Love, Hate and Other Filters(29)

“Don’t be ridiculous. I would never repeat necklaces so close together—that one had the rubies in it. This one just has a few emeralds.”

“Of course. Because emeralds totally scream casual brunch.”

“Maya, beta, remember when you invite someone, as the host you must make them feel welcome and appreciated. In India, a guest is like a god in the house. You need to treat them with proper tameez.” It’s all part of the show, of course. She wants to prove that I’m a nice Indian girl from a good family. As if we should have to prove that. But more, she wants the day to be perfect. For a second, I’m sorry it won’t be. For her.

“The house looks good. The food is ready. I’m going to make a few more parathas. And let me start the tea. I want to steep it a good, long time.”

She’s right. The house does look good. From the outside looking in, everything is as it should be. Too bad that fa?ade is destined to crumble.



The doorbell rings at exactly ten-thirty.

“They’re not on Indian Standard Time, I guess,” my dad jokes as he walks to the door.

I muster a smile. “Yeah, somehow they’ve adapted to the strange American custom of arriving when asked.” I follow him to the door. My mom trails behind. My mouth is dry. I realize I actually want to see Kareem. I thought I was going to just dread this moment—breaking things off. But he’s impossible not to like. I do like him. Just not enough, or in the right way.

“As-salaam-alaikum. Come in. Come in. Welcome. Welcome.”

Kareem hands my mom flowers. I mouth the words “ass kisser” at him from behind my mom’s back. He smirks but keeps his eyes on my mother. My mom thanks him effusively, going on and on about how he shouldn’t have and congratulating his parents on raising such a wonderful son. In spite of all the food I can’t wait to eat, I suddenly have no appetite. All this gushing adds to the myth of Kareem in my mother’s matrimonial fancy—the suitable boy, the boy with tameez, the one boy to rule them all. But I’m also being as unfair to him as I’m being to her. He thinks we’re something that we’re not.

Kareem and his parents slip off their shoes in the foyer. His mom is also wearing a shalwar kameez with beautiful floral embroidery accented with gold jewelry. She’s not as decked out as my mom, but then, she’s the guy’s mom, and it’s always the girl’s mom who is more invested, has more to lose. Because desi guys, especially ones as eligible as Kareem, always seem to have more options.

My mom guides Kareem’s parents into the living room, her voice brighter and more singsong than usual. “The food is nearly ready. It’s nothing much, home cooking, you know.”

“Maybe we should put those flowers in water?” my dad suggests, louder and with more emphasis on the “we” than necessary.

“Yes, yes. Salma, can you please help me select the vase?” My mom flashes my dad an eye-smile.

“Of course.” Salma Auntie plays along. “And I must see what you’ve cooked; it smells heavenly.”

“Sajid, let me show you a few recent improvements I’ve made to the cabinets.” My dad gestures to the kitchen. All four adults vanish.

And scene. Kareem and I are alone.

I turn to Kareem, hoping my cheeks aren’t pink. “Not obvious at all.”

“They’re so smooth, aren’t they?” Kareem laughs and steps closer to me. I scratch a nonexistent itch on my forehead; I am hyperaware of my own breathing. But my hand doesn’t pose enough of an obstacle. He moves it gently aside and bends down to kiss me.

I hop back, shaking free. “Have you lost it?” I loud-whisper.

My parents are hidden behind the kitchen wall, voices chattering, dishes clattering. But I’m pretty certain my mom has x-ray vision.

He gives me a puzzled smile. “We’re alone. They want us to be alone.”

“Not alone. They’re fifteen feet away. Believe me, my parents would not be cool with kissing under their roof, or anywhere else for that matter, even if you are Muslim and Indian and an engineering major and bursting with tameez.”

Kareem shrugs. “Well then, I’ll just have to figure out a way to get you alone—really alone.”

I look into Kareem’s dark, flirtatious eyes and almost remember why I liked him in the first place. I wish this day were already over. I wish my feelings were different. But they aren’t.

Our mothers appear with two heaping plates of food and two mango lassis. My mom smiles a little too brightly as she hands a plate and glass off to me. Salma Auntie hands hers to Kareem. “Maya, it’s such a beautiful day. Why don’t you show Kareem outside?”

“Excellent idea,” Salma Auntie says before I can answer. “I think I saw a picnic table out there.” She winks at my mom as if neither Kareem nor I are present.

The day is beautiful, so there’s no point in protesting. I lead Kareem out through the screen door into the yard, past my old wooden swing set (my parents insist on keeping it for posterity), to the weathered red picnic table underneath the weeping willow in the corner. On the plus side, the wide trunk and drooping branches completely shield us from the prying eyes of our parents.

“Alone at last,” Kareem says as we sit across from each other. He reaches over the table to stroke my arm.

“My dad painted the shed so it would look like a little barn. It’s the symbol of his American dream. Every lawn-cutting, hedge-trimming, barbecuing, suburban-dad device is in that shed. He’s totally obsessed with Home Depot.” I speak a mile a minute. My words are garbled; they bang and smash into each other.