You all dumb.
AhmadKhan
You make some good points YusraTK.
Zeeshan R
Not giving them my money either.
Hating myself, I logged into the anonymous Facebook account I had created and added new comments to the fire. I had settled on mycourse of action, and though I didn’t like the way it made me feel, it was also clearly having an impact. Maybe Aydin would take his father and his restaurant and slink away to another part of the city, far away from Three Sisters. I started typing, improvising as I went.
InsiderScoop
Heard Wholistic Grill is in some trouble with the Workers Health and Safety Centre as well. Unsafe working conditions.
YusraTK
That’s shameful. I’ll spread the word, thanks for sharing. I refuse to support a company that exploits their workers and our community. #CancelWholisticGrill
Zeeshan R
Agreed. Keep us posted @InsiderScoop. #CancelWholisticGrill
Instagram was calmer, but similar sentiments had sprung up on that platform as well, with people latching onto my rumours—okay, libel—and adding their own fuel. My initial comments had been liked several hundred times each, and none of the comments refuted my allegations except for the official statement from Wholistic Grill. Too many people were willing to believe the worst. Clearly I had tapped into a sore spot in the community: who should benefit and capitalize on niche food markets like halal meat. If online sentiment were anything to go by, Wholistic Grill was in for a rough start.
I couldn’t resist one final dig before I logged off.
InsiderScoop
I know the local community is not happy. They’re planning a protest when—or should I say IF—Wholistic Grill opens. I’ll post details here. The Golden Crescent neighbourhood deserves better. #CancelWholisticGrill
I was good at this, and I wasn’t sure what that said about me. I knew what I was doing was wrong. My parents had raised me to be honest, to accept that everything would work out if only I had faith. But they had also taught me stories from the life of Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him. One time the Prophet witnessed a Bedouin man leaving his camel untethered in the desert. When he asked the Bedouin why, the man replied that he trusted God to take care of his animal. The Prophet’s advice? “Trust in God, but tie your camel.”
I was simply tying my camel, righting the scales of justice in an impossible situation, I rationalized. I almost believed it.
I WAS WORKING ON THEhenna story at home on the couch when Kawkab Khala came downstairs, dressed in a starchy white salwar kameez with delicate pink embroidery at the hem and sleeves. Her hair was up and she had a heavy gold chain around her neck and matching gold ear bobs.
“Talking to yourself again?” she asked. She was referring to my podcast. I flushed, but that reminded me.
“I’d like to continue to interview you for that radio story about your life,” I said.
“I’ve already told you the story, Hana. I thought you were good at your job,” she said.
I had gotten to know my aunt in the past few weeks, so I was pretty sure she was teasing. “I need a few more details about that period in time and your reflections. I want to make sure I get a sense of your world so I can do this story justice in the edits,” I explained.
My aunt smiled thinly at me. “Justice is not for this life, Hanajaan.”
I jerked at her words. Had she somehow figured out what I was doing to Aydin online?
Kawkab Khala peered at me. “What have you been up to? No, don’t tell me. You are just like your mother. Terrible liars both, and I haven’t the time for whatever poorly conceived story you’ll invent.”
“I didn’t do anything,” I muttered.
“Pity. I hoped to be a bad influence on you. Come on, get dressed. My friend will be visiting shortly, and I cannot have both nieces still in their pyjamas,” she announced. I looked back at my laptop with longing but obediently got up to change. I needed my aunt to be in a good mood when we continued the interview.
Fazee was in her room, and she waved me away when I asked if she wanted to come downstairs. She seemed engrossed in a YouTube tutorial, which was a relief after her past few listless days. When I returned downstairs, Sad Aunty was seated in our living room.
Kawkab Khala did not think highly of my black yoga pants and white T-shirt. She looked me up and down and sniffed. “Do all Canadian children dress as if they lived inside a dark cave, Hana, or is it just you?”
