Hana Khan Carries On

by Uzma Jalaluddin

  Rashid and Yusuf looked up from where they were chatting, and Aydin nodded at them both. Rashid waved enthusiastically, and after a moment Yusuf nodded stiffly. Baby steps.

  Brother Musa called the meeting to order as we took our seats at the front of the room. Mr. Lewis had just taken the floor, discussing the property damage caused by the attack, when we heard sharp thuds from above. Conversation ceased as everyone looked toward the stairs, though I had a pretty good idea who was about to crash the party.

  And then Junaid Uncle stood before us, a malevolent warlock, upset because he hadn’t been invited. Aydin’s father stalked into the cramped meeting space. People parted as he moved forward until he stood in front of his son.

  “Aydin has just informed me that he has thrown in his lot with the rest of you,” Junaid Uncle said loudly. “But I will not stand aside and watch while he is swayed by a pretty smile.” He glared at me.

  Aydin stood up. “Dad, we discussed this. I’m buying you out—” he started, but Junaid Uncle ignored him and continued to address the room.

  “I have been more than reasonable,” he announced, his voice echoing from the concrete basement walls. “Sell your businesses to me by the end of the week, and you will be compensated fairly. If you do not, none of you will enjoy what comes next. Particularly the wounded birds among you.” Junaid Uncle was looking directly at me.

  Aydin and I looked at each other in confusion, unsure what to do with that information. Why was Junaid Uncle behaving like the villain in a Pakistani drama?

  Aydin closed his eyes. “Dad . . . ,” he said, resigned. I had seen the same interaction play out before, at their first BOA meeting. It had ended with the father stalking out and the son following.

  Except this time Kawkab Khala was there. From the back of the room, my aunt approached us. “Assalamu alaikum, Junaid,” she said. I watched Junaid Uncle freeze.

  My aunt’s chin was raised high, so that she appeared to be looking down on us all. She contemplated Aydin’s face, Junaid Uncle motionless beside him. “You look so much like your mother,” she said slowly, enunciating every word so the entire room could hear. “I wonder how your father can stand to look at you. Today I brought someone here who might wonder the same,” she added.

  The blood drained from Junaid Uncle’s face, and he followed my aunt’s pointed glance, straight toward Afsana Aunty. A dawning realization crawled across my skin, making my blood burn hot. I looked from Aydin to Afsana. How had I not connected the dots before?

  Junaid Uncle caught my flash of understanding. His posture stiffened further, as if he was wondering if he should stand his ground and fight or grab his son and run.

  Not everything is about you, my aunt had warned me that afternoon, and I hadn’t understood. I had never understood.

  Affable mask on tight, Aydin answered my aunt. “Most people tell me I look like my dad, but thank you for seeing my mother in me,” he said. I wanted to cry at that most Aydin of responses, at his instinctive need to calm everyone down after his father had rampaged into a room. He hadn’t figured it out either.

  Aydin couldn’t remember his mother’s funeral because there hadn’t been one. She hadn’t died when he was five years old. In fact, I had met her several times. We had shared chai and eaten her potato pakoras, the ones her son had loved, and I had watched her avoid questions about what she was doing in Toronto. Afsana Aunty was there to see her son, Aydin, who had absolutely no idea his mother was still alive.

  Junaid Uncle’s mouth opened and shut. Then, after one last glare at Kawkab Khala, he turned on his heel and bounded up the stairs. With an apologetic glance toward me, Aydin followed his father out of the BOA meeting, into the dark night.

  It was Rashid who broke the silence. With great dignity he brushed cracker crumbs from the front of his sherwani. “Shall we continue? I have an update on the street festival. I have a strong suspicion this year’s event will be the best one yet.”

  Everyone settled into their seats, and Brother Musa called the meeting back to order.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  “I hope you will forgive me for hijacking your meeting, Hana jaan. It was time to deal with my friend’s unfinished business.” Kawkab Khala was perched on the edge of my bed. We had walked home in brittle silence, and I had followed her upstairs to demand an explanation.

