Hana Khan Carries On

by Uzma Jalaluddin

  Constable Lukie and I were in almost daily contact, but thankfully the chatter online had nearly stopped. The rest of my free time was spent working on Secret Family History. Big J had loved the small segment I’d sent him, and wanted to hear the rest when I finished.

  Between working on my podcast and the new show and my shifts at Three Sisters, I was busy, but my mind kept wandering back to Aydin. Things between us were so tangled up I didn’t know how to begin to loosen the threads. Instead we avoided each other. I hadn’t seen him on the street all week, though he had been on my mind constantly.

  The work on Wholistic Grill had intensified in preparation for their launch. The day before, balloons had been secured near the restaurant’s entrance, and placards announcing the festivities were placed strategically around Golden Crescent. If Rashid’s excitement was any indication, Wholistic Grill could expect a full house. The rumors I had started online had been overshadowed by more recent events, and the community was eager for a reason to celebrate.

  Kawkab Khala had no interest in attending the grand opening, and Mom and Fahim were busy at Three Sisters. Mom waved away my excuses. “You must take Rashid,” she said. “He will not let us have any peace otherwise.” She smiled at her nephew, who was bouncing with excitement—at the prospect of seeing Zulfa again more than anything else. I hadn’t had the heart to tell him that his efforts in that direction were in vain, that her heart belonged to the perfectly named Zain. Zainfa—even their couple moniker was cute.

  As Rashid and I approached Wholistic Grill, I realized there was something else I had forgotten about—namely, Yusuf and his promise to protest the launch of Aydin’s restaurant. Though the turnout was less than his promised five thousand, my friend had managed to round up a few dozen protesters on the sidewalk in front. Lily was in attendance, and my friends held handmade signs: support local business, not corporate sellouts! and there’s nothing holy about wholistic grill! As I watched, Lily leaned close to Yusuf, her hair brushing against his cheek. I guessed they had made up. I wondered if Yusuf had proposed yet. Probably not; he would have told me.

  “Hana, we made a sign for you,” Yusuf called at my approach. The placard in his hands read three sisters needs your help! support local business, not bully business! Three stick figures in hijab stood arm in arm above the message. “We can make one for you too, Rashid!” he yelled when he caught sight of my cousin. Lily smacked Yusuf’s arm, but my cousin only smiled and went inside the restaurant.

  “I’m going to scope out the enemy first,” I said, and followed Rashid.

  Although we were early, a sizable crowd was already present, and I nodded at people I knew. The crowd skewed young and Muslim, but there was plenty of diversity. Three chefs in kitchen whites chopped and prepared meals amid the whir of blenders whipping up frozen concoctions. The smell of burgers and poutine made my mouth water. Zulfa was running around welcoming people, handing out goody bags to small children, calling for extra chairs, and directing overflow to the patio outside.

  I realized I was looking for Aydin when my eyes snagged on his familiar form. I had something I needed to say to him.

  Aydin was dressed for the occasion in a slim-cut black suit that emphasized his broad shoulders. His crisp white shirt set off his warm brown skin. He was in the middle of the crowd, making small talk with customers, joking around with kids and parents. He looked happy. Until he spotted me, and his expression turned to wary resignation.

  “Assalamu alaikum,” I said. Peace be with you. My voice was steady, not like the angry whip I had used to berate him when we fought.

  He nodded. “Walaikum assalam,” he replied. And upon you be peace. Tension marked every inch of his body, as if he were bracing for a punch.

  “You look nice,” I said, eyes perusing his suit once more. He’s falling for me, my mind whispered. He’s destroying Three Sisters, another voice reminded me. I tried to put him out of business too, the first voice countered. “Congratulations on the launch,” I said instead.

  Aydin’s lips quirked. “It was a close thing for a while there.”

  A young child jostled me, and he suggested we move to his office. I followed him through the crowded space to a tiny room in the back set up with a desk, chair, and filing cabinet. Words bubbled up as he half closed the door.

