Hana Khan Carries On Read online

  PRAISE FOR

  Ayesha at Last

  “A delicious and entertaining novel.”

  —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

  “There’s an overabundance of Pride and Prejudice retellings, but few are as thoughtful and creative as this stellar debut from an author to watch.”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  “Jalaluddin cleverly illustrates the social pressures facing young Indian-Muslim adults. . . . A highly entertaining tale of family, community, and romance.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Ayesha at Last is light and incandescent and deeply pleasurable from start to finish.”

  —The Christian Science Monitor

  “Jalaluddin constructs a timely and enlightening narrative that validates the experiences of many South Asians and Muslims today, while weaving in universal themes of identity, class, and discrimination. . . . Ayesha at Last’s fictional universe acts as a microcosm of a diverse and oft-misunderstood community, and Jalaluddin’s compassionate and sensitive writing about it radiates off the page.”

  —NPR

  “This sweet debut novel ticks all the boxes for one of summer’s best reads: it’s smart, witty, romantic, and utterly charming.”

  —Canadian Living

  “Come for Darcy reimagined as a hyper-conservative young man and Elizabeth Bennet as a wannabe poet frustrated by family obligation; stay for Uzma Jalaluddin’s warm portrait of life for twentysomething Muslims in suburban Toronto struggling to honor their heritage while pursuing their dreams.”

  —The Globe and Mail

  “[An] irresistible debut.”

  —Goodreads

  “An uproarious romp, filled with farcical cases of mistaken identity, disastrous proposals, and a big Bollywood wedding.”

  —Toronto Life

  “This is the book I’ve been waiting for since my long-running Jane Austen obsession. Move over Darcy, Khalid’s in town.”

  —S. K. Ali, author of Morris Award finalist Saints and Misfits

  “Uzma Jalaluddin blazes a brilliant new trail with Ayesha at Last, a captivating romance set in the Muslim community, brimming with humor and heart. You will fall in love with Ayesha and Khalid—an Elizabeth and Darcy for our times.”

  —Ausma Zehanat Khan, author of A Dangerous Crossing

  “Ayesha at Last is the modern Pride and Prejudice retelling I never knew I needed. Warm, witty, romantic, and relatable. Honestly, Darcy who? Khalid is everything.”

  —Alisha Rai, award-winning author

  “Ayesha at Last is a beautiful testament to the power of family, kindness, and getting out of one’s own way.”

  —Entertainment Weekly

  Berkley Books by Uzma Jalaluddin

  AYESHA AT LAST

  HANA KHAN CARRIES ON

  A JOVE BOOK

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2021 by Uzma Jalaluddin

  Readers Guide copyright © 2021 by Uzma Jalaluddin

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  A JOVE BOOK, BERKLEY, and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Jalaluddin, Uzma, author.

  Title: Hana Khan carries on / Uzma Jalaluddin.

  Description: First edition. | New York: Jove, 2021.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020050115 (print) | LCCN 2020050116 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593336366 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593336373 (ebook)

  Classification: LCC PR9199.4.J3515 H36 2021 (print) | LCC PR9199.4.J3515 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020050115

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020050116

  First Edition: April 2021

  Cover design by Rita Frangie

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  pid_prh_5.6.1_c0_r0

  For my parents, Mohammed and Azmat Jalaluddin,

  who taught me the importance of community, even as they built one.

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise for Ayesha at Last

  Books by Uzma Jalaluddin

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Ana’s Brown Girl Rambles

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Secret Family History

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Acknowledgments

  Readers Guide

  About the Author

  Ana’s Brown Girl Rambles

  [Transcript]

  Here are the rules:

  This is a single-person podcast.

  Not a variety show.

  No interviews.

  Not a comedy hour.

  I’m also not going to tell you my name or any specific biographical details, except the following: I’m a South Asian Muslim woman in my twenties. I was born and live in the city of Toronto. And I love radio. Really love it.

  I also love the free form of podcasts. This particular podcast will be about having a place to ask questions, without worrying who might be listening and judging.

  I’m talking abou
t the Big Questions, future friends.

  Such as: What do you want out of life?

  What do we owe the people we love?

  How do our histories and stories influence who we become?

  And how do you know that the thing you want is actually the thing you want?