  I had so many questions for my khala, but mostly I was burning with fury at once again being left in the dark. “Why didn’t you just tell Aydin the truth?” I asked tightly.

  “I meant to warn Junaid only—that we were here, and ready to tell his son if he didn’t do it first. I am not a monster, Hana. I only want justice for my friend.”

  “What justice is that?” I asked.

  “I told you before that Afsana and I are close and that she married too young. Her parents were pleased with the match; Junaid Shah came from money, and Afsana was lucky to get him. After the nikah, they moved to a city I had never heard of—Vancouver.”

  My aunt was silent for a few minutes. Outside it had started to rain, a light sprinkling that tapped against my bedroom window. I took a seat on the wooden chair by my desk.

  “She was happy at first,” my aunt continued. “It is hard to lie in letters—too easy for teardrops to mark the page. It is easy to dissemble online, but paper doesn’t lie. Shaky handwriting doesn’t lie. He treated her well, she said. But she was lonely, and Junaid was busy growing his empire in Canada. When she became pregnant with Aydin, he let her return to her mother to have the baby. Two months of being coddled at home should have made her happy, but when I went to visit her, I knew something was wrong.”

  There was another silence, longer this time. My aunt dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.

  “What was wrong with your friend?” I asked, my voice gentle now.

  “You would call it postpartum depression, but back then it was seen as a woman’s weakness. All I knew was that she was not herself, not during the pregnancy or afterward. She didn’t want to hold the baby and she cried often. If it wasn’t for her mother taking care of everything, I am sure she would have deteriorated quite badly. The neighborhood women claimed it was normal, and as the weeks passed, she seemed to improve. I visited her once when she was nursing Aydin. She had the sweetest expression on her face; it told me how much she loved him. After two months, her family sent her and Aydin back to Vancouver.

  “The letters came less frequently after that. I told myself she was settling in, that she had a child to fill her days. Perhaps five years after Aydin was born, Afsana’s mother told me she was pregnant again. Not long after, Afsana called me long-distance. She was crying so hard I couldn’t understand her, and I grew frightened. The very next day I spoke with Junaid.” Her voice warmed with anger. “He said his wife was simply upset because he had refused to send her home to have the second baby. A week, maybe two weeks later, I heard there had been an accident. She lost the child.”

  I tried to imagine Afsana Aunty, how desperate she must have felt, how hopeless in an unfamiliar country, isolated from family and with only her young son and a cold, absent husband for company.

  “Junaid brought her back to India a few months later, and he was a changed man. It wasn’t until much later that Afsana confided she had tried to kill herself. I suppose Junaid thought their son would be better off without his mother in his life. By then she was so broken, she actually believed that too.” My aunt’s words were sharp as glass. She was disgusted, and I was horrified.

  “He gave his wife money and made her sign a piece of paper she barely understood. She showed it to me once. It was a legal document that awarded sole custody to him. Aydin was five years old at the time.”

  “He abandoned Afsana when she was at her most vulnerable, and took away her son?” I said.

  My aunt’s voice was venomous. “He excised her like an infected boil. He refused to allow contact between
them, and today she is a stranger to her son. It took her years to recover. Afsana was lucky; she married again, to a kind widower, and she loves his daughters. But she has never forgotten. I made it my business to keep track of Junaid and Aydin. She was so afraid of returning, but I finally persuaded her when we learned that Aydin had made plans to move to Toronto. When I found out that he meant to open a restaurant in Golden Crescent, I knew it was a sign.”

  My aunt’s words left me chilled. I knew she meant every syllable, but all I could think about was Aydin. How would he react to the news that his mother was still alive, that she had been banished from his life and that his father was responsible? Junaid Uncle was a hard man, but I knew Aydin loved his father. What would this do to their already strained relationship?

