Hana Khan Carries On

by Uzma Jalaluddin

AnaBGR

  How do you know if someone is ghosting you?

  StanleyP

  Uh-oh. Did Mr. Unexpected Source mysteriously vanish? Or perhaps . . . HE NEVER REALLY EXISTED AT ALL!

  AnaBGR

  I’m so glad we’re friends.

  StanleyP

  You’re lucky to have me. Now back to your imaginary boy toy . . .

  AnaBGR

  He’s not my boy toy, or my boyfriend, or anything like that.

  StanleyP

  This sounds more and more like a stalker/stalkee situation. Are you positive he didn’t go into witness protection?

  AnaBGR

  I’m logging off.

  StanleyP

  Wait, I’ll be serious. You’re being ghosted if he drops off the planet without a word and doesn’t respond to texts or phone calls, no matter how dire. If some guy did this to you, I need his name. He’s got a strongly worded e-mail heading his way. Also some malware for good measure. Mess with a bot’s best friend, you get the virus.

  AnaBGR

  Thanks, Mr. P. I like you too.

  StanleyP

  Stoppit, you’re making the bot blush.

  AnaBGR

  You’re in a good mood.

  StanleyP

  The world is full of unicorns and rainbows. Have you heard of a writer named Jane Austen?

  AnaBGR

  Tell me you’re joking.

  StanleyP

  Don’t be embarrassed if you haven’t. My girl is well-read.

  AnaBGR

  Maybe he’s not ghosting me. Maybe he’s dead.

  StanleyP

  That’s my positive Anony-Ana, always looking on the bright side. Back to Persuasion. This Captain Wentworth needs to get over himself.

  StanleyP logged off before I could reply. I stared at the screen, puzzling over our conversation. Persuasion?

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  The next morning the kitchen was empty except for my cousin, who was sipping his morning chai and scrolling gleefully through his phone. “The online trolls are still threatening to show up and cause trouble, but now they will have company.”

  Rashid showed me his phone, the browser open to the Facebook page he had set up. Someone had called for a counterprotest against the anti-halal protesters.

  “There’s going to be a ‘No Halal Food’ protest and a ‘Support Halal Food’ protest, all at a festival that isn’t about halal food at all?” I asked skeptically.

  Rashid smiled widely. “Now you are getting it! In Hyderabad there is an enormous annual festival called Numaish. My family attends every year. It attracts millions of people, and everyone comes out—the aunty and uncle-jis, the nanas and nanis, the hoodlums, pickpockets, and con artists, young married couples, old married couples, teenagers pretending not to be couples, misbehaving children—all are welcome. The same thing will happen at our festival. Everyone will argue with each other, and then they will become hungry and buy our tasty food. It will all work out. Believe me.”

  I must still have looked dubious, because my cousin patted me on the arm. “It will be fine. And if it is not, it will soon all be over. What was it that famous man said? ‘What’s past is prologue’?”

  “Shakespeare.”

  Rashid frowned. “I thought it was Shah Rukh Khan.”

  “Maybe SRK said it better, but not first. What else is left to do before the festival?”

  Rashid shrugged. “Continue to advertise. And, of course, pray.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I thought of Nalla when I entered the mosque. I wondered if the imam had resumed his duties or if he was still in mourning.

  I could pray just as easily at home, but somehow sitting inside the Toronto Muslim Assembly’s hall made me feel closer to God, or at least to the God I remembered from my childhood—a warm, fuzzy being who would grant me a new pair of running shoes or an extension on my essay if only I prayed hard enough. As an adult, my prayers had become more complicated, my wishes more vague, but I had never stopped asking for help.

  The women’s section was empty except for an older woman: Afsana Aunty. Aydin’s mother sat cross-legged on the beige-and-olive striped carpet, head bent low. She held tasbih prayer beads in her hands and was worrying them quickly, eyes tightly closed. I nearly turned around and left at the sight of her, but I had come there seeking peace and a chance to think. I couldn’t deny Afsana Aunty the same thing.