  “I shouldn’t have said that about your mother,” I blurted. “If she were alive, I know she would be proud of the man you’ve become.”

  “You mean the coward who can’t stand up to his father?” His lips twisted and he looked down. I saw how my words were haunting him, as his own haunted me. “Everything you said was true, Hana. I would have put your family out of business without another thought . . . if I hadn’t gotten to know you first.”

  His words didn’t make me feel vindicated, and I realized I wasn’t there to continue our argument. I peered into his lowered face. “Pity party, table for one?” I said, and Aydin smiled wryly. “So you’re a shitty disappointment. So you’ve made mistakes. At least you can acknowledge doing wrong. You stood there and took my abuse without flinching.”

  “I deserved it,” he muttered.

  “Yes, you did. Now do better,” I countered.

  His eyes searched mine. “I was afraid I had blown the only shot I had with you. I meant what I said before. Not that I didn’t mean to fall for you, but that I already had.”

  Things were complicated between us, but I couldn’t deny that his words sent a thrill through me. There was something drawing us together, something stubborn that refused to give way, despite everything pushing against it. I shook my head at the strangeness of it all. “Of all the halal joints in the world, you had to walk into mine.”

  Aydin didn’t laugh. “You were right, Hana. I can’t move across the country to lead my own life if my dad still stands behind me, calling the shots.” He took a deep breath. “I am sorry for the hurt I caused you. I respect you and your family very much, and from now on I would like for us to be cordial business allies.”

  I laughed at his formal phrasing. “A cordial business ally? Is that all I am?”

  Aydin’s eyes darkened. “I’ll start wherever you want. Do you accept my apology?”

  “That depends on the actions that accompany your words,” I said, matching his formal diction. I was only half joking, but Aydin nodded as if he had anticipated my response.

  “I have some savings and investments from my time at Shah Industries. I’m going to cash it all in and then beg the bank for a loan. I plan to return every cent my dad lent me, immediately. I want to be free and clear of his money and his interference.”

  I raised my eyebrows, impressed by the changes he was prepared to make. The fire in his eyes was inspiring. And also . . . okay, pretty hot.

  “What happens after that?” I asked softly, daring him to say more.

  “Then you tell me your favorite color so I can send you flowers, your favorite place so I can take you there, your favorite book so I can read it just so we can argue about it. I know you want to work in radio, and I plan to cheer you on every step of the way. I might even listen to TSwift, if you insist.”

  I started laughing, but he wasn’t done.

  “You hold all the cards, Hana. What happens next is up to you.”

  “We barely know each other—” I started, but he shook his head.

  “It doesn’t feel that way to me. I feel like I’ve known you for much longer,” he said.

  I recognized the truth of his words. That strange familiarity had been at the root of our instant connection from the very start. And while I wasn’t sure about our future, I could at least start by answering his questions.

  “My favorite color is leopard print,” I said. “My favorite place is Three Sisters, my favorite book is Persuasion by Jane Austen, and you need to listen to 1989 to appreciate the genius of Taylor Swift. Also, I hope you don’t have a problem with amb
itious women, because I have big plans.”

  “Ambitious women are my favorite kind,” he said. The smile that broke across his face reached from his lips to the crinkly corners of his eyes.

  I finally let go of my fear and distrust and let myself fall too. I reached out my hand and gently cradled his face. He gripped my wrist tightly, the promise of more in his eyes, before he let go.

  We were both smiling as we exited his office, having decided on nothing and everything.

  * * *

  • • •

  Outside, the protesters had grown slightly in number, and they cheered as I walked up to them.

  “Here comes Hana, daughter of the hardworking owner of Three Sisters Biryani Poutine!” Yusuf roared through the megaphone. “Hana, please share your story with your supporters!”

