Hana Khan Carries On - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Uzma Jalaluddin is a teacher and also writes a funny parenting column named 'Samosas and Maple Syrup' for the Toronto Star, Canada's largest daily newspaper. Her debut novel is Ayesha at Last.

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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...