  I prayed zuhr quickly, then two extra nafil prayers. I sat down cross-legged on the floor a few spaces over from Afsana and raised my hands in du’a. I prayed for my parents, for Fazee and Fahim and the bowling ball, for Three Sisters and Kawkab Khala and Rashid, and finally for Aydin and his mother.

  When I opened my eyes, Afsana Aunty was observing me, and I returned her perusal. Aydin looked so much like her; he had her clear brown eyes and full mouth. Kawkab Khala had been right. I too wondered how Junaid Uncle could look at his son and not think of Afsana, and of the trauma he had unleashed upon his family.

  “Assalamu alaikum, Aunty. I hope you’ve been well,” I said, and she smiled shyly. She looked more at peace than at any other time we had met. I felt awkward; I knew this woman’s intimate secrets, yet we were strangers. I felt as if I should acknowledge that somehow, or apologize for knowing information I wished I weren’t privy to.

  I opened my mouth to say something, but she reached out and took my hand, pressing it tightly. “Your khala is my good friend,” she said in her heavily accented English. “I am happy my—Aydin has you as his friend too.” She said her son’s name slowly, enunciating every syllable; it was clearly a word she didn’t say out loud very often.

  I remembered how Aydin had said mom in the same tentative way when we first met. I had wondered then how a single word could hold so much loss. He deserved to know the truth. I had to get through to him somehow.

  * * *

  • • •

  Big J texted me on my way back to Three Sisters.

  I know where we can play Secret Family History. Tune in to The Wrap-Up tomorrow.

  I texted back immediately. Marisa will fire you for this. You’re not supposed to go off script.

  Just got a job with one of the big players. She can consider this my two weeks’ notice.

  I was touched by Big J’s generosity. Having the first episode of Secret Family History air on The Wrap-Up would mean a huge audience, more than I had dreamed of for my first solo venture.

  Thank you, I texted back. For this and everything else.

  Make sure your whole family listens. It’s going to be great. Keep chasing the story in your heart, Hana, and you’ll go far.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  “Baba, I have a surprise for you,” I announced the next afternoon. I was vibrating with excitement, and Fazeela, seated on the sofa, looked up from her book.

  My father had been having one of his okay days. He had had some trouble getting up that morning, but the color was back in his face after lunch.

  “What’s going on?” Fazeela asked, standing up. Her belly hung low, and she put a hand to her back, rubbing.

  I leaned across and switched on the radio, turning up the volume. “My work will be featured on The Wrap-Up today!” I announced.

  Baba smiled widely and clapped. “Alhamdulillah! Wonderful news, beta. Fazee, you must inform your mother, Fahim, and Rashid. Tell them to listen. How can we record your show? Where is Kawkab Apa? She will not want to miss this!”

  My sister texted Fahim while I called my aunt to come downstairs and join our impromptu listening party. Kawkab Khala settled into the armchair. This was her story too.

  Big J’s voice, deeper and richer through the microphone than it was in person, came on the air. “Welcome to The Wrap-Up,” he said. “I h
ave something extra special for all you listeners today. I’m going to devote the entirety of today’s episode to a new show, produced by one of the most talented interns I’ve ever met, Hana Khan. Even though Hana has left the station for bigger and better things, I want to share the first episode of her new series. It’s called Secret Family History, and it’s about different families that have lived and loved all around the world, and the secrets they keep from each other—sometimes for decades. Secret Family History, a new series from Hana Khan, coming up right after the break.”

  “It’s about Kawkab Khala and the Billi story,” I explained.

  I adjusted the volume before leaning against a wall in the corner of the room. I wanted a good view of everyone as they listened. That was what had been missing from Ana’s Brown Girl Rambles, I realized. As freeing as it had been to stay anonymous, I had given up something to preserve my privacy. One year ago I had been unsure about my abilities, still learning my craft and finding my voice, and I had needed that protective shell.

