A trio of little girls skipped past, clad in dresses paired with sneakers, trailed by their parents. A couple walked hand in hand, the woman in hijab, the man in jeans and a T-shirt. They were followed by a larger family, a teenage boy trailing his elderly grandparents, the grandfather in starched white salwar kameez and a brown felt prayer hat, grandmother in a neatly tied sari.
The Three Sisters booth wasn’t as busy as Wholistic Grill’s, but a steady stream of customers lined up for our specialities. Mom stood beside the stall, nursing a cup of strong chai. I hugged her from behind, startling her. “What are you thinking about?” I asked.
“How long it has been since your father and I visited India,” she said. “Kawkab Apa reminded me that I have not been back since your nani died.” I remembered that—the call in the middle of the night, my mother’s quiet weeping at the news of her mother’s death, the scramble to find a plane ticket so she could get back to India in time for thejanazah, how we had all pulled together and split her shifts for the five days she had been away.
“We might go back, for a few weeks this time,” she added.
“What about Fazeela?” I asked.
“She’s got a few months before the baby comes. And she has Fahim, and you,” Mom said. She looked around again, sipping her chai. “I didn’t want to participate in the street festival this year, but I’m glad we did. It has been... nice, despite our unwelcome guests,” she said, nodding at the protestors. She paused, and I knew what she was about to say before she spoke. “I have decided to sell the restaurant,meri jaan. It might not be what you want, but it is my choice and I am at peace with it.”
Mom had been telling me, in so many different ways, for weeks. She waited while I absorbed the news. I took a deep breath, pulling myself together. I would be all right, and my mother deserved to think about herself for once. It was time she got to choose.
Choice. That’s what my parents had gifted me. There is nothing more powerful than being able to make up your own mind about something. Nothing headier than reaching out your hand and saying:This. I choose this.
Across the lane, a young man near the Wholistic Grill booth caught my eye. He was dressed in a white T-shirt and dark jeans, silver sunglasses tucked into the neckline of his shirt. As our eyes locked, I realized I felt another, equally powerful sentiment:You. I choose you.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Aydin didn’t walk over right away. Instead he held up one finger, motioning for me to wait. I watched him cross the street, to where the protestors and anti-protestors were busy yelling at each other, on the verge of violence. It was difficult to stand still and watch. My need to talk to him, to discuss our relationship as StanleyP and AnaBGR, and most especially the last remaining secret between us—that his mother was alive and wanted to meet him—was overwhelming.
The mood across the street had grown uglier. Screaming and red-faced, original Black T-Shirt was facing off against Yusuf now. As I watched, he reached forward and grabbed Yusuf by the shirtfront, pulling his hand back to swing. I had a sudden memory of the man who had tried to hurt Aydin downtown before I pulled him away from harm. Across the street now, Lily did the same, yanking Yusuf back; they stumbled together, a near parody of the downtown attack. Constable Lukie stepped forward just as I started running towards my friends. Our street festival was about to descend into an ugly brawl.
“NOBODY WANTS YOU HERE, ISLAMIST SCUM!” BlackT-Shirt yelled, just as Aydin reached the vanguard of the racist protestors. From my vantage point I could see that Aydin wore a small smile, his demeanour calm. The protestors surrounding Black T-Shirt began to jeer and yell at him, but he didn’t react. Instead he turned briefly and scanned the crowd, almost as if he were waiting for something.
I watched his smile widen slightly, and then I heard it too. A drumbeat. It came from the Golden Crescent neighbourhood. Everyone in the hateful tableau swivelled their heads, searching for the source of the noise.
The first drumbeat was joined by a second, and then a third. Three young men emerged from the other end of the street, each dressed in a vibrant red salwar and cream-coloured kameez pants, golden turbans perched cheekily on their heads. The drumming originated from thedholsthe men carried; the barrel-shaped, double-headed drums were supported by long lanyards looped around each drummer’s neck and across the chest, leaving their arms free. Using curved drumsticks, the musicians hammered out a beat that grew steadily louder as they marched towards Aydin, until the noise was deafening.
“What’s happening?” Rashid shouted beside me. “Was this part of the plan?” He took out his phone and began to take a video of the unfolding scene.
I shook my head, bewildered. “Aydin said he would invite some performer friends, but I didn’t know any details.”
My cousin broke into a grin. “He is using war tactics to intimidate the enemy. Look how they cower in fear.”
The black T-shirt army and even the counter-protestors seemed more confused than scared, but they had all stopped yelling. In fact, everyone had stopped what they were doing, including the festival attendees and vendors. All eyes were riveted on the scene in front ofus, transfixed by the sight and sounds of the musicians in their colourful clothing.
The three drummers stood in a line behind Aydin, their hands flying as they hammered out a heart-pounding rhythm. The beat rose to a crescendo as it came to a climax. Then they all stopped and executed a neat flip of their drumsticks in unison, catching them as they turned around to face the festivalgoers.
“GOLDEN CRESCENT!” the man in the centre bellowed. “Are you ready to PARTY?” This was greeted by only a smattering of cheers and claps, but the drummers were undaunted. They began to play once more, a lively, danceable beat this time. Six dancers, dressed casually in track pants and T-shirts, burst from the crowd as raucous, cheerful bhangra music began to pound from speakers set up surreptitiously around the edges of the street. The dancers began to execute an elaborate, high-energy choreographed routine, their movements broad and punchy, jumping into the air and landing in tandem, arms flailing and legs skipping and leaping. The festival attendees and vendors went wild, clapping and hooting and stomping their feet to the pounding, bass-heavy beat.
They thought it had all been planned, I realized—the protests, the dancers—all working together like a flash mob. I noticed that Aydin was dancing too. He tried to keep up as best he could, but he was obviously an amateur, and the effect was hilarious. He was a few beats off, his movements wild and erratic. When I caught his eye, he winked at me, just as the music changed and a familiar Taylor Swift tune began to play.
The dancers turned around, facing the festival area, their backs to the black T-shirts. And then Aydin and the dancers started awkwardly twerking, bums shaking and jerking in the protestors’ confused faces.
I burst out laughing. Around me, the street festival participants laughed as well. Tears were falling down Rashid’s cheeks as he filmed, he was laughing so hard, and beside him Zulfa giggled. We watched Aydin try to execute a shimmy, followed by jazz hands, before breaking into an awkward running man, while the rest of the dancers continued to shake their bums in time with the beat.
Black T-Shirt and friends looked around at the laughing crowd, dazed and irritated by the unexpected turn of events. By the middle of Queen T’s flip-off anthem, they had started to peel away, leaving in pairs and singles. By the end of the song, only Original Black T-Shirt and a few of his friends remained. His face was still red, but I suspected more from embarrassment at the backside salutes than anything else. I heard him yell something at Aydin, a final hateful, profanity-laced parting shot, before he too hefted his sign and left.
The counter-protestors seemed to have the same idea. A few of them joined the impromptu dance party in the middle of the street, but most of them had realized that both the rally and the show were over. Rashid had disappeared with Zulfa.
Aydin sank down onto a plastic folding chair beside me. Our eyes met and we started to laugh, small giggles at first, but soon we were howling. His shoulders shook with great convulsions of hilarity. Tears streamed down my face and it was hard to breathe.
I knew I loved him. And that I had to tell him about Afsana Aunty.
“Hana,” he managed between bouts of laughter.
“Yes?” I gasped. I was nearly hysterical, half laughing and half crying.
