Chapter One
StanleyP
Happy five-month pod-iversary! According to inaccuratestatistics.com, most podcasts don't make it past month four, so you've beat the odds! I'd get you flowers, but that would imply I knew your name, mailing address, and flower preference, and that would cause my bot senses to melt into a confused puddle.
AnaBGR
That might be amusing. Okay, my real name is . . .
StanleyP
Wait. What? Seriously?
AnaBGR
Psych. Psych psych psych!
StanleyP
So cruel, when I'm trying to congratulate you. Any news on the mysterious dream-job interview?
AnaBGR
No news is good news, right?
StanleyP
Definitely. Especially when you're going after the highly specialized job of . . . unicorn wrangler? Toddler exorcist? Erotic knitter?
AnaBGR
An erotic knitter can't possibly be a thing.
StanleyP
You're saying you're definitely NOT a paper-folding priestess.
AnaBGR
That's as likely as anyone under the age of 40 actually being named Stanley.
StanleyP
I've offered to reveal my true identity. Aren't you a little curious about the incredibly hot, accomplished, muscular man behind StanleyP?
Was I curious about StanleyP? He had no idea.
I was in the corner booth of Three Sisters Biryani Poutine, the restaurant my family owned and ran in the heart of the Golden Crescent neighborhood, in the east end of Toronto. I was supposed to be cleaning in anticipation of customers, but instead I was texting StanleyP, my very first and most loyal listener.
Over the past five months, we had moved from polite commenter and podcaster to friendly acquaintances to genuine friends who texted every day. All without exchanging a single personal detail. Yet when I closed my eyes, I could imagine his smile. It would be shy, tentative. He would be kind-a thinker and listener, with a mischievous glint in his eye. I knew I would love his laugh.
The phone pinged in my hand. I looked down at the direct-messaging app we had started using a few months after he first began commenting on my podcast.
StanleyP
I think you might be the person who knows me best in the world right now. And I don't even know your real name.
My fingers hovered over the screen. I could tell him who I really was. I pictured myself typing it out:
My real name is Hana. I'm 24 and I live with my parents in the most diverse suburb in the world-Scarborough, in the east end of Toronto. You already know that I'm a South Asian Muslim, but you don't know that I wear hijab and I work two jobs. One is at Three Sisters Biryani Poutine, the restaurant my mother has been running for the past 15 years, and another at CJKP, a local indie radio station where I intern. Though "work" is a bit of a misnomer-neither position pays me actual money, and both positions have a limited life expectancy. The former because our restaurant is in trouble, and the latter because my internship is coming to an end and I have no idea what comes next. I'm trying not to panic about either situation.
Nope. StanleyP didn't need to know any of that. Better stick with simple biographical details:
I have an older sister named Fazeela and a brother-in-law named Fahim, and in about four months they will make me a khala (that means "aunt," in case you are a non-Urdu-speaking StanleyP). As for my dad . . .
I hesitated.
As for my dad . . .
It had been a long time since I had had to explain about Baba to a stranger. It used to be a daily occurrence as we navigated among hospitals, doctors, nurses, physiotherapists, and personal support workers. As Baba's condition stabilized, his world had shrunk, along with the need for explanations to strangers. In that surreal way that online friendships worked, StanleyP was still, technically, a stranger. A stranger I spoke with daily, one who knew my deepest hopes and fears, but not any details about my real, lived existence.
I picked up my phone and typed carefully.
AnaBGR
It's easier if we keep things the way they've always been. There's a lot going on in my life right now, and I'm not sure I can handle another complication.
Another, longer pause. Imaginary StanleyP had his brow furrowed, but he would understand, and he would respond. He always had a response.
StanleyP
Is this complication . . . relationship-shaped?
I almost laughed out loud at the question-but then my mother would have realized I was goofing off in the dining room, and made me help her in the restaurant kitchen.
Things had shifted between Stanley and me over the past month. Lately he had been hinting at more but had never come out and asked. But then, neither had I.
AnaBGR
More what-does-the-future-hold-shaped. A relationship would be easier to deal with than family and business stuff.