  I didn’t need it anymore. Now I wanted to be recognized for my work. I was ready to move out from the shadows, to let the harsh light of other people’s opinions strike me as it would. Whatever they thought, or didn’t think, I would deal with it, and keep creating and improving. I knew that now.

  I could tell from the studied quiet in the living room that I had my family’s undivided attention. I hoped my mom, Rashid, and Fahim were listening at Three Sisters too.

  I made a quick du’a and my show began.

  Secret Family History

  created by Hana Khan

  Episode One: The Bride in the Tree

  [Transcript]

  Welcome to Secret Family History, the storytelling podcast about the secrets that families keep from one another. I’m your host, Hana Khan, and for our inaugural episode I’m going to share a secret I recently learned about my own family. Here is my aunt Kawkab, who will narrate the rest of this show.

  KAWKAB: It was 1972. We lived in Hyderabad, India. My father was a nawab, a very rich man, from a long line of titled property owners. I was his only child, and he let me get away with pretty much anything I wanted, so long as I left him alone. Ammi was busy with her charity projects, and she too let me do as I liked. I grew up riding horses, going to the British clubs, playing poker with my friends, and taking lessons in horseback riding, classical dance, and shooting. Every proper young lady should know how to handle a firearm.

  Everything changed once I turned twenty-four. Until then I had no idea what I wanted to do in the future; I was too busy having fun in the present. One day my father asked to speak to me.

  “Kawkab Fazeela Muzamilah Khan,” my father said, addressing me by my full name, “it is time for you to marry. You will marry the boy I have chosen for you. He is rich and comes from a good family. Your marriage will take place after Eid. No need to be shy, daughter. I know this is what you want.” Eid was eight weeks away. In hindsight, I suppose I shouldn’t have laughed out loud at his words. He grew quite red in the face. When I refused outright, he called in the heavy artillery: my mother.

  She quickly advised me that my single status, at the ancient age of twenty-four, was a sign of her progressive thinking, something she had even boasted about to her friends. But to have her only daughter remain single beyond that age was inconceivable. “Hameed is a good boy, from a good family,” my mother informed me. “This marriage has been arranged for a long time. Hameed is about to leave for Oxford, and his family wants the nikah to take place before he goes to that rain-soaked land and, God forbid, falls in love with a white woman.”

  Hameed was the son of one of my father’s friends. We had never exchanged more than five words altogether. And now I was supposed to report to my wedding as if I were going to Dr. Aziz for an immunization shot? I would sooner eat a bottle of turmeric.

  My mother was upset by my proclamation that I would remain single, and I learned that the other aunties had been giving her a hard time. Ammi was a strong woman, but deep down she was also a traditionalist. She understood and accepted the world she lived in. Her rebellions were small in scope, while mine contained multitudes. She wanted to see me settled, but I was unsettled by nature. She thought I would come around eventually, so she began to plan my wedding without me. Of course a nikah is not valid without the bride’s consent, but my parents were certain I would change my mind, once I realized how much it would mean to them both.

  I had thought I had the perfect life, yet in that moment I felt as if I didn’t know my parents. As if I had woken from a pleasant dream to find I lived in a nightmare. It wasn’t until the engagement ceremony that I realized they considered me their property.

  The wedding date was fixed and invitations soon dispatched. Ammi looked through her jewelry collection and went shopping for my jahaz, my trousseau. I stayed at home and refused to eat. I stopped playing cards and going riding, and the rifle-range coach was so concerned he came to the house to assure himself that I was still alive.

  Yet no one in the family seemed to care. They thought I was playing the part of the shy, reluctant bride. As you know, Hana, I have never been shy in my life. Instead, I was plotting.

  Over a thousand people had been invited to witness my nikah ceremony. We had many guests staying from out of town, including at least a dozen of my giggling girl cousins. I could hear them downstairs, singing wedding songs about shy brides and confident grooms, manipulative mothers-in-law and clever daughters-in-law. I had been left by myself to prepare for the wedding night and make the necessary prayers before the ceremony. The du’as that a bride makes on her wedding day are said to be particularly potent. But so are the prayers of the oppressed, and I was planning my escape.

