Love, Hate and Other Filters(3)
My defenses are up. “It’s going fine.” I cross my arms. “Did you fly in for the wedding?”
“My mom asked me to come. I took a long weekend.” Kareem’s wandering eyes finally meet my own. His are brown, like mine, like most Indians’, but so dark that the pupil almost completely fades into the iris. They’re liquid and beckoning. And his lips. There is no denying that Violet would label them delish.
“Kareem, Maya will attend University of Chicago next year.”
This from his mother, whom I’ve never met. But I understand her attempt to draw out the conversation.
“I got in, but I haven’t decided yet,” I correct.
Inside, I’m squirming. Nobody here but Hina knows my secret. I’ve applied to NYU and been accepted. NYU is my dream school. I’m not going to the University of Chicago if I can help it. The mere fact that I’ve pulled off this feat—under the radar, in spite of the ever-present gaze of my parents—represents a tiny victory, one that fills me with both hope and guilt. My stomach churns every time I get close to telling them. Especially my mother.
But I have to tell them. And soon. This secret has an expiration date. How, though? How can I tell my mother that I don’t want to go to a great school—one that’s an easy commute from home, but also from endless family obligations and her constant hovering?
“Decide? What’s to decide?” my mom demands, as if reading my thoughts. “You’ve gotten into one of the best schools in the country. It’s decided.”
Sitar music fills the lapse in conversation.
“Maya, I saved you a chair next to me,” Hina offers.
“Thanks,” I whisper. I sit and squeeze her hand under the table.
“No problem.” She leans close, lowering her voice. “Cute guy, by the way—”
“Shh.” Now I’m full-on blushing, afraid Kareem, or worse, his mother, will overhear.
The sitar music fades into a remix of a forever classic, “Chaiyya Chaiyya.” It booms from the speakers. I raise my camera. One thing I’ve learned: people love a camera, and when I’m filming, they see it, not me, so whenever I need to, I can quietly disappear behind my trusty shield.
Ten guys, the groom’s friends and family, led by a man playing the dhol, an Indian drum, begin to dance their way to the mandap. The music slows while the groom walks down the aisle with his parents. Rose and jasmine garlands encircle the groom’s neck.
Ayesha’s cousins and friends follow in an array of colorful saris. Each one cups a glass lotus-shaped votive—their faces radiant above the candlelight. I zoom in to catch the dramatic effect. Finally, Ayesha and her parents appear at the door. The music slows, and a bright Urdu love song takes over from the sonorous dhol. The guests rise. As Ayesha enters the room, a wave of aaahs and camera flashes precede her down the aisle. She floats toward her groom. Shahnaz Auntie, the bride’s mother, looks grim, probably worried about her daughter’s reaction to the wedding night.
Note to Shahnaz Auntie: Ayesha is not going to be shocked.
The cleric begins with a prayer in Urdu, translating everything into English for the many non-Urdu speakers. I catch my parents looking at each other affectionately. I can’t turn away fast enough.
The vows are simple, the same kind of pledges I’ve heard at weddings of every faith. Except at the end, there is no kiss. I close in for the money shot, anyway, hoping for a moment of rebellion from Ayesha and Saleem. But no. No public kissing allowed. Full stop. The no kissing is anticlimactic, but some taboos cross oceans, packed tightly into the corners of immigrant baggage, tucked away with packets of masala and memories of home.
When the music comes back on, waiters appear with appetizers and plate after heaping plate of mouthwatering food—biryani and kebabs and tandoori chicken and samosas. The room fills with happy chatter. I spy Ayesha and Saleem sneaking out, maybe hoping to steal that kiss in private.
“Maya, put the video camera down and eat, for God’s sake,” my mother says.
She gives me the Indian bobblehead waggle that can literally mean anything: yes, no, why, what’s up, maybe, carry on. I want to keep filming the choreography of waiters moving seamlessly in and out the kitchen doors, hot plates in their hands and smiles on their faces, each doing a little half-turn as they walk through the door, pushing it open with their shoulders. In editing, I can slow down the waitstaff action and time it to “Pachelbel’s Canon.” It will be wedding-y, but irreverent, too. Resigned, I exchange my camera for a fork.
“Maya is the family documentarian,” my father explains to Kareem’s parents. As if my behavior necessitates explanation.
“She makes beautiful films. One day, she’ll take Hollywood by storm,” Hina says. My aunt always makes me believe I can fly.
Dad clears his throat. “Well, it’s a good hobby, anyway.” Translation: don’t get any ideas.
I narrow my eyes at him. After all, it’s his fault I fell in love with making movies in the first place.
A few years ago, in an uncharacteristic burst of after-school special inspiration, my father planned a daddy-daughter day for us that included mini-golf, McDonald’s, and a documentary about a racecar driver. He was so proud of his movie choice because the director was Muslim. And Indian. Well, British. But Indian. I forced myself to smile throughout because I didn’t want to crush him with my complaints. But I was rolling my eyes and harrumphing on the inside until the first scene when a tousle-haired, smiling young man filled the screen. Senna grabbed me by the throat and heart and didn’t let go.