The doorbell rang and I went to answer it, expecting my cousin or maybe Fahim. Instead, Sad Aunty—Afsana, I corrected myself—stood in the doorway, holding a covered plate. “For you,” she said simply, handing it over. A delicious aroma escaped from the foil-wrapped platter.
“Is that Afsana?” Kawkab called from the kitchen, where she was making tea. “Tell her she is late.”
Baba had disappeared upstairs to rest after the excitement of the day. Kawkab Khala carried three steaming mugs of chai to the kitchen table and, just like the previous time Afsana Aunty had visited, thethree of us sat down to sip and chat. Afsana had brought fresh potato pakoras—fritters seasoned with garam masala, salt, red chili powder, fresh coriander, and green chilies, battered in chickpea flour and deep-fried. The greasy spiciness of the pakoras, paired with hot chai, was comforting.
“I am sorry about what happened on the street today,” Afsana Aunty said. “I was so scared when I heard the news. Is everyone... fine?” Her voice was hesitant, and I noticed my aunt sit up straighter at her words.
“The vandals attacked late at night, when everyone was home,” I reassured her.
“Your mother said there will be a Business Owners Association meeting, to discuss increased security,” Kawkab Khala said casually. “I would enjoy attending that meeting.” She was telling me, not asking for permission, and I looked at her in surprise. My aunt had shown little interest in the operation of Three Sisters, and I instantly knew she was up to something. My suspicions were confirmed by her quick glance at Afsana Aunty, who gripped her mug tightly, waiting for my response.
“It’s just a bunch of old aunties and uncles arguing,” I said weakly. I had no wish to make another scene at the BOA, but if my aunt wanted to go, there was also no way I was letting her attend alone. Who knew what mischief she would get up to without my supervision.
“Yes, I can almost guarantee that,” she said, her words a sharpened promise.
We drank the rest of our chai in silence. Afsana Aunty left soon after, clutching her washed plate, which we had heaped with sugar cookies. In our family it was unthinkable to return a dish empty.
“You and Afsana Aunty are so close,” I commented to my aunt, picking up the empty mugs and putting them in the sink.
“She is my best friend, though I am older. Afsana was always full of life, but occasionally she falls into periods of darkness.” My aunt began to wash the dishes, not looking at me. “I understand because I suffered from the same darkness, only I was better at hiding it. People knew who my father was, who my family were. She was not so lucky. Her parents were poor, and everyone knew she was at the school only because of a generouswaqf, an endowment.”
“You protected her,” I said, understanding more of their relationship now. Kawkab Khala’s protectiveness was very much in evidence when her friend was present.
“We looked out for each other. But yes, she has always treated me as an older sister. Unfortunately she was married too young and left school too soon. But when I saw her, I tried to help.”
I processed this. “Did she get help for her... dark episodes, after she married?”
“Her first husband never understood her. Allah blessed her with a better man the second time,” Kawkab Khala said.
“And two daughters,” I added.
My aunt stacked dishes on the drying rack. “They are her stepchildren, but she loves them as if they were her own. When I decided to visit Toronto, I told her to come along, that we would have a grand adventure together. Her husband is generous and her stepchildren nearly grown, so we made arrangements.” She reached for the hand lotion we kept on the counter and began massaging the thick cream into paper-thin skin. “What a cold country your family chose. If I were your mother, I would have moved to California.”
I smiled faintly. “Mom likes a challenge.”
“A characteristic shared by all the women in our family, I’m afraid. Good night, Hanajaan.” She left me in the kitchen.
My phone pinged while I was getting ready for bed. To my surprise, the text was from Aydin. He must have gotten my number from Rashid.
If it’s not too much trouble, could you come by Wholistic Grill tomorrow night?
I texted back, asking what was going on.
I’d like to talk. I can bribe you with a peek inside the Evil Empire, and a taste of our menu.
When he put it like that...See you at 6 pm, I typed.This better be good.
* * *
I’m usually all about #blessed. As a Muslim, I was taught to be grateful for my many gifts; I know how lucky I am. I love my family, I’m young and healthy and educated, and I was born in Canada. But lately I’ve felt weighed down by sadness. A series of unfortunate events has paraded through my life, and I miss the days when I had the luxury to not worry about things I can’t control.
I came face to face with hatred recently. I don’t want to get into the details because this is supposed to be an anonymous podcast, and the incident is easily google-able. For the first time in my life, I was targeted, and the experience has left me rattled. It has been an unsettling experience too, because for so long I felt invisible. That strange dual existence—of being seen for one thing and dismissed for it at the same time—is just part of regular, everyday life for this particular BrownMuslim girl, and likely for a lot of people out there. I’ve lived in this skin for so long it’s the only way I know how to be.
Yet for the first time ever, I feel both seen and misunderstood. There is no solution to this feeling, I know, except to learn to grow comfortable with the me on the inside, the one not everyone gets to see or know. So I’m throwing this out to you now, listener friends: if you see someone struggling, don’t be afraid to reach out, to show them some compassion and maybe even empathy. Tell them you can see who they truly are, underneath their pain. You might find yourself similarly enveloped by clouds at some point. No one knows when the dark days will descend, only that they come for us all.
Chapter Thirty-Four
It was past six p.m. when I made my way to Wholistic Grill. Aydin’s storefront was set back from the street and partially shaded by trees. I pictured couples strolling there on summer evenings, children playing on the patio while friends caught up with their day. He had chosen a good spot for his restaurant. The door was unlocked and I let myself inside, overcome by curiosity. I wanted to see what had been done with the place.
