Hana Khan Carries On Read online

  “At least you know who you’re dealing with. I know nothing about my online . . . friend,” I said.

  “If only there were some way to fix that situation,” my friend mused in the dark. She snapped her fingers. “I have an idea! Maybe you could try asking him.” She giggled as I shoved her. “Come on. What’s the worst that could happen?”

  I mentally listed my reasons. What if we started revealing things about ourselves and he turned out to be different from how I imagined him? I would lose someone important to me—a confidant, an accomplice, a well-wisher. The one person who had liked my podcasts from the very start.

  I shrugged. “Nothing, I guess. I should. . . . I will.”

  Lily shook her head, smiling slightly. “I know what that means. But you do what feels right, Han. Just let me do the same, okay?”

  I hugged her. “Get some sleep, Dr. Moretti,” I said. “Try not to forget me while you’re busy saving everyone else.”

  We made plans to meet the next week on her day off. I walked her back home before standing under a streetlamp for a few moments, texting StanleyP.

  AnaBGR

  Didn’t get the gig. They went in another direction.

  StanleyP

  WHAT? Who are these people? They have an angry bot heading their way.

  AnaBGR

  Nice try.

  StanleyP

  At least let me do some low-level subtweeting. They’re crazy not to hire you.

  AnaBGR

  You don’t even know what the job was. Maybe I wasn’t meant to be an Etsy overlord.

  StanleyP

  I know you applied for a job in radio, Ana. IMO, anyone who has listened to your podcast and doesn’t immediately want to see what you can do with actual resources is an idiot.

  I stood in the dark for a moment, reading and rereading StanleyP’s words. He had no idea how much they meant.

  AnaBGR

  Thank you. You said you have news too.

  StanleyP

  It’s nothing.

  AnaBGR

  Friends don’t let friends pass up an opportunity to gloat.

  StanleyP

  When you put it like that . . .

  AnaBGR

  I insist. Give me some good news.

  StanleyP

  My project is a go. I signed the contract today. My boss is convinced I know what I’m doing, enough to give me the seed money to take a real leap. We open at the end of the month. I still have some complications to take care of, but I’m excited.

  AnaBGR

  As my people say, mabrook! I remember when you first started talking about this secret project of yours.

  StanleyP

  It was one of your podcast episodes that inspired me to take the leap.

  AnaBGR

  I’m almost tempted to break our pact and ask for details. But I won’t.

  StanleyP

  How about this? When my project goes live, I’ll send you a picture of what I’ve been working on, and then you can decide what to do with that information. Deal?

  It seemed a neat solution to the problem of moving forward or not. If he sent me a picture of something strange, such as a collection of severed doll’s heads, that would be a clear sign not to take the relationship any further. I also liked the idea of a deadline for making a decision about us. End of the month—four weeks away. Far enough away to feel comfortable, yet close enough to stay relevant.

  AnaBGR

  Deal.

  I put my phone away and walked home, contemplative in the humid darkness.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Thomas was already in our shared office when I rushed through the door the next day, late and flustered.

  “Marisa is looking for you,” he said with a cheerful smile.

  Shit. My boss was a stickler for punctuality.

  “She wanted to talk to you about coproducing The Wrap-Up. We agreed that to be equitable, we should both get a chance to produce. My turn is today.” Thomas’s smile moved into smirk territory. “Marisa also wanted to let you know about a big opportunity.”

  I was instantly wary. “What opportunity?”

  Thomas shrugged. “I’m not your secretary. Ask her yourself.”

  I shrugged off my jacket and made my way to Marisa’s office, knocking once before poking my head in the door.

  “Hana! Thank God you came to work.” Marisa was dressed in a navy-blue blazer and black jeans, a red and black scarf tied jauntily around her neck. “Thomas said you had some family drama going on. You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

  What was she talking about? I decided to change the subject. “You wanted to speak to me?”

  Marisa leaned back in her chair, eyes shining with enthusiasm. “Nathan Davis is coming to our studio in a few days, and he wants to hear more about your fantastic idea for a show.”

  Nathan Davis was the director of broadcasting for our parent corporation, and every radio station in the province was under his jurisdiction. He was several steps above even Marisa’s boss. What was he doing visiting our station, and what fantastic idea was Marisa talking about? She had shot down every suggestion I had made since I started working there almost a year ago. The confusion must have been clear on my face.

  “Thomas told me all about your radio partnership. I am so excited to hear more about this strategic diversity initiative to access multicultural target markets!”

  Though I still had no idea what Marisa was talking about, I was pretty sure this was all Thomas’s fault. I gritted my teeth, thanked her for the opportunity, and went in search of my “radio partner.”

  A contrite-looking Thomas was waiting for me in our office. “Don’t get mad,” he began. “Really, this is your fault for being late all the time. Marisa just burst in, babbling about Davis visiting the station and how it would be a good opportunity to pitch a show to him. Lucky for you, I’m great at thinking on my feet.”

