Hana Khan Carries On Read online

  Aydin shook his head. “I’m nobody. Thanks for the biryani. I’ll see you around.”

  I closed the door behind him, though I really wanted to slam it shut. My hand stilled on the lock as I remembered Aydin’s words. How did he know that Three Sisters had been running for fifteen years?

  When I turned around, my mother was framed in the entrance to the kitchen. I didn’t know how long she had been standing there, or what she had overheard.

  “Hana,” she said, “we need to talk.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Mom wasn’t freaked that I had been talking to a boy. I should make that clear, because some people have funny ideas about Muslim women. Let me illustrate: When I was eleven years old, she sat me down and gave me the birds-and-bees talk. Only she used the scientific words and talked about pleasure and responsibility, ending with “That is how babies are made. Yes, even you.”

  It worked. I was so turned off by her frank discussion of sex that I didn’t even think about relationships until I was halfway through high school, when I finally clued in to her plan. But by then it was too late. I was already the nerdy brown hijabi who didn’t date—not to be confused with the nerdy brown hijabi who did date. That girl wore glasses.

  Mom wasn’t easily freaked out by anything, is what I mean. Ghufran Khan was the unflappable queen of our family. And now she wanted to talk to me about something serious. I braced myself and followed her to the now empty kitchen. Fazeela and Fahim must have left by the back entrance.

  “What do you want to talk about?” I asked.

  She seemed distracted, fiddling with a large pot left to soak in the sink. “That was the boy who left before finishing his food. Why did he return?” she asked. She was stalling, which only made me more nervous.

  I was still shaken by the abrupt turn my conversation with Aydin had taken, but I didn’t want to alarm my mother. “He wants to marry your biryani,” I replied.

  She smiled faintly. “He can’t afford the dowry,” she said, and passed a hand over her face. Was there the faintest hint of exhausted despair in her eyes? Impossible. She was Angela Merkel in no-nonsense black hijab.

  “Hana, I’m only telling you this so you won’t worry,” she began, and I tensed. Why did people always say that? Don’t worry about this terrible thing I’m about to tell you. That really helped calm everyone down.

  “Are you sick?” I asked. “Is it Baba?”

  She shook her head. “Fazeela has been having a more difficult pregnancy than we anticipated. She has been having trouble keeping up with things. And business has been slowing down lately, so . . .”

  My heart clenched. Was Fazeela okay? Had she left early because something was wrong? Or was the restaurant in real trouble this time? Aydin’s words floated back to me: The only thing you can count on is change. I hated change.

  I looked at my mother, so proud, so strong. “What can I do to help? I can work here full-time if Fazeela needs to rest.”

  She shook her head. “You have your radio internship to finish. I know how important that is, how hard you worked to get that position. But I also can’t afford to hire anyone new.”

  “I can pick up more shifts, learn how to cook things . . .” I trailed off, thinking about the opportunity to coproduce The Wrap-Up. That job would go to Thomas now.

  “Hana, please stop jumping to conclusions. What I’m trying to tell you is that Rashid will be moving in with us for a few months. You remember, your cousin from India. He wants to study in Canada. His parents are worried he’ll get in trouble if he lives on his own. I told Aneesa we would keep an eye on him.”

  It took me a minute to place Rashid in my large mental catalog of relations. He must have been eighteen years old by now, the son of my mother’s first cousin Aneesa. I remembered a shy boy who hid behind his mother’s shalwar kameez and had solemnly bested me at tic-tac-toe the last time we visited India.

  “You don’t even know this kid,” I said. “Can he manage in the restaurant?”

  Mom shook her head. “He’s family. Aneesa would never let him live by himself, and we need the help. This is the best solution for everyone.”

  Or you could ask for my help, I thought, and instantly felt foolish. Could I really sacrifice my internship now, just when I was getting somewhere?

  “Can you get his room ready? Rashid will sleep in the basement,” Mom said.

  I promised to change the linens and prepare the space for a cousin I barely knew. She also asked if I could pick him up from the airport on Friday after jumah prayer, and I agreed. It was the least I could do.

