shirt, two flamingos in a heart-shaped embrace on the front. Nalla had told me once that he wore those shirts for her, because he knew she loved them, because they made her laugh. A secret message of hope for his wife. I turned away from the crowd as grief rose once more.

  Mom gripped my shoulder before pulling me close. I allowed myself to be held for a moment, breathing in the faint smells of turmeric and garam masala that always seemed to cling to her, no matter how much she used her favorite Clinique perfume or kept her nicer clothes away from the restaurant. It was as if the spices had sunk into her skin. The fragrance of those spices had always been synonymous with Mom and home.

  We faced the crowd now, edging closer to the coffin. Imam Abdul Bari had his hands up in du’a and I raised mine too, joining in the group prayer as he recited slowly in Arabic. I spotted Fahim behind the imam, his usual grin replaced by a serious expression.

  “Ameen,” the congregation murmured as the du’a ended. The people at the front of the crowd gathered handfuls of dirt and one by one dropped them onto the coffin, which had already been lowered slightly into the grave.

  When it was our turn, Mom moved forward, picked up a clump of dirt, and dropped it gently on top of the coffin. She lay a hand on the pine lid and closed her eyes. “Khuda hafiz, my friend,” she said softly. I followed suit.

  The crowd slowly returned to their cars. A wave of people receding from the shore, leaving behind a lone figure in a pink Hawaiian shirt, saying his final good-bye.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Though I spent the next few days continuing to deal with media inquiries about the Golden Crescent attack, my heart was heavy. Nalla’s death had put a damper on everything. At the same time, I felt a greater sense of urgency.