  Thomas was terrible at thinking on his feet. From the twitchy expression on his face, he knew the next words out of his mouth might very well be his last. “I told her we wanted to host a show that teaches listeners about our different cultures,” he said, and braced himself.

  I stared at him, appalled. Thomas was a weasel, so I would have assumed he’d be eager to take the opportunity for himself. Then again, he could be strategic when required. I thought I knew the answer, but I asked the question anyway. “You don’t like me. Why should we work together on this?”

  “If there’s two of us, they’re more likely to give us a chance to do our own show. I need you for this, Hana!”

  He meant us as in “two brown people.” He meant they as in the higher-ups, who had lately been coming under attack for their lack of diverse programming in one of the most diverse cities in the world. Thomas was taking his shot and dragging me along with him.

  I didn’t punch him. At heart I was a pacifist. Instead, I walked out of the office without a word.

  * * *

  • • •

  Working on a show—any show—was all I had ever wanted to do. So far, all Thomas and I had done in our internship was file, photocopy, archive, and research other people’s stories. The first time I had done a job that excited me had been the day before, when Marisa let me coproduce Big J’s show.

  Hosting a show about culture and religion was not what I wanted to do. The worst part was, Thomas knew how I felt. We had talked about it before.

  “Who is going to tell the stories only we know? We’re South Asian, we’re second-generation immigrants, you’re Indian Muslim and I’m Indian Christian—both minorities within minority communities. We have things to say and diverse perspectives that people would love to hear,” he had argued.

  “Is that your tagline? I’m brown, I’m interesting, listen to
me? The minute I start writing stories about the Muslim or desi community, I’ll be put in a box, and that will be all I’ll ever do or ever be known for. I’m too young and interesting to be the ‘exotic brown-person expert’ for the next thirty years,” I argued back.

  “Hana, you could be the person who changes people’s minds about Muslims!” Thomas would counter.

  That comment always made me laugh. “The bigots are never going to listen to me. And everyone else already likes me because, as an Indian-Canadian, I stand for samosas and maple syrup. I’m good.”

  The truth was, Thomas had less to lose. When a man talks about politics and religion next to a brown-skinned woman who wears hijab, guess who attracts the misogynist trolls and violent death threats? I came by my cowardice honestly, through the experiences of those braver than myself. I had no desire to be a social justice martyr.

  I wanted to follow my instincts and my own interests, not use my faith and skin color to provide teachable moments to listeners on demand. Thomas knew how I felt, yet he had pitched his stupid idea anyway. He really was the worst.

  I took out my phone and messaged StanleyP.

  AnaBGR

  How good of an advice-giver are you?

  StanleyP answered immediately.

  StanleyP

  I am regularly consulted by sitting monarchs, regents, prime ministers, and benevolent dictators. Celebrities have me on speed dial.

  AnaBGR

  Not sure I can afford your consultation fee.

  StanleyP

  We can work out a payment plan. What troubles you?

  AnaBGR

  Would you accept a job that helped your career if you had to sell out on the reasons you got into the field in the first place?

  StanleyP

  I take it the world of Supreme Etsy Overlord is more fraught than you first thought. Ah, the naïveté of the untested.

  AnaBGR

  I’m serious. What would you do if, for example, the only opportunity you had to get a good job was to do work that didn’t interest you and might cause harm to people like you? And don’t tell me I’m being dramatic.

  StanleyP

  I like dramatic people. They make me feel so grounded.

  AnaBGR

  Not helping.

  StanleyP

  Here’s what I think: In business, you always have to think about costs and benefits. What are the benefits you would gain versus the up-front costs of taking this opportunity? Answer two questions: (1) Will your employer continue on this path, with or without you? And (2) Is there a chance that your participation means the job could be steered in a better direction?

  AnaBGR

  Yes, and maybe.

  StanleyP

  Then the cost of leaving is having no input into any of the gains of staying. And losing any chance you have of being heard.

  I put my phone away. I had been hoping StanleyP would advise me to run for the hills. Instead he was making me reconsider, and I didn’t like it.

  * * *

  • • •

  My “radio partner” found me on the front steps outside the station. He took a seat a few feet away and stared down at his shiny black loafers. I guess he had taken a page out of Marisa’s playbook and was starting to dress for success too.

  “Marisa thinks this is a way to keep both of us employed after the internship is over. She thinks the idea has real potential,” he said quietly.

  I didn’t even look at him. “This isn’t the story I want to tell.”

  Thomas sighed. “Do you want to get stuck being the most junior employee at every broadcaster you ever work for? Because you and I, we don’t have contacts in this industry. There’s no one we can call for help, who can give us any advantage. We’re pioneers, paving the way for the kids coming up behind us, and that means we’re entirely on our own. You know we’re already swimming against the desi-parent, socially-acceptable-career current by not studying something traditional like medicine, engineering, accounting, or law. We need to use whatever we can to get ahead. And if that means leveraging our culture and faith to tell the stories we know better than anyone else, that’s a win on two levels. This is your duty, your dharma.”