  And how would he feel about the person who told him the truth? I knew I couldn’t keep that secret from him. “Who else knows about this?” I asked. I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “Everyone does, back home. Why do you think Aydin has never visited India? His father didn’t want the information to slip out through some busybody relative or neighbor.”

  Another thought occurred to me. “Is that the real reason you came back? It wasn’t for my mother or the restaurant at all, was it?”

  She didn’t answer for a long time. “We are so far away in India. You didn’t even know my real name when I arrived. Tell me, Hana, how strong can blood ties remain when they stretch across an ocean?”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  I didn’t sleep well, and the next morning I dressed automatically, my attention scattered. I needed to find Aydin and tell him.

  Hurrying, I pulled on a plain blue hijab and ran out of the house, rounding the corner toward the Golden Crescent strip at a dead run and nearly colliding with a man who stepped into my path. Junaid Uncle.

  In the morning light, my neighborhood’s nemesis seemed older than he had the night before, as if he had lost some of the malevolent fire that gave him life. Before my aunt had taken a metaphorical sword to his knees, he had once again threatened everyone, including his son. Now that I knew what he had done to Aydin, I could barely look at him.

  “Can I help you?” I asked stiffly.

  His face wavered. “Your aunt told you,” he said, almost to himself.

  “Is it true?” I asked him. “Is Afsana Aunty really Aydin’s mother?”

  Junaid Uncle laughed, the sound hollow. “That is one version of the truth, yes. The version that will damn me—and destroy him.”

  I didn’t need to ask whom he meant. My temper snapped. “How could you do such a thing to your only son!” I hadn’t wanted it to be true, hadn’t wanted to think even Junaid Uncle capable of such cruelty.

  “I will not explain my actions to you,” he said.

  “Are you planning to explain them to your son?” I shot back.

  “I did what I thought best for Aydin,” Junaid Uncle said.

  I realized he had somehow convinced himself he was in the right. For all those years he had believed his comforting lies. Now he wasn’t prepared to deal with the fallout.

  As if in confirmation of my thoughts, a calculating gleam appeared in his eyes. “A clever person might turn this situation to their advantage,” he said.

  “What are you saying?” I asked slowly.

  “I’ve made no secret of my interest in Golden Crescent. I will pay double the market rate for your mother’s restaurant—if you can guarantee your family’s silence. I know from your antics online that you’re not as innocent as you pretend, Hana. Let us come to an understanding.”

  A few weeks before, I had been the one trying to sabotage Aydin, by spreading rumors about his business online, by questioning his faith, by doing anything in my power to ensure that his dream of opening a restaurant was ruined. Like Junaid Uncle, I had convinced myself that I was in the right, and I felt sick all over again at my duplicity. But, unlike Aydin’s father, I had learned from my mistaken actions. Junaid Uncle must have been truly desperate if he thought I would agree to lie to his son. It would be like making a deal with the devil.

  Misunderstanding my hesitation, he pressed his advantage. “If Aydin stays, what will happen to your mother, your sick father, your pregnant sister?” he asked, his voice a menacing hiss. “They will end up on the street, and it will be all your fault, for choosing a man you barely know over your own blood. Talk to your aunt; convince her not to say anything to Aydin. I will tell him myself, in my own time. What is the point in resurrecting forgotten ghosts? Our secrets are none of your concern.”

  He stalked off, so confident of my answer that he didn’t bother to wait for it.

  * * *

  • • •

  Fazeela had said that staying quiet about our difficulties was what had led to the problems in our family, and she was right. After my confrontation with Junaid Uncle, I returned home and went straight to my sister’s bedroom. She was lying in bed, watching YouTube videos on her laptop.

  “I need help,” I said.

  She shut the computer. “Finally. Your eyebrows have been driving me crazy.”

  I blinked. “I mean I need some advice.”

  Fazeela motioned for me to pass her a plastic basket from under her bed, full of brushes and lotions and lipsticks.