StanleyP
Our lives are running parallel. I have business-and-family-shaped complications too. That new project I was telling you about is finally happening. No relationship-shaped complication for me either.
StanleyP was single too. A flush crept along my collarbone and up through the roots of my hair, which was pulled back neatly under my bright pink hijab. I shifted in my seat. He probably hadn't always been single like me, but still. I knew what he wasn't asking me. And part of me was tempted to not answer back. Instead, I fell back into our usual humor.
AnaBGR
Why can't I be the complicated one? You always have to copy me.
StanleyP
It's what a bot does. The Stanbot is also programmed to give excellent advice and tell hilarious jokes, and is available for revelations of real names or the exchange of pictures/phone numbers. Just say the word. I'd love to get to know you better.
My stomach jolted with awareness at his words. I wanted more too. But it wasn't as easy for me. All the bravery I possessed was currently being put toward other things. I wasn't sure I had the energy to pursue whatever this thing between us was turning out to be.
I didn't know anything about Stanley beyond what he had told me. From hints he had dropped, I knew he lived in Canada and was a second-generation immigrant like me. I suspected he was South Asian, maybe even Muslim, but I didn't know anything for sure, and I wasn't quite ready to venture outside the comfort of our cozy anonymous relationship.
I was saved from responding by his next message.
StanleyP
Message me when you hear you got the job.
I closed the app. Mom emerged from the kitchen a few moments later, ostensibly to deliver my lunch but really to check that I was working. I was distracted from my annoyance by the treat she held in her hand: biryani poutine, my favorite.
"Hana, beta, eat fast. Customers could come at any time, meri jaan," she said, handing me the steaming plate piled high. My mother, Ghufran Khan, was a curious combination of nurturing and stern. She delivered orders in sharp bursts punctuated with Urdu endearments such as beta (child) and meri jaan (my life).
I devoured the mixture of fragrant rice, marinated chicken, crispy fries, savory gravy, and cheese curds. Mom wrinkled her nose and hastily returned to the kitchen. Biryani poutine is . . . an acquired taste. As in I was the only person who had acquired a taste for our restaurant's namesake dish.
Biryani is a popular north Indian dish, a casserole made from basmati rice layered on top of meat or chicken marinated in yogurt, salt, fresh coriander, a garlic-ginger paste, and garam masala. The dish is topped with ghee and saffron and then baked. Poutine is a regional Canadian dish that first gained popularity in Quebec. It consists of fresh-cut golden fries topped with rich, savory gravy and fresh cheese curds. Biryani layered with poutine was a strange combination that, so far, appealed only to me. Likely because I dreamed up the dish when I was nine years old.
My sister, my brother-in-law, and even random strangers thought biryani poutine was disgusting. Eventually Mom had taken it off the menu after our customers complained, though she still made it for me. It had stuck as the name for the restaurant, probably because Mom hadn't wanted to pay for a new sign.
I put down the plate, and popping in earbuds and cranking my favorite playlist, I began cleaning. After a few minutes I picked up the plate to take another bite of my lunch, swiveling my hips to TSwift's infectious pop and using my spoon as a microphone.
Someone tapped me on the shoulder and, startled, I dropped my plate. Demonstrating lightning-fast reflexes, the someone-a young man, I observed-saved my lunch from disaster. I took out my earbuds, and TSwift's bouncing lyrics blared for a moment into the silence before I hastily swiped the app closed.
The young man half smiled. Cute, I thought.
"Your . . . meal?" he asked, his tone deeply dubious as he handed back the plate. He looked to be about my age or slightly older, wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. A pair of flashy sunglasses with reflective silver lenses dangled from his collar. His hair was dark and curly, and a smile twitched at the corners of his full mouth. A hint of stubble accentuated a square jaw and warm terra-cotta skin. Large dark brown eyes regarded me from beneath thick black brows.
Definitely cute, but I didn't appreciate the questioning lilt at the end of that sentence. Or the way the older man standing behind him wrinkled his nose at my lunch.
"What is that?" the older man asked. Despite the salt-and-pepper hair and the deep frown lines etched into his cheeks, the resemblance between the two was clear. Father and son, I concluded.