  I accepted the megaphone. “Go home,” I said to the group. “Or better yet, go inside and support Wholistic Grill, because they have reason to celebrate. Three Sisters Biryani Poutine is happy to finally have some company providing quality halal meals to our neighborhood, especially after the hatred unleashed on Golden Crescent last week. And then come back tomorrow and support my mother’s restaurant. She’s been running it on her own for fifteen years, and I think some of you have been taking her for granted.”

  I handed the megaphone back to a stunned Yusuf and walked away. Lily recovered first, falling into step beside me. “Yusuf was really looking forward to that protest. He wanted to do something for you.”

  “Half your protesters were holding take-out containers from Wholistic Grill,” I said, and we smiled at each other.

  “You’re really okay with Wholistic Grill opening?” she asked.

  I paused, thinking. “No.”

  “You want it gone?”

  “No,” I said immediately. Not anymore.

  Lily grinned beside me. “I’m going to miss you when I’m in Timmins,” she said. “Especially that fuzzy logic of yours.”

  “You’re the science-and-facts girl. I’ll stay with my feelings. Have you told Yusuf you’re leaving?”

  “There’s a lot I need to catch you up on.” Lily looked back at the protest, and I understood. She wanted to be where Yusuf was, and from the look on my best friend’s face, he felt likewise.

  I would always be the third musketeer in our trio, but that was okay. I was learning to find my own place.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Things settled into an uneasy sort of rhythm for the rest of the week. Mom sent food to Abdul Bari every day, but I suspected the imam didn’t have much of an appetite. When I saw him walking down the street, he looked thin and gray, though he mustered a smile for me and asked how my radio career was coming along.

  I hadn’t spoken with Aydin. Things still felt raw and strange between us, but he had been clear that he was waiting for me to make the next move.

  I could see the lineup at Wholistic Grill from our front window, while our own dining room remained empty. Mom had taken up working on the crossword in the newspaper while we waited for customers, and I continued to edit.

  “What were you talking to Kawkab Khala about this morning?” I asked, fingers drumming on the counter. Their heads had been bent close together when I came downstairs.

  “She offered me money. I turned her down,” Mom said.

  “I thought she wasn’t rich anymore.”

  A faint smile crossed my mother’s face. “That’s because she keeps giving away money to any family member who asks. I told her to save it for herself. She can use it to visit again soon.”

  “Why didn’t you take the money? Just until things get better . . .”

  But Mom shook her head. “I won’t borrow money I can’t pay back,” she said firmly.

  “You can pay her back,” I said. “In a few months, maybe a year.”

  Mom looked around the dining room. “No other woman in my family has ever started her own business. Everyone in India thought I was crazy, except Kawkab Khala. Her father was a nawab and she was always wealthy, but she was born a rebel. She appreciated that I wanted to swim against the current. You’re like us both in that way, Hana.” She smiled at me, and I was touched by her acknowledgment of my wayward instincts. “But I’m not sure I want to do this anymore,” she added softly.

  “What about Fahim? What about Fazeela and the cantaloupe?” I shook my head. “We have a lot of interest and sympathy going for us right now, after the attack on the street.”

  She only smiled at me and returned to her crossword.

  I looked around the dining room. I could ask Kawkab Khala for the money myself, buy some new chairs, invest in proper tablecloths and new cutlery. A coat of paint, maybe some pretty decorations, better light fixtures . . .

  “Carry with difficulty,” Mom said out loud, interrupting my train of thought.

  “What?” I said, distracted.

  “Six letters,” she said. “Carry with difficulty.”

  “Schlep,” I said.

  She filled in the word and continued working on the puzzle. Gray strands of hair escaped from the black cotton hijab she always wore when working, and dangled over the newspaper. She tucked them back with blunt fingers, dry and cracked after a decade and a half spent chopping, stirring, cutting, nourishing.

  I had grown up in the restaurant. A part of my heart would remain right there: crouching behind the chairs when Fazeela and I played hide-and-seek as children; watching my mother prep and cook while I did homework in elementary school; taking orders for the first time as a server and sharing the meager tips. Who would my mother be if she weren’t peering into the pots of boiling water that had kept her face clear and unlined, presiding over her kingdom like a powerful, stoic queen? Three Sisters was home.