  * * *

  • • •

  It was past ten p.m. when we arrived home, and Mom immediately went to her room and closed the door. Baba was likely already asleep.

  I was bone tired, the excitement of the day finally catching up with me. Which was when I discovered that my mother had forgotten to share a second, tiny detail: Rashid wasn’t the only one moving in.

  The front door of our house opened into a square family room that led to a galley kitchen and attached dining room. There were three bedrooms upstairs. My parents shared the largest room, which had a tiny en suite bathroom, on the far side of the upper floor, leaving the two smaller rooms and full bathroom on the other side for me and Fazeela.

  Fazeela had started sleeping in the basement during high school, ostensibly so she could have a quiet space to study, but I knew it was so she could sneak out of the house to hang with her friends on school nights while our parents worked. In exchange for my silence, she let me have her closet and stored her clothes on a rack in the basement.

  I used her empty room to organize my carefully curated hijab-friendly wardrobe—cardigans, long sweaters, flowy dresses, palazzo pants, overcoats, and boxes and boxes of scarves in every print, color, fabric, and style. Yes, even leopard print. Colorful hijabs were my vice.

  So I was surprised, when I entered my bedroom, to find the contents of my second closet dumped unceremoniously on my bed. Just then Fahim walked in, holding another armful of my clothes.

  “Hey, Hana, what’s up?” my brother-in-law said, dropping the second pile on top of the first.

  “Oh, hey, Fahim,” I said, leaning against the doorframe. “Need somewhere to store your basketball shoe collection?”

  Fahim’s smile faded. “I guess your mom didn’t tell you. Fazeela is moving back here for a little while. Your dad can keep her company while we’re at the restaurant. The obstetrician Lily recommended said she needs to be on bed rest for a while. Fazee’s been so worried, and that’s not good for the baby . . .”

  He kept on talking, but I had stalled on bed rest and Lily recommended.

  “Is Fazee okay? Where is she?” I rushed past my brother-in-law to the small room next door. My sister was curled on the bed, asleep, and I stared at her for a moment. She looked pale but her breathing was even. I removed the final load of clothes from the closet and closed the door gently behind me.

  “She’s fine, Hana,” Fahim said. He was in the hallway, and I could see shadows under his eyes. “She just needs to take it easy for a few weeks.”

  I wanted to trust Fahim, but what if my family wasn’t telling me the whole story? Lily would know what was going on.

  I grabbed my phone from my desk. “I’ll be right back.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I clutched my phone tightly and walked in the direction of my old elementary school. It was a warm spring night and the air felt cool on my face, carrying the promise of chlorine-scented rain. A car passed, headlights momentarily blinding me, but I knew the route so well I could walk it blindfolded. I had grown up playing on those streets and riding my bike with friends, pint-size masters of our small domain. It was past ten, yet I felt completely safe walking alone in the dark. Because of Three Sisters, everyone knew who I was: Ghufran Khan’s youngest daughter—not the one who used to play
soccer, but the shorter one.

  Weather permitting, during the day the streets would be filled with children skipping and playing hopscotch or conducting street-wide games of hide-and-seek, of which I had been the undisputed champion. Yusuf had been heavily involved in rotating local games of basketball and cricket, usually played on the biggest driveway. Lily and I preferred softball, or we would ride our bikes to the local library, where uncles dressed in starched kurtas paired with cardigans lounged on well-worn sofas, reading newspapers from around the world. Older women watched grandchildren while their adult children worked. As a child I had become used to seeing nanis and dadis dressed in saris, cotton shalwar kameez, or long abayas chasing after toddlers and keeping a close eye on all the neighborhood kids. To be scolded by somebody’s grandmother was an almost daily occurrence for me when I was young.

  I passed a few families gathered in their garages turned gathering spaces, drinking tea and chatting quietly, a nod to faraway homes with central courtyards. Many of my neighbors had grown up in extended families or small villages; they were used to communal living. My own family was usually too busy to hang out that way. Entire weeks would sometimes go by when we would see each other only while working at Three Sisters. I felt a pang at my neighbors’ intimacy, even as I waved to familiar faces.

