Love, Hate and Other Filters(33)

“Aapa, there’s nothing wrong. Let Maya explain,” Hina says.

I gulp. This is happening. Right now. “Mom. Dad. You know how I love making movies?”

“It’s a very nice hobby,” my father says. His tone is firm. “We are all looking forward to the movie of Ayesha’s wedding.”

“It’s more than a hobby.” My voice falters. I look from my dad to my mom. I take a deep breath. I straighten my shoulders and sit up in my seat. If I don’t sound convincing to myself, they definitely aren’t going to buy anything I have to say. I clear my throat.

“I want to make movies. Forever. As a career. I want to study film, in school.” My parents stare at me like they are looking into an abyss, searching for light. “You know how I got into Northwestern and U of C?”

“Two excellent schools where you can study to become a lawyer.” My dad’s voice is firmer now. Flatter, too.

“Umm. Well … I sort of also applied to NYU and got in.”

Dad drops his silverware. “Sort of?”

“Not sort of. I applied to NYU. I was accepted.”

“NYU,” my mom repeats.

“Uh-huh. Yes. NYU. New York University.”

“But that’s in—” She turns to my dad.

“Yes, Mom. It’s in New York. That’s why it’s called New York University.” Wrong moment for sarcasm.

“Maya.” My dad’s tone is sharp. “Watch how you talk to your mother. So what you’re telling us is that you applied to this school behind our backs, and you got in, and now you expect us to let you go there?”

My mom shakes her head. Her expression is both less angry and more puzzled than his. “Maya, you’re not going to NYU. The answer is simple. No. It’s too far. We agreed that you would be staying close to home.”

I feel a little prickle of anger. “No, Mom. You and Dad agreed. Not me. I want to go to NYU. It’s one of the best film schools in the country. They say my films show a lot of promise, and they have amazing professors, and it’s only two hours by plane. And I know it’s more expensive than U of C, but I promise I’ll work extra hours at the Idle to save money and even get a job in New York to make up some of the difference.”

My parents start talking to each other in Urdu, the primary and personal language they share. Anytime the topic veers toward something serious or emotional, especially anger, they revert to Urdu. I get it. It’s familiar, the language they grew up with and met each other in. I can keep up because I understand it, but they know I can’t respond, not really. People in India always say Urdu is this sweet language of poetry, but to me, Urdu just sounds like my parents.

“She can’t go. She has to stay close to home. This is your fault, you know. You’re the one who got her that dumb camera. Always encouraging her.” My mom is in free fall. “I knew we gave her too much freedom. Always letting her do whatever she wants, never taking her to the mosque—”

“Jaan, jaan, calm down.” My dad tries to pacify my mother, but the bulging vein in his forehead tells me he is far from relaxed. “Let her explain. Maybe this is a phase.” He turns toward me; the English language and I reappear in the conversation. “I don’t understand how you simply … lied … so easily … and applied to NYU and now expect us to say, ‘Okay, go ahead’? This isn’t just a matter of money, Maya. You know that.”

“Dad, I’m sorry. I should’ve told you. But I made a spur-of-the-moment decision to apply. I didn’t dream I’d get in. And you’re so adamantly against it … I did tell Hina, and—” The blurter emerges; it’s a mistake to implicate my aunt.

Now my mom looks upset. She turns her fiery gaze on Hina. “You encouraged her? My sister and my daughter lying to me. What did I do to deserve this?” my mom yells as her eyes grow shiny with tears.

“It’s not Hina’s fault. I—”

“It’s okay.” Hina puts her hand on my arm and interjects, “I did support her decision. I do. Maya has a talent. You don’t want her to waste a gift from God, now do you?”

“Oh, don’t you start, as if you are so pious,” Mom snaps. “Maya got this defiance from you. You’ve set a terrible example.”

Hina lets the words wash right over her. She is serene. “Aapa, do you pray five times a day—regularly?”

“I … I … Well, you know each night I pray for Maya. Obviously I have not been doing a good job.”

I throw up my hands. “What does praying have to do with going to NYU, anyway? I’m not modern or whatever because of Hina. I’m the way I am because I live now. In the twenty-first century. In America. And I want to make movies.” My eyes are wide. I’m rebelling. I’m going to be a desi movie-making rebel. Just like Deepa Mehta. Of course, I could never mention her name as a role model, because even though Water was tragic and beautiful and amazing and got an Oscar nomination, it caused riots in India, and she got death threats. Not the image I want my parents to associate with me being a director.

Mom’s expression grows bitter. “I really should have sent you to boarding school in India.”

“Everyone, calm down,” my dad urges. “Sofia, you’re going to raise your blood pressure. And Maya, you need to listen …”