  I straightened. We would make it through, even if I had to schlep her through this trial myself.

  Kawkab Khala joined us at lunchtime to remind me that the Business Owners Association meeting was scheduled for that night. As if I could forget. I still didn’t know why she wanted to attend.

  Rashid, who had come with her, perked up at that. “Will the ullu be there?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “His name is Yusuf. Wait, why?”

  “No reason,” he replied.

  I was instantly suspicious. “You’re both up to something,” I said.

  My aunt and Rashid looked at each other. “A healthy amount of suspicion is the key to long life expectancy, Hana Apa, but in this case your fears are misplaced. I simply wish to make amends with the ullu,” Rashid said.

  “I hope you aren’t planning on causing a scene,” I grumbled.

  Kawkab Khala smiled grimly at my words. “Not everything is about you, darling.”

  Hmph. I returned to editing Secret Family History.

  I listened on my headphones to the introduction I had recorded. My voice sounded throaty. “India in the 1970s was still reeling from the effects of war with neighboring Pakistan, still haunted by memories of Partition. In that world lived my aunt Kawkab Fazeela Muzamilah Khan. She was the twenty-four-year-old daughter of the local nawab, a wealthy landowner. And it was high time she was married.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The Business Owners Association meeting was scheduled for nine p.m. Kawkab returned to Three Sisters with Afsana Aunty at her side. I raised an eyebrow, but my aunt didn’t offer an explanation for her uninvited guest.

  The bigger surprise was Rashid. He had gone home at eight o’clock, ostensibly to fetch something, and when he returned with my aunt, he was completely transformed. Rashid was dressed in a long cream sherwani jacket decorated with seed pearls, a large cream-colored turban on his head. Pointy-toed khoosay slippers embroidered with gold thread adorned his feet. He was dressed as a Mughal prince, and I shook my head in amusement.

  We crossed the street to Brother Musa’s grocery a
nd made our way to the basement, where the meeting was being held.

  The other shop owners mingled by the snacks beside the stairs, Yusuf among them. Catching sight of my cousin, he burst into laughter.

  “All right, all right, I get it,” Yusuf said after he had calmed down. “Can I show you to your chair, Your Majesty?”

  Rashid nodded regally. “That’s Supreme Rajah to you, peasant.”

  My aunt and Afsana found seats at the back while I made small talk with Sulaiman Uncle, who owned the halal butcher shop. Footsteps down the stairs, and then Aydin joined the meeting. A few of the other business owners nodded, but no one moved to speak to him except me. He was still an outsider.

  “I’m surprised to see you here,” I said, teasing. “I thought we had run you off after the last meeting.”

  “I heard the BOA is the place to be.” He leaned close to whisper. “Because of the drama.” He straightened, casting a rueful eye across the room. “Actually, the drama has already happened. Machiavelli was right: My dad had his own plans all along. He was financing the restaurant for his own reasons. He wanted to bully the neighborhood, buy up properties cheap so he could build condos and gentrify.” He shook his head. “Everyone turned him down.”

  “They did?” I was surprised. Money was an attractive inducement, especially for Golden Crescent business owners. None of them were wealthy.

  “Only one or two businesses were interested in selling. The rest were worried about what he would do to the neighborhood, because they live here. My plans have upset him even more. He’s used to getting his way in everything.”

  I wanted to give Aydin a hug but settled for a sympathetic smile. No need for more gossip to get back to my family before I could speak to them about us first. “That must have been a difficult conversation,” I said.

  “He’s furious and has cut me off completely,” Aydin said cheerfully. “But it’s not all bad. I’m cautiously optimistic that Golden Crescent will provide a few perks.” He raised an eyebrow at me, and I blushed. “I meant easy access to your mom’s biryani,” he intoned solemnly, and I laughed.