  I was dressed in a heavy red lehnga decorated with delicate gold embroidery. The pearl-and-diamond maang tikka swung against my forehead as I maneuvered out of the bedroom window. Thankfully I had decided on two heavy gold bangles instead of the usual glass bracelets, which would have made too much noise during my escape. The gold chains on my feet did have tiny bells on them, but everyone inside the house was too occupied to hear them tinkle. My thin gold nath nose ring swayed with the weight of pearls and rubies and kept getting caught on the large red dupatta draped over my head.

  I was lucky. The only people who spotted me were the caterers and the people hired to put up the enormous wedding tent in our backyard. They weren’t being paid to question why the bride was climbing out a first-floor window hours before the nikah. Or why I then ran toward the nawab sahib’s mango orchard. For all they knew, I was feeling peckish. A bride should always be humored on her wedding day.

  Beside the mango orchard, a large banyan tree had stood on the very edge of our property for generations. A small bench had been built beside the tree. I had done target practice from that bench since I was old enough to hold a gun.

  The rifle I now held in my hands was large. I had to shift it and the box of ammunition to one arm to hike the full skirt of the lehnga to my knees. I threw off my embroidered slippers and began to climb the gnarled branches, not stopping until I had a clear view of the wedding festivities. Then I laid the rifle across my lap and waited.

  My outfit was itchy, and the branch I sat on was hard. I snacked on the pakoras and barfi I had brought with me. I had to keep my strength up for the scene I knew was coming.

  Finally, around nine p.m., with the nikah set to begin, my parents realized they were short one bride. I could see the alarm spreading quickly through the house. Some of my more high-strung relatives began to wail and lament, convinced I had been kidnapped and held for ransom. By this time the groom’s baraat, his entourage, had arrived: Hameed, garlanded with flowers, was perched unsteadily on a horse, while his family followed behind on foot, accompanied by hired drummers. They had arrived to claim their bride, but I was nowhere to be found.

  One of the tent wallahs must have tip
ped them off, because it wasn’t long before my father, in his regimental dress uniform, and my mother, in a dark blue silk sari with silver zari embroidery, approached the banyan tree, a substantial crowd behind them. I raised my gun, took careful aim, and shot at the ground before my father’s feet.

  My father was so shocked he was rendered mute. I had done the worst thing a child could do: I was Making a Scene in Front of Family.

  “Beti, come down this instant!” Ammi said. Naturally I refused.

  One of my boy cousins made a big show of approaching the tree. “Don’t worry, mamu-ji, I’ll get her down,” he said.

  I shot at the ground by his feet too, and then smiled sweetly. “I’m fine where I am, Ladoo,” I said. He hated that nickname.

  I don’t think my parents had fully realized the lengths I would go to to stop that wedding. I laid my terms before them: “Ammi, Baba, I will come down if you cancel the nikah.”

  “But the baraat is here already!” Ammi wailed. I saw the full realization of what I had done hit her like a tidal wave. We would be the laughingstock of the entire neighborhood. The servants would compose mocking songs about us behind our backs. We were ruined.

  Even so, I did not waver. They had made their choice when they refused to listen to me, and now I was making mine. I cocked the rifle and pointed it at the crowd.

  “If you bring that drip Hameed anywhere near me, I’ll shoot his left foot and then his right foot. And then I will move higher,” I vowed. The men in the crowd instinctively cupped their privates and exchanged uneasy glances.

  Meanwhile, Hameed, his face covered by a veil of jasmine flowers, had dismounted from that ridiculous horse and made his way to the front of the crowd. Hameed’s mother caught the tail end of my threat. Shrieking, she threw herself in front of her son.

  “Batameez! Pagal!” she screamed up at me. Ill-mannered, crazy. “That bastard whore witch will never get anywhere near my son. The wedding is canceled!”