Thank you for sharing your story, Kawkab Khala,” Radio Hana said. “And thank you all for listening to my brand-new show,Secret Family History. What’syoursecret?”
The question, the trademark handle I had brainstormed with Thomas and Big J, landed like a thunderclap in the living room. Fazee, Baba, and Kawkab blinked as if they had been released from a spell.
I imagined Marisa’s face at that precise moment, the colour of her cherry-red Hermès scarf.
I glanced at my aunt, who was placidly folding her silk dupatta, and a wave of admiration swept over me once more. In an era when women around the world were still being routinely belittled and silenced, when feminist activism was only in its infancy, my aunt had felt no qualms about refusing to do as she was told. In the best of ways, she was truly a radical.
I wondered if Fazee and Baba were thinking about their own marriages. Fazee and Fahim had fallen in love first and then married, but my parents had an arranged marriage. Mom once told me that she only saw a picture of Baba before their wedding day, her shy silence beinginterpreted as consent. In her case, it had been. In the case of Kawkab Khala, whose parents were far richer than my family, her loud and repeated protests had fallen on deaf ears. “Cats climb,” she had told me.
In the living room now, the chai in front of Baba had grown cold, and my sister had not reached for her phone once while my show was playing. Even my aunt had been caught up in the story she had lived through, and a flare of pride ignited in my chest. I had done this. I had kept my family entranced.Follow the story of your heart. I had done so, and the results were before me, in the contemplative bubble that only good storytelling inspires.
Baba rose from his seat and kissed my cheek, enveloping me in a hug. He smelled like starched linen and cinnamon, and I drank it in. “Mubarak ho,” he said. “Allah has blessed you with a gift. You will be a star one day.” Fazeela congratulated me as well, and then they both made their way to their bedrooms, leaving me alone with my aunt.
“Why was this story a secret for so long?” I asked Kawkab. I hadn’t asked her on air, but I was curious.
“Shame, I suppose. My parents were embarrassed by my behaviour. They died with that shame. I’m sure I became a cautionary tale of the dangers of raising a willful girl.” My aunt smiled crookedly. “Of course, my extended family were afraid that their daughters would find inspiration in my story and learn to climb trees of their own. I believe some of them did. Look at your mother, at yourself, even your sister. You all possess that same spirit of adventure and risk-taking, in your own way. Perhaps your mother and sister lost that feeling recently, and the only way for them to get it back is to begin anew. Just as you are about to do, Hanajaan.”
I acknowledged the truth of my aunt’s words. Her story had remained an open secret in some ways. Most people back home inIndia knew the details, so it wasn’t much of a secret at all; in fact, it had turned into a family myth. In turn, she had turned that mythology to her advantage. My aunt had chosen her fate, though it came with consequences. We hadn’t elaborated on it during the show, but her relationship with her parents had been severely damaged. Yet she had accepted her lot and worked within the parameters of her decision. Her eventual marriage, later in life, had been a choice freely made. My aunt valued her independence above all else.
I was grateful to have learned my aunt’s secret family history, even if it wasn’t so secret. Our secrets expose what we most deeply fear, or most fervently want. I could understand that now. Yusuf and Lily were ready to be together, despite the obstacles. Fahim and Fazeela had on some level felt trapped by the restaurant, and our financial difficulties had offered the freedom to make a new, independent move. Aydin and Afsana had been heading back towards each other ever since they were torn apart. And maybe Aydin had been looking for his true home all along, one that he had found in Golden Crescent.
Aydin said he had chosen my community, my neighbourhood, on purpose as the site of his long-dreamed-of restaurant. I began to contemplate the possibility that he hadn’t come to unleash chaos and destruction. Maybe some part of him had known that he was approaching a nexus point, and he had been looking for the strength to throw off his father’s expectations and take a different path.
If my aunt could climb a tree holding a rifle, if she could deliberately set fire to her life based only on a clear, unwavering vision of her future; if my mother had the courage to start again; if Aydin had the nerve to take a chance on love and community—then I could do it too. It was time for me to throw off my own anonymous alter ego and embrace the Hana I had become over the past year.
Assuming Aydin ever came back from Vancouver. But even if he didn’t, I would be okay. I came from a long line of unstoppable women.
I texted StanleyP, eager to share with someone who would understand, someone who had been with me from the start.
AnaBGR
Rethinking this whole anonymous thing.
StanleyP
You’re ghosted once and suddenly you’re questioning everything.
AnaBGR
Not sure I need the mask anymore, and even if Mr. Unexpected Sources did ghost me, I’ll be all right.
StanleyP
Don’t tell me you just realized you’ve been in Oz all along.
AnaBGR
I’m ready to face my audience as myself, and use any hate or love that comes my way as fuel and inspiration. As my cousin once said, Build a dam.
A long moment. Then—
StanleyP
Your cousin said that?
AnaBGR
Yes, during this thing that happened to me a while ago... Never mind. I just think of his words sometimes, when life gets especially difficult. He’s just a kid, but one of the smartest people I know. Build a dam means to use the negativity in your life to power good. You know?