  “When did you learn how to apply makeup?” I asked, momentarily distracted. My sister had never cared about that stuff before.

  “Since I’ve been stuck here with nothing to do but watch online tutorials.” Fazeela shrugged at my surprised expression. “I have other interests besides soccer and cooking Indian food.”

  “No, you don’t,” I said, nudging her gently.

  Fazeela shifted over, making room for me beside her on the twin bed. She grunted slightly as she scooted. “I feel like I’m carrying a bowling ball,” she groused.

  I kept still while Fazeela carefully plucked my eyebrows, then applied primer to my eyelids and face, her fingers quick and gentle. The motions were so soothing I relaxed under her touch.

  “What did you want to talk to me about?” she asked, reminding me why I was there. It had been so long since we had simply hung out together.

  I considered my words. I didn’t want to get into specific details about the relationship between Afsana and Aydin; he deserved to know about his mother before anyone else did. “If you knew something that would help Three Sisters but hurt someone else, would you act on that knowledge?” I asked.

  Fazeela reached for a small beauty blender and started to dab concealer under my eyes, around my nose, and along my jawline, blending it with the sponge. “I’m not thrilled about Wholistic Grill either, Hanaan, but there’s no reason to put out a hit on Aydin.”

  “I’m serious.”

  She applied a light layer of foundation, smoothing the liquid over my blemishes with a deft hand, before picking up a container of blush, intent on her work. “Fahim and I are thinking of moving to Saskatoon after the baby comes.” She passed a fluffy brush over my cheeks as I stared at her, astonished.

  “What happened to no more secrets?” I asked.

  She smiled at me. “It’s not a secret—I just told you. Mom and Dad moved continents when they were our age. We can move a few provinces. His mother said she would help with the baby, and we’re thinking of opening a restaurant of our own. Maybe a restaurant like Wholistic Grill.” She reached for a peachy golden pressed powder and dabbed it onto my cheekbones, nose, chin, and forehead as I processed her words.

  “Everything ends, and maybe this is the right time for Three Sisters to close,” my sister said. “Mom is getting tired; she could use a break. Things aren’t so dire. We can always sell the store or liquidate our assets and try something new.”

  Fazee was right, I realized. We did have options, beyond what Junaid Uncle had so callously offered. But that left me with an even greater dilemma. “I’m worried about
Aydin,” I said, almost to myself.

  Fazee grinned up at me, pulling back to look at my face. “We’re talking about some guy you met just a few weeks ago, someone we’re not supposed to like. Or is that the problem? Do you liiiiike him?” She tickled my ribs as she elongated the word.

  I flushed and swatted away her hands.

  Fazeela was laughing now. She motioned for me to close my eyes so she could apply eye shadow. “From what I hear, you’re always talking about Aydin and Wholistic Grill. Fahim would be happy to send a rishta for you.”

  “Don’t you dare,” I said, and my sister laughed again. She brushed something over my brows and then motioned me to half close my eyes while she applied mascara.

  My smiling, easygoing brother-in-law and my serious, intense sister. He was the yin to her yang. I was so glad they had found each other. “How did you know Fahim was the right person for you?” I asked, curious. “Getting married is the biggest decision people can make.”

  My eyes rested on Fazeela’s swollen belly. She was almost six months pregnant now, her cantaloupe more like a small watermelon. She rested a bottle of finishing spray on her stomach. The sight was so adorable I wanted to take a picture.

  She snapped her fingers at me. “My eyes are up here,” she said. “Deciding to marry Fahim was easy. He’s kind and smart and we love and support each other. It wasn’t a hard decision at all. No, the biggest decision I ever made was to quit playing soccer after the hijab ban went into effect. I could have made pro, but there was no way I was going to take off my scarf. So I left. I miss it every day.”

  “You could have kept playing house league or pickup,” I said. The FIFA headgear ban had eventually been lifted, but too late for my sister to realize her dreams of turning pro.