Hana Khan Carries On Read online

  I blinked. What? “I have no plans to marry until I establish my career,” I said firmly.

  Marisa looked doubtful. “I didn’t know that was an option in your culture,” she said. “But if that’s the case, I need someone to help me produce The Wrap-Up tonight. Interested?”

  I decided to let her comments go, because now she had my attention. The Wrap-Up was a big deal. A news and pop-culture commentary, it was Radio Toronto’s most popular show, aired during our most coveted time slot, the afternoon rush hour, and hosted by our most popular host, Big J. Even my mother listened to the show.

  Bonus: Thomas might actually choke with jealousy.

  “Sure, I could do that,” I said casually.

  Coproducing The Wrap-Up meant I would miss my evening shift at the restaurant. When I called, Mom said they could manage without me, that I could help close the store after the show. She hesitated for a moment before she hung up. “Hana, we need to talk when you get home. Things are happening,” she said carefully.

  “What things?” I asked.

  Silence. “We will talk tonight after closing.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Big J wasn’t so big in person, despite his booming voice. He swaggered into the studio an hour before his show began at four p.m., his presence filling the room with a warm, bouncing energy. He looked to be in his late twenties, with a sparse beard that lined full, smiling cheeks. His eyes were an intense blue and he was dressed in low-slung, baggy dark jeans and a white T-shirt that emphasized the slight pudge around his middle. His outfit was topped with a vintage purple Toronto Raptors hat.

  Big J greeted Marisa with a quick hug and then, with a discreet glance at my hijab, nodded instead of trying to hug me too. Respectful and aware of my religion’s practice of not casually touching a member of the opposite sex. I loved this guy.

  “Hana is one of our interns, Jonathan. She’ll be helping produce today,” Marisa explained.

  “What’s up, my sister?” he said in the deep, melodic voice that would no doubt make him famous one day.

  We spent the next hour going over the show, and at four o’clock Big J began with his characteristic catchphrase, “I hear you, Toronto. Are you ready for The Wrap-Up?” And then he was off, regaling his audience with local tidbits and anecdotes gleaned from the day’s events, cracking jokes about celebrities and reality television one minute and making reference to French philosophers and Canadian history the next. Marisa watched intently, and I helped by keeping an eye on the screens for messages and answering questions posted by listeners on Facebook and Twitter. I posted pictures of the day’s viral meme, of Big J drinking coffee from an enormous mug emblazoned with his catchphrase. His fan base had been growing steadily over the years, and he had already attracted the attention of several large broadcasters in the United States and Canada.

  The show finished at eight p.m., and Big J flashed me a smile and a thumbs-up as he headed out of the studio. I was grinning so broadly my cheeks hurt, drunk on the rush of producing my first show. When I asked Marisa if she wanted me to help again the next day, she offered an approving smile.

  “Of course, sweetie. You’re a natural.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  On my walk back from the bus stop, I spotted my best friend Yusuf outside his family’s grocery store. He waved and crossed the street, long legs swallowing the distance between us.

  Yusuf looked a bit like a Syrian version of Prince Eric from The Little Mermaid—dark hair, green-hazel eyes, warm smile. He was ridiculously beautiful, but, save for a brief crush in grade six, I was immune to his gorgeous-man superpowers. Besides, his heart belonged to our other best friend, Lily. Yusuf was kind, too, always volunteering for the mosque or raising money for his latest activist project. Right now he was finishing up a graduate degree in social work, public policy, and general do-goodery.

  “Any aunties hassling you today?” I teased as he approached. Yusuf flushed, making me laugh.

  As the local vegetable grocer, his family store was routinely mobbed by people—mostly women, I enjoyed pointing out—buying fresh produce for dinner. His father’s customers loved him. Everybody loved beautiful Yusuf.

  “Every time I look over, you’re not here,” he said instead.

  “Busy. The restaurant, the radio station, my dad.”

