Chapter Two
Igave Mom the order: chicken biryani, malai kofta, dal makhani, and naan, then hung around the kitchen while Fazeela, Fahim, and Mom worked.
My sister Fazeela was sous-chef for the day and Fahim was in charge of the large tandoor clay oven that turned dough instantly into soft, crispy naan, while Mom assembled the biryani. Fazee and Fahim were discussing their favourite topic: baby names for the little cantaloupe.
“Hussain is a good choice,” Fahim said, smiling. My brother-in-law was always smiling. A tall man with broad shoulders, he was rocking his usual outfit of dark Adidas track pants and hoodie, a perpetual athlete on his way to the gym. “That was my grandfather’s name.”
Fazeela shook her head. “Hussain is overplayed, like Hassan. Besides, we’re having a girl.”
“My cousin named her son Hassan. She’s the one I was telling you about, the one who just bought a house in Saskatoon. You won’t believe how little they paid. We should plan a visit to check it out.”
Fahim’s family lived in Saskatchewan, nearly three thousand kilometres from Toronto. My sister and brother-in-law had met inculinary school and married the previous year. Ever since Fazeela found out she was pregnant, Fahim hadn’t stopped talking about moving west. My sister was less enthusiastic, and I was tired of that conversation.
I opened the messaging app to see if StanleyP had texted again, but Fazeela’s teasing voice jolted me back to the kitchen.
“Are you talking to your mystery man again?” she asked, grinning. “It’s that internet guy, right? The one from your podcast.”
“You don’t even listen to my podcast,” I said, stashing the phone in my pocket.
“Marvin, or Alan, or Johnny, or—” Fazeela rattled off, ignoring me.
“Stanley,” I muttered, instantly regretting it.
“Stanley!” Fazeela crowed. “Some random white dude from who knows where, and you’re obsessed!”
“I’m not obsessed,” I said, flushing and looking at my mother. “We’re just friends. And how do you know he’s white?”
Fazeela looked at me in disbelief. “He listens to podcasts.”
She had me there. #PodcastsSoWhite.
“You text him more than I do Fahim, and we’re married. Should we be concerned, Hanaan?”
My sister was the only one in the family who insisted on calling me by my full name, Hanaan. That’s Hana with an extraan. At twenty-six she was two years older than me, and with her tall frame and impatient air, she looked like a younger version of our mother. When her athletic body, more used to running on a soccer pitch than standing around the kitchen, had begun to round with signs of new life, the resemblance had become remarkable.
Unlike Fazeela, I hadn’t inherited our mother’s tall, sturdy build. I was short, with tawny bronze skin and round hips. My eyes were hazelin the sun or after a bout of laughter, I had been told, but otherwise dark brown. My sister and I shared our mother’s full, slanting eyebrows and full lips, though mine were set in a small triangular face, in contrast to my sister’s more angular features.
“Leave her alone, Fazee,” Fahim said, looking over at me with sympathy. “Remember how we used to be when we were first getting to know each other?”
“He’s just a friend,” I muttered. “I don’t even know his real name.”
“If the online guy isn’t serious, there’s always Yusuf,” Fahim said to Fazeela. “He’s single, he’s nice. She could marry him.”
“She will decide for herself when and if she wants to marry,” I said firmly. “And Yusuf is my best friend.”
“They can’t all be your friends,” Fazeela shot back.
Mom usually stayed out of our low-level bickering, but now she pinned the three of us with a look, and we instantly shut up.
“Hana,beta, after you serve the customers, I need you to run home and check on Baba before you leave for the radio station. He isn’t picking up the phone,” Mom said as I carefully picked up the dishes they had prepared.
My mother thought about everyone and everything, all the time. I wondered how she managed it all. Perhaps if I got my dream job, the income would help take some of the burden from her shoulders.
“Don’t forget the mango lassi on your way out,” Mom said.
AFTER I SERVED MR. SILVER SHADESand his grumpy father, I moved to the front of the restaurant, delaying my departure. I was waiting for my favourite moment.
I knew Three Sisters Biryani Poutine wasn’t fancy. When Mr. SilverShades and the old man had insulted the restaurant, I felt defensive because their easy dismissal was often the first reaction of new customers. Until they tasted our food.