  My late-night stroll ended at a small bungalow beside my old school. I sent a follow-up text to the one I had sent when I left my house. A few minutes later the side door opened, and a shadowy form joined me on the front steps of the house.

  “I just lost my second closet,” I said.

  My best friend Lily balanced herself on my shoulder as she stretched one leg and then the other. She was shapely and tall, hair coiled in a neat high bun, face glowing with good health and an excellent skin-care routine. “I was sleeping off a twenty-hour shift. So glad you woke me up for this,” she said, nudging me gently with her shoulder.

  “I hear my family has been asking you for medical advice,” I said, my voice unsteady with emotion. My friend knew what I was really asking.

  “Fazee is exhausted. She’s worried about the restaurant and about being a mom, and she hasn’t been taking care of herself. She needs some rest, but she’ll be back to normal soon. I promise,” Lily said with such calm assurance that I felt better immediately.

  Lily had been on rotation at SickKids Hospital for the past few months. We had attended the same elementary school, high school, and university, and we’d remained best friends throughout, even though we had nothing in common. She was studious and organized and loved all things science and math; I was into pop culture and radio and considered deadlines as merely suggestions. She had known exactly what she wanted to do with her life from the age of six. It had taken me a little longer: I realized my future was in broadcasting only in my final year of college.

  Yet Lily and I had always had each other’s backs, at least until the past few months. I knew she was busy. The residency program she was applying to was highly selective, and I hadn’t wanted to play the needy friend. But then, why hadn’t she said anything about my own sister?

  “I thought I sent you a text last week so you wouldn’t worry,” Lily said, anticipating my question. She stretched elegant hands toward the sky and yawned. “When Fahim called, I recommended an ob-gyn I know, someone who specializes in at-risk pregnancies.”

  “Is my sister at risk?” I asked, worried again.

  “Not yet, but she’s being monitored closely.” She stood up. “Come on. I’m going to fall asleep if we stay here.”

  We walked next door to the school, slipping past the metal fence into the playground. She took the swing to the left and I took the one on the right, as always.

  Lily’s curly hair came loose as she swung. At the highest point of the arc, she jumped from the swing, landing lightly on the sand in front of me, high bun unraveled into a dark swirl over her delicate shoulders.

  I followed and sailed through the air, landing with such force that I lost my balance and fell backward onto my butt; thankfully it was well cushioned from too many onion pakoras, so it didn’t hurt. Lily collapsed on the sand next to me, giggling, and I felt a sudden wave of fondness for my friend, the busy doctor who had come outside to play with me.

  “I miss you,” I said, and her eyes softened.

  “How’s your dad? The restaurant? Your mom?” Lily got along well with both my parents, but she had a soft spot for my mom. We had spent many hours as kids completing homework at Three Sisters, inhaling whatever food my Mom had made for us that day. Lily had a serious addiction to palak paneer—Indian cheese cooked in a spicy spinach curry—and fresh naan.

  I shrugged. “She’s convinced it’s just a slump, but I don’t know how much longer we can go on.”

  Lily reached across and hugged me tight. “Ghufran Aunty is the smartest, most hardworking woman I know. But if the restaurant has to close, maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing . . .” She trailed off as I shook my head slowly, rejecting her words.

  “We can’t shut down Three Sisters,” I said.

  “You don’t even like working there,” she said gently. “Your future is in a sound booth.”

  “It would kill my mom. Baba isn’t healthy enough to work full-time, and I’m just an intern. We’d lose the house. And now with Fazee on bed rest . . .” I closed my eyes, willing myself not to cry, and Lily sat with me in the dark until my breathing steadied.

  I opened my eyes and she stared at me, blue eyes steady on my face. “Your family will be fine. Inshallah,” she said, smiling. She had picked up some Muslim lingo over the years. When she made a promise, she even added wallahi—“I swear to God”—despite being quietly agnostic.