  Yusuf nodded, his eyes softening. The pitying looks from friends, neighbors, strangers, had become hard to bear since my father’s accident. Thankfully, Yusuf knew when to change the subject. “It’s been a long time since we all hung out. Lily has been working so hard, but she’d come out if you asked her,” he said.

  The third in our Three Musketeers gang, the soon-to-be Dr. Lily Moretti, Yusuf, and I had been friends from childhood, though things had changed when my two best friends started dating. On top of that, we weren’t together in school anymore, and our circles no longer intersected so easily. Still, he was right: it had been a while since we all hung out.

  I texted Lily after Yusuf returned to the store. Lil, thinking of you. It’s been so long I forget what you look like. Here’s a pic of me in case you’re having the same problem. I attached a cross-eyed selfie and ended the message with I think your boyfriend misses you too. Let me know when you have time to meet. XX

  Yusuf and Lily had been together, on and off, for years. The fact that I wasn’t sure if they were currently dating or not said a lot about how long it had been since the three of us spent time together.

  The restaurant was about to close, and when I entered the dining room of Three Sisters, only a few customers remained, finishing their meals. I greeted the familiar faces without breaking stride and entered the kitchen, excited to share my news.

  “Marisa said I was a natural at coproducing The Wrap-Up today!” I announced.

  “That’s so great, Hanaan,” Fazeela said. She looked pale, and there were dark smudges under her eyes I hadn’t noticed that morning. “We heard the show. Big J is so funny.” Fazee was sitting on a stool, nursing a glass of water.

  “I found memes for him of a mountain-climbing baby,” I said proudly.

  Fazeela smiled faintly and shifted in her seat, wincing. Before I could ask if she was all right, Mom sent me back into the dining room to tend to the remaining customers. She hadn’t said a word about my news. I should have stopped off at home first and told Baba; he wouldn’t have been too distracted to congratulate me.

  Only three tables were occupied when I returned to the dining room. Imam Abdul Bari and his wife were tucked into the corner booth for their weekly date night. Two other tables were in use by single patrons: a lone white woman with frizzy hair and oversize glasses perched on the end of her nose, and Haneef Uncle, who was addicted to my mother’s chai.

  Abdul Bari greeted me with his habitual smile. “How is the world of broadcasting, Sister Hana?”

  Abdul Bari was the imam at the local mosque, the Toronto Muslim Assembly. His smiling presence was a great improvement over our previous imam, whom I had nicknamed “the Grinch” because of his stern demeanor and boring sermons. I hadn’t attended the mosque during the Grinch’s reign, but Imam Abdul Bari had coaxed me back. In his own way, he was as magnetic as Big J.

  “I coproduced The Wrap-Up today,” I said, beaming. I couldn’t stop thinking about Marisa’s praise—You’re a natural. After months of tedious research and busywork, I was finally one step closer to learning more about the production part of my job. Baba wanted me to host my own show one day, but my ambitions were more modest. I loved researching stories that meant something to me, then figuring out how to present them in a way that would entice listeners. For me, hosting was secondary. I think that was why podcasting appealed so much. I had complete control and I was free to talk about whatever I liked.

  “Mabrook! It is important for young Muslims to tell their stories. Your parents must be so proud,” the imam said.
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  His wife, Nalla, noticed my hesitation and squeezed my hand. “Your mother works so hard. I’m sure she’s proud in her own way.”

  Nalla looked tired, her face thin. Imam Abdul Bari had never said anything, but everyone knew she wasn’t well. I had watched her grow weaker with every date night, observed the strain on her face when she walked, the slow way she chewed, as if even the act of eating exhausted her. The imam, always tender with his wife, had become even more solicitous recently.

  The restaurant emptied, and I locked the front door and began to clean up, wiping tables, stacking chairs, my mind elsewhere. I pulled out my phone. Still no message from StanleyP. Fazeela was right: I was obsessed.

  A knock at the door shook me out of my reverie. Mr. Silver Shades—Aydin—stood framed by the entrance.

  We’re closed, I mouthed, and made a shooing motion with my hand.