  I winced at his use of dharma, his reference to fate, a concept we both believed in. “I need to take a walk. Don’t follow me.”

  I went to the back of the building, upwind of the dumpsters, where the smokers used to congregate before someone complained and they were pushed a hundred meters farther back. A plain redbrick façade that faced another brick façade. I called it my Thinking Wall.

  My father believed that great radio shows are born from passion and authenticity, a place where regular people tell stories that are important to them. I wanted to tell diverse stories that made a difference, that framed personal narratives in a way that allowed people to think about the world in a whole new light. I knew from experience that those narratives needed to be told by people on the inside looking out, because for too long they had been told by people on the outside looking in.

  The first time I had heard an outsider explain Islam was in grade- ten history, when my teacher, Mr. Nielson, delivered a primer on world religions. He was one of the cool teachers at school, a young white man with floppy blond hair, dimples, and chunky square-framed black glasses. He always wore jeans and a button-down shirt paired with a colorful tie. Everyone loved Mr. Nielson; he didn’t make a huge deal if we were late and didn’t deduct marks for typos. I always looked forward to his classes.

  We spent a week studying world religions, part of the intro to his Ancient Civilizations course. We started with Christianity before learning about Judaism, then Hinduism, and finally it was my people’s turn. “Islam is a monotheistic religion, meaning that Muslims, the followers of the religion of Islam, worship only one god.”

  I beamed at him. So far, so good, Mr. N. Then things went horribly wrong.

  “Every Muslim believes in the five pillars of Islam. They are: one, belief in one god; two, praying five times a day; three, giving in charity; four, fighting the jihad; and five, performing the hajj pilgrimage.”

  I blinked. Fighting the jihad? What was he talking about? I raised my hand to correct him. “Um, sir, jihad is not the fourth pillar of Islam. The fourth pillar is fasting during the month of Ramadan.”

  Mr. Nielson looked at me indulgently. “I know you might not be comfortable with the truth, Hana, but you don’t need to feel ashamed. Fighting the jihad is a pillar of Islam.”

  “No, it’s not,” I said. I could feel my face flushing. As far as I knew, Mr. Nielson was agnostic. Why wasn’t he listening to me, the only Muslim in his class? “The fourth pillar of Islam is fasting in the month of Ramadan. Definitely not jihad.”

  “Can you prove it?” Mr. Nielson asked. Even years later, I could feel my neck grow hot with embarrassment at the memory of those words. My classmates were snickering by that point, and I just wanted the confrontation to end.

  “Because I read in a book that it’s jihad,” Mr. Nielson continued, his tone hard. “Can you prove that it isn’t?”

  Could I prove it? Not in a way that would satisfy him. The lesson continued with no more interruptions.

  I had plenty of teachers and professors over the years who listened to my opinions and respected my lived experience as a Muslim woman, but that memory rankled still. If there had been more visible Muslims, more South Asians making art and telling their stories, maybe I wouldn’t have felt so alone and targeted. I would have been able to point to a character in a TV show or movie, or in a book we had read in school, for my “proof.” Instead, all I had was myself, and it hadn’t been enough.

  Thomas was right. We had to start somewhere.

  I looked up at the sky from my spot against the Thinking Wall, tilting my head to take in that beautiful, uncomplicated blue, the same
blue as Marisa’s eyes.

  The man who had hit my dad’s car had been Muslim like us, a young man running late for work. He had stayed with Baba, had watched as the firefighters used the Jaws of Life to pry my father’s limp body from his vehicle. The young man’s name was Javed, and he had apologized repeatedly to me, my sister, and my mother when we arrived on the scene. He had vowed to give sadaqah—money to charity—in my father’s name as penance. When I thought about that awful day, what I remembered most clearly was Javed’s round, clean-shaven face and the sobs that had shaken his thin frame as they had loaded my father onto the stretcher, in stark contrast to my mother’s frozen silence.

  Those first few weeks after the accident, my father had been in the hospital, recovering from one surgery or waiting for another. Since Mom had to keep the restaurant running, my sister and I had taken turns spending the day in his room. When it was my turn, I brought earbuds and we passed the time listening to This American Life, Code Switch, and Planet Money. I got a kick out of Welcome to Night Vale, while Baba pretended to understand the humor. Together we binge-listened to season one of Serial, and after it was over we sat in silence for a long time, each wrapped up in our own thoughts.

  My father had always loved radio and podcasts. He had cried when I was accepted into the master’s program in communications and broadcasting. “Now you will be able to tell your own story, and our stories too,” he’d said. “You have been given a gift, beta.”