"Biryani poutine," I answered, offended. "Only available on the VIP menu."
The older man frowned at my mop, which had fallen to the floor. "You work here? You look about fourteen years old."
I reached up to straighten my wrinkled black tunic and adjust my hijab. The young man followed the movements of my hands with his eyes before looking away with a faint smile. Was Mr. Silver Shades laughing at me?
Welcome to Three Sisters Biryani Poutine, where child labor is encouraged and biryani and poutine are kept segregated, as God intended, I wanted to say. Instead I led them to a booth.
"I don't understand why you insisted on coming here," the older man said loudly, settling into his seat with a look of distaste. "They probably don't even have clean cups."
Charming. A few years ago I might have asked Mr. Silver Shades to take his grumpy dad elsewhere. But they were our first customers of the day, and my family couldn't afford to be picky.
Three Sisters Biryani Poutine had seating for about forty people, spread out among a handful of plastic booths and yellowing square tables paired with wooden chairs. Bright fluorescent lighting painted every smudge and dent in harsh relief, and the walls were an unflattering green. Every year we meant to repaint, but time and money never allowed for it. Some art hung on the walls, mostly prints from IKEA or garage sales; Mom was partial to seascapes and large florals. A counter stood against the back wall, with the cash register in front of a door that led to the kitchen.
"These hole-in-the-wall places sometimes have excellent food, if you can look past the decor," the young man said to his father, not bothering to lower his voice. He caught my eye when I returned with cutlery and glasses, unaware-or uncaring-that I had overheard. The older man immediately reached for his glass and started inspecting it for water blotches.
"Have you worked here long?" Mr. Silver Shades asked.
"A few years," I said shortly, handing them laminated menus. I had officially started serving when I turned sixteen; before that I had helped out as dishwasher, sweeper-any job that needed to be done. Not that Mr. Silver Shades and his designer clothes would have any idea what a struggling family-run business required.
"There aren't any other restaurants in the neighborhood," he remarked. "This area could use more selection, don't you think?"
"No, I don't," I said. "Things are fine the way they've always been."
Mr. Silver Shades perused the empty dining room dubiously. "I hope you have a backup plan for when this place shuts down. Shouldn't be long now."
I stared at him in shock. Had he really just said that my mother's restaurant was on the brink of closing?
"Bring us some water," the young man said, dismissing me outright. He turned his attention to our comprehensive menu, written in both English and Urdu. I walked away before I did something foolish, like empty the water jug over his head.
When we first opened, Three Sisters had been one of the few full-service restaurants that served halal meat, a fact that had enticed customers from all over the city. As Toronto's Muslim population grew, more halal restaurants began to pop up all over the city. A demographic shift occurred at the same time: Second-generation immigrant kids weren't as interested in eating the South Asian staples their parents craved. Mr. Silver Shades was right. Three Sisters Biryani Poutine had been open for fifteen years, but now we were in deep trouble.
"Your menu is very extensive. What would you recommend?" Mr. Silver Shades asked when I returned to take their order. Grumpy Dad had pulled out a pair of reading glasses and was examining his fork.
I rattled off our specialties, and the young man frowned at every choice, the notch above his eyebrows deepening with every word. He was contemplating walking out, I could tell. I knew Three Sisters would never win any prizes for beauty, but then, this man and his father would never win any prizes for grace.
"Why don't you just order what you think we'd like," he finally said. "Let's make it four dishes, and some mango lassi."
I chirped, "Sounds good!" and collected their menus. I wasn't sure if I should feel relieved that they had stayed to fill our till, or disappointed that they hadn't left and saved me the trouble of serving people I disliked. Then again, they were probably strangers passing through Golden Crescent. I didn't recognize either of them, and I knew most of the people who lived in the neighborhood. After this meal, I hoped I would never have to see Mr. Silver Shades and his grumpy dad ever again.
Chapter Two
I gave Mom the order-chicken biryani, malai kofta, dal makhani, and naan-then hung around the kitchen while Fazeela, Fahim, and Mom worked.
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