  He knocked again, a pleading expression on his face.

  I contemplated my options. I could hear laughter from the kitchen, and I knew Mom, Fahim, and Fazeela were in there cleaning up. Besides, Aydin seemed harmless, and I could use the distraction. Plus he had left a massive tip. Maybe he had come back looking for change.

  “We don’t make change for abandoned meals,” I said as I opened the door.

  Aydin leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets. “I’m not looking for change,” he said. I waited for him to tell me why he was there, but he only blinked and said nothing.

  I left the door propped open and returned to wiping tables. He followed me inside.

  “Do you work at the restaurant every day?” he asked. “It’s a school night.”

  I reached for the broom. “I’m twenty-four years old. I have two university degrees and three jobs, if you include having to make small talk with overtippers.”

  He half smiled. “You look young. It must be the—” He waved vaguely in the direction of my face. “Where else do you work?”

  “Radio Toronto,” I said, and waited for the inevitable blank look.

  Instead he surprised me by grinning widely. The expression was so unexpected I stopped to stare. “I love radio,” he said. “Back home in Vancouver, I go to live tapings of some of the local shows. Have you ever been to a live taping?”

  “Yes,” I replied, dazed. “A few times.”

  Aydin’s grin turned delighted. “My friends call me a vintage nerd, but I don’t care. There’s something about listening to someone talk, the sound of their voice, sharing their personal stories and dreams . . .”

  Our eyes met. Aydin looked away first, embarrassed by his enthusiasm. He passed a hand through thick, dark hair. “I’m twenty-seven but I’ve only managed one degree. Business and accounting, from UBC,” he said, shrugging. “It was what my dad wanted.”

  I shifted, remembering the autocratic way Aydin’s father had spoken to him. Now that I knew he was a fellow radio nerd, I felt myself softening. But that still didn’t explain what he was doing there.

  “Did you forget something?” I asked.

  He stopped his slow pacing. “I came here to say sorry.”

  Better and better. I appreciated a man who could make amends.

  “No matter what happens in the kitchen, never apologize,” I said, quoting Julia Child.

  Aydin blinked rapidly. I wondered if he knew he did that when he was flustered. “I meant I’m sorry I didn’t get to finish the rest of that biryani.”

  I wasn’t sure how to take that, but when I looked at Aydin again, I was pretty sure he was trying to be funny. Plus I’m a sucker for anyone who flatters my mom’s food. I left him there without a word, filled up a plate, and headed back to the dining room.

  Aydin had taken a seat in the same booth when I returned. I handed him the food before continuing my closing routine, occasionally stealing looks at his face as he slowly, reverently ate the basmati rice and meat. A few times I caught him looking at me.

  “It would taste better with cheese curds and gravy,” I called over my shoulder.

  He smiled, the expression so fleeting I might have imagined it. I moved on with my chores, refilling bottles with Mom’s famous mango-lemon pickle achar, sneaking glances at my unexpected visitor. Had he really returned for another taste of my mother’s biryani, or did he also want to talk to me? I examined the thought, turning it over in my mind. He was cute; he liked our food; he had the rudiments of a sense of humor. Maybe he wasn’t that arrogant after all.

  I looked over at him again, and our gazes tangled. “You keep staring at me,” I said.

  Aydin immediately glanced away, a slow flush creeping across velvet-smooth skin. “You remind me of someone,” he muttered.

  I should be wary of him, this strange man I don’t know. Except, after a lifetime in the service industry, I had become adept at reading people, and I was pretty sure Aydin was harmless. In fact, there was something comforting about his awkwardness. He seemed younger tonight, more carefree. I noticed his hair was shaggy, curling around the collar of his black shirt; the same silver sunglasses dangled from the front pocket.

  “What’s your name?” Aydin asked after a few minutes of contented chewing.

  “Waitress,” I teased.

  “No, really.”

  “Waitress who ordered your lunch.”

  He made a face.