  There you have it, listeners: my mission statement. I promise no frills and a clear voice. I promise nothing of substance and nothing but my truth. I promise to take this seriously, but I’m also definitely making it up as I go along.

  Whoever and wherever you are, welcome to Ana’s Brown Girl Rambles. I can’t wait to start a conversation with you.

  COMMENTS

  StanleyP

  This popped up in my podcatcher. Nice first episode. I’m always interested in the big questions.

  AnaBGR

  Is this for real, or are you a catfishing bot?

  StanleyP

  Real. Just pinched to make sure.

  AnaBGR

  Wow. Well, thanks for listening.

  StanleyP

  Sure. I’ve been asking myself the same questions, so thank you for the company.

  AnaBGR

  Definitely a bot. You’re way too polite. And now we’re trapped in a thank-you cycle.

  StanleyP

  No escape from the thank-you vortex. This is home now.

  AnaBGR

  Except I know the safety words: You’re welcome.

  StanleyP

  Bots never give up. Until next time, Ana-nonymous.

  CHAPTER ONE

  StanleyP

  Happy five-month pod-iversary! According to inaccuratestatistics.com, most podcasts don’t make it past month four, so you’ve beat the odds! I’d get you flowers, but that would imply I knew your name, mailing address, and flower preference, and that would cause my bot senses to melt into a confused puddle.

  AnaBGR

  That might be amusing. Okay, my real name is . . .

  StanleyP

  Wait. What? Seriously?

  AnaBGR

  Psych. Psych psych psych!

  StanleyP

  So cruel, when I’m trying to congratulate you. Any news on the mysterious dream-job interview?

  AnaBGR

  No news is good news, right?

  StanleyP

  Definitely. Especially when you’re going after the highly specialized job of . . . unicorn wrangler? Toddler exorcist? Erotic knitter?

  AnaBGR

  An erotic knitter can’t possibly be a thing.

  StanleyP

  You’re saying you’re definitely NOT a paper-folding priestess.

  AnaBGR

  That’s as likely as anyone under the age of 40 actually being named Stanley.

  StanleyP

  I’ve offered to reveal my true identity. Aren’t you a little curious about the incredibly hot, accomplished, muscular man behind StanleyP?

  Was I curious about StanleyP? He had no idea.

  I was in the corner booth of Three Sisters Biryani Poutine, the restaurant my family owned and ran in the heart of the Golden Crescent neighborhood, in the east end of Toronto. I was supposed to be cleaning in anticipation of customers, but instead I was texting StanleyP, my very first and most loyal listener.

  Over the past five months, we had moved from polite commenter and podcaster to friendly acquaintances to genuine friends who texted every day. All without exchanging a single personal detail. Yet when I closed my eyes, I could imagine his smile. It would be shy, tentative. He would be kind—a thinker and listener, with a mischievous glint in his eye. I knew I would love his laugh.

  The phone pinged in my hand. I looked down at the direct-messaging app we had started using a few months after he first began commenting on my podcast.

  StanleyP

  I think you might be the person who knows me best in the world right now. And I don’t even know your real name.

  My fingers hovered over the screen. I could tell him who I really was. I pictured myself typing it out:

  My real name is Hana. I’m 24 and I live with my parents in the most diverse suburb in the world—Scarborough, in the east end of Toronto. You already know that I’m a South Asian Muslim, but you don’t know that I wear hijab and I work two jobs. One is at Three Sisters Biryani Poutine, the restaurant my mother has been running for the past 15 years, and another at CJKP, a local indie radio station where I intern. Though “work” is a bit of a misnomer—neither position pays me actual money, and both positions have a limited life expectancy. The former because our restaurant is in trouble, and the latter because my internship is coming to an end and I have no idea what comes next. I’m trying not to panic about either situation.

  Nope. StanleyP didn’t need to know any of that. Better stick with simple biographical details:

  I have an older sister named Fazeela and a brother-in-law named Fahim, and in about four months they will make me a khala (that means “aunt,” in case you are a non-Urdu-speaking StanleyP). As for my dad . . .

  I hesitated.

  As for my dad . . .