  I needed to change the subject. “Yusuf misses you too. What’s going on with you two? Are you together again or not?”

  Lily shrugged and traced circles in the sand. It was dark, but the streetlamp illuminated the faint blush spilling across her cheekbones. I couldn’t help feeling proprietary about both of them; I was the one who had introduced them all those years ago.

  Lily had been the new girl in grade four, and Yusuf hadn’t been too happy about the new addition to our twosome. Yusuf and I were already best friends by then because of the proximity of our parents’ stores, and we attended the same mosque. Lily hadn’t known anyone, and I was determined to adopt her from the moment Mrs. Walker introduced the grave-looking girl to our class.

  Lily had been dressed in white tights, a demure plaid skirt, and a white blouse buttoned to her chin, her hair in two thick, dark braids. I had been wearing my usual school uniform of black tearaway track pants and a cardigan with a bright red, yellow, purple, and green swirly pattern, the height of early 2000s cool. My black hair was wild and frizzy; the neat braid unraveled five minutes after my mother had plaited it that morning. I didn’t start wearing hijab until years later, in high school, after Fazeela started wearing it first.

  That day on the playground, I introduced Lily to Yusuf. “We’re going to be friends,” I told him. “Like the Three Musketeers. She doesn’t know anyone else here.”

  Yusuf ground his sneakers into the dirt, not making eye contact. “She can’t play in a skirt,” he said, voice mutinous.

  Lily spoke up. “I can play in a skirt, and I can do it better than you,” she said serenely.

  We both looked at her in astonishment. She hadn’t said a word all day, only listening as our classmates chatted. I had thought she was shy and in need of mentorship. I was delighted to be wrong.

  “Boys against girls!” I crowed, grabbing my new friend’s hand and running away from Yusuf. He was beautiful even as a child, but when he frowned he looked like a sulky baby. I laughed back at him. “Baby Yusuf!”

  Beside me Lily giggled, and something in Yusuf snapped. He ran after us and we ran away, squealing in delight. Never much of a long-distance runner, I gave up quickly. Yusuf tagged me a
nd then set his sights on Lily. They ran all around the playground, Lily grinning widely, Yusuf looking determined.

  “Guys, stop!” I yelled, but they ignored me. “Let’s play something else!”

  But they only had eyes for each other. I watched them zigzag through children skipping rope and dodge straight through an intense grade-six basketball game without breaking a sweat. When Yusuf finally caught up to Lily, he grabbed her hands and swung her around. She tripped and tore her pristine white tights. When I reached them, they were examining her bloody knee and Yusuf was looking sheepish.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re not going to start crying, are you?”

  With a disdainful look, she stood up and tore off her tights, balling them up and throwing them in Yusuf’s face. Then she took off again, laughing at our stunned faces.

  We had been inseparable since that day on the playground, up until the past year. Maybe growing apart was part of growing up.

  My phone pinged, interrupting the silence with a message from StanleyP.

  StanleyP

  Checking in re: dream job. Is it time to fire the confetti cannons? I have some news to share too!

  I fumbled, closing the screen, but Lily had seen. “Your mystery friend?” she asked, and it was my turn to blush.

  “Nothing to see here,” I muttered.

  “It might be time to do something about that whole situation—” she started.

  “This from Ms. Indecisive,” I countered. “Do you love Yusuf or not?”

  “It’s not that simple for us. His dad . . . My mom is . . .”

  Lily didn’t have to fill in the blanks for me. Theirs was an interreligious relationship frowned upon by both sides. Lily was not religious, but her Italian Catholic family did not approve of her feelings for her childhood best friend, who happened to be a practicing Muslim and the son of Syrian immigrants. That disapproval was very much mirrored by Yusuf’s parents. As a result, my friends’ on-again status had mostly been kept secret from both families, as their off-again status was so clearly desired by both. I was the only person either could confide in. Sometimes I wondered why they bothered, whether their feelings for each other were worth all the trouble.