  “Waitress you overtipped and who doesn’t make change.”

  Aydin stood up and placed the wiped-clean plate on the counter. Then he grabbed three bottles and began filling them with achar.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You’ll be done faster if I help you. My name is Aydin, in case you were wondering.”

  “I heard your dad.”

  A shadow crossed his face at the mention of his father, but he answered lightly. “You were paying attention.”

  “I have exceptional hearing.”

  “I bet you do, Hana.”

  I stopped. “How do you know my name?”

  He nodded at my shirt front, where my name tag was pinned.

  “So you can read,” I muttered, and he laughed softly.

  “Why is this restaurant called Three Sisters Biryani Poutine?” he asked.

  I reached for empty saltshakers but paused. They didn’t need refilling today; we hadn’t had enough customers. To distract myself from that train of thought, I related our origin story and the part I had played in it. “My mom thought Three Sisters sounded better than Two. I thought Biryani Poutine made the restaurant sound interesting—a fusion of Indian and Canadian cuisine. Even though we only serve Hyderabadi food.”

  Aydin smiled widely. “Let me get this straight: There’s no third sister and there’s no poutine on the menu. I can’t believe this place has stayed in business all these years.”

  “We’re a beloved local institution,” I protested. I glanced at the full saltshakers. Well, we had been.

  He didn’t hear me, too busy casting that focused gaze around the interior of the restaurant. “This place isn’t completely hopeless,” he mused. “A coat of paint, maybe some tablecloths and brighter, bigger lights, would really perk the space up.”

  “We don’t need a makeover,” I said, defensive.

  Aydin’s expression was full of pity as he faced me, a doctor about to deliver bad news. “Your mom’s biryani is amazing,” he started. “So is the rest of her food, but it’s all the usual desi staples—rice and spice. The name of the restaurant is confusing for both your desi and non-desi customers. The first time I walked in here, I nearly turned around and went somewhere else, the interior looked so old and dingy. Your customers have become more discerning. They can pay for better and they expect more.”

  His words were a slap across the face. It was one thing to know that our restaurant had seen better days, but another to hear criticism from a stranger’s mouth.

  “The only r
eason you’re still open is because you don’t have any competition,” Aydin continued. “You’re the only halal restaurant in Golden Crescent. This area is full of South Asian immigrants, and a lot of them eat only halal meat. But it’s clear this area is about to change, maybe one day soon. The only thing you can count on is change. You should be getting ready to face it, not hiding behind the same old menu and decor.”

  His arrogant tone was back, and my shoulders were near my ears now. “I didn’t ask for your opinion, Aydin,” I said, voice tight. “You don’t get to inhale our food and then criticize the way we do things. What do you know about running a restaurant?” Did he think, because he could afford to drop a hundred dollars on food that had cost less than half that, he could lecture me about my family’s business? Hell no.

  Aydin was surprised at my reaction. “I’m just being honest. Your family clearly needs help.”

  “We don’t want your help.” I thought about my mom, and Fahim, and my exhausted-looking sister. They struggled every day to survive in a notoriously difficult business. Who did Aydin think he was?

  He examined my face carefully, and I felt that same prickly sensation at the back of my neck under his watchful gaze.

  “Your family is stuck in the old way of doing things, Hana,” he said. The friendly man of a few minutes ago was gone, replaced by this cold figure who reminded me uncomfortably of his father. Someone who assumed he knew better than me. “Three Sisters may have been running for fifteen years, but you’re clearly in trouble now. You seem like a nice enough girl. I’d hate to see your family destroyed because you refuse to look outside your front window.”

  Girl. I was a nice girl, unprepared to face the truth. For a moment I saw red, and he must have seen the fury on my face, because he took one step backward.

  “Who are you?” I asked. Aydin’s visit hadn’t been so innocent or casual after all, I realized, and my anger was partly at myself for being naive, for thinking a random cute boy would return simply to chat with me and enjoy my mother’s cooking. He was there to fish for information, and I had opened up like a mailbox.