  It had been a long time since I had had to explain about Baba to a stranger. It used to be a daily occurrence as we navigated among hospitals, doctors, nurses, physiotherapists, and personal support workers. As Baba’s condition stabilized, his world had shrunk, along with the need for explanations to strangers. In that surreal way that online friendships worked, StanleyP was still, technically, a stranger. A stranger I spoke with daily, one who knew my deepest hopes and fears, but not any details about my real, lived existence.

  I picked up my phone and typed carefully.

  AnaBGR

  It’s easier if we keep things the way they’ve always been. There’s a lot going on in my life right now, and I’m not sure I can handle another complication.

  Another, longer pause. Imaginary StanleyP had his brow furrowed, but he would understand, and he would respond. He always had a response.

  StanleyP

  Is this complication . . . relationship-shaped?

  I almost laughed out loud at the question—but then my mother would have realized I was goofing off in the dining room, and made me help her in the restaurant kitchen.

  Things had shifted between Stanley and me over the past month. Lately he had been hinting at more but had never come out and asked. But then, neither had I.

  AnaBGR

  More what-does-the-future-hold-shaped. A relationship would be easier to deal with than family and business stuff.

  StanleyP

  Our lives are running parallel. I have business-and-family-shaped complications too. That new project I was telling you about is finally happening. No relationship-shaped complication for me either.

  StanleyP was single too. A flush crept along my collarbone and up through the roots of my hair, which was pulled back neatly under my bright pink hijab. I shifted in my seat. He probably hadn’t always been single like me, but still. I knew what he wasn’t asking me. And part of me was tempted to not answer back. Instead, I fell back into our usual humor.

  AnaBGR

  Why can’t I be the complicated one? You always have to copy me.

  StanleyP

  It’s what a bot does. The Stanbot is also programmed to give excellent advice and tell hilarious jokes, and is available for revelations of real names or the exchange of pictures/phone numbers. Just say the word. I’d love to get to know you better.

  My stomach jolted with awareness at his words. I wanted more too. But it wasn’t as easy for me. All the bravery I possessed was currently being put toward other things. I wasn’t sure I had the energy to pursue whatever this thing between us was turning out to be.

  I didn’t know anything about Stanley beyond what he had told me. From hints he had dropped, I knew
he lived in Canada and was a second-generation immigrant like me. I suspected he was South Asian, maybe even Muslim, but I didn’t know anything for sure, and I wasn’t quite ready to venture outside the comfort of our cozy anonymous relationship.

  I was saved from responding by his next message.

  StanleyP

  Message me when you hear you got the job.

  I closed the app. Mom emerged from the kitchen a few moments later, ostensibly to deliver my lunch but really to check that I was working. I was distracted from my annoyance by the treat she held in her hand: biryani poutine, my favorite.

  “Hana, beta, eat fast. Customers could come at any time, meri jaan,” she said, handing me the steaming plate piled high. My mother, Ghufran Khan, was a curious combination of nurturing and stern. She delivered orders in sharp bursts punctuated with Urdu endearments such as beta (child) and meri jaan (my life).

  I devoured the mixture of fragrant rice, marinated chicken, crispy fries, savory gravy, and cheese curds. Mom wrinkled her nose and hastily returned to the kitchen. Biryani poutine is . . . an acquired taste. As in I was the only person who had acquired a taste for our restaurant’s namesake dish.

  Biryani is a popular north Indian dish, a casserole made from basmati rice layered on top of meat or chicken marinated in yogurt, salt, fresh coriander, a garlic-ginger paste, and garam masala. The dish is topped with ghee and saffron and then baked. Poutine is a regional Canadian dish that first gained popularity in Quebec. It consists of fresh-cut golden fries topped with rich, savory gravy and fresh cheese curds. Biryani layered with poutine was a strange combination that, so far, appealed only to me. Likely because I dreamed up the dish when I was nine years old.

  My sister, my brother-in-law, and even random strangers thought biryani poutine was disgusting. Eventually Mom had taken it off the menu after our customers complained, though she still made it for me. It had stuck as the name for the restaurant, probably because Mom hadn’t wanted to pay for a new sign.

  I put down the plate, and popping in earbuds and cranking my favorite playlist, I began cleaning. After a few minutes I picked up the plate to take another bite of my lunch, swiveling my hips to TSwift’s infectious pop and using my spoon as a microphone.