Love, Hate and Other Filters(62)

“Emancipated? Rights? Now you talk as if you’re a lawyer? This is not how we raised you.” My mom lifts her eyes from the tea, her voice trembling.

“And how will you pay for school? Will you work in the school cafeteria? That won’t even pay for your books. Then you will realize what you’ve done.”

“Bhai.” I can tell Hina is making an effort to keep her voice relaxed. “Last night I offered to help Maya financially if she needs it, and—”

“First you hide Maya applying to school in New York, and now this? Paying for our daughter to defy us? You have no right to do this.” My mother’s rage permeates the space around us.

“Aapa, I know you’re her mother. I know you love her. But Maya deserves a chance to pursue her dreams. I can help her do that. I can’t stand by and watch Maya be pigeonholed into a life she doesn’t want. And actually, yes, I have a right to spend my money as I deem fit.”

“No. No. No! Don’t you dare lecture me. I stood by you when everyone criticized you. Becoming a graphic designer. Living in Chicago on your own. Not married at your age. I’m the one who defended your choices, but I won’t have that life for my daughter.”

My family implodes before my eyes. Whatever we really mean to one another feels so lost and far away. “Stop it!” I scream. I don’t even try for calm. I have no calm left. “This isn’t Hina’s fault. It’s my choice. It’s my life, and I have a right to do what I want.”

“You have a right? You have a right? If we were in India, you would never defy us this way. You would be a good girl who listened to her parents. And now look at you.” My mom’s hands shake as she steps behind my dad, grasping the back of his chair for support.

“Even if we lived in India, I would still be who I am and want what I want. Geography wouldn’t have changed that.”

My father shakes his head. “This is our karma for raising you with these … these American values.”

“Can’t you see, Maya?” My mom’s voice softens a bit, trying a different tack. “Look what happened after this bombing. We’ll always be the scapegoats. Even though it was one of their people who did this. See what happened to us and to you. We don’t belong here.”

“Yes, terrible racist stuff happened, but we’re part of this place, and it’s a part of us. And we can help make it better by being here and living our lives and being happy. We can be … We are American and Indian and Muslim.”

“And what will people think? How will we explain this to everyone?”

“Mom, can’t you for once care what I think? You and dad came to America—you left your parents back in India because that’s what you wanted for yourselves. You took a chance. That’s what I want, too.”

“And what if you fail in this … this … making movies? Then what?”

“Then I pull myself up by my bootstraps and start over. You taught me that. You came here, started with almost nothing, and built your practice. I know how hard you worked. Please, you have to let me at least try before you decide I’m going to fail.”

My dad has been quietly rubbing his palms for the last few minutes, not saying a word. But now, he brings his fist down on the table, rattling the cups and spilling his tea. “Maya’s right.”

“I am?”

“She is?” The blood drains from my mom’s face.

“She will be eighteen next month, and in this country she is an adult and can make her own choices.” The edge in his voice gives way to fatigue. “Maya, we can’t stop you from going to New York. But we have made our opinion clear. So now you must choose—your parents or New York.”

Gauntlet thrown.

For a second, I think of Kareem. I know what he would say. Carpe diem. “New York.” The words squeak out, barely. But I’ve said them. They are real.

My father pushes back his chair and stands up. “You’ve made your decision and now understand mine. As a daughter, you are dead to us. When you turn eighteen in June, you will leave this house.”

My dad’s words are like a punch to the gut. He can’t mean them. This can’t be real.

“But Dad, school doesn’t start till September, and—”

“You want to be emancipated. So be it.” He turns without looking back at me or waiting for a reaction and walks through the kitchen into the backyard.

I brush away tears with the back of my hand.

My mom’s jaw is taut. She looks at my aunt. “Leave my house,” she says, her voice barely audible. Then she directs her whisper to me. “You have broken your parents’ hearts.” She lumbers out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

I can’t move. I sit at the table, stunned.

Hina wraps her arm around my shoulder and clears her throat. “They’ll come around—maybe not right away, but someday. Consider what this means to them. They feel like they’ve lost their daughter. They love you, even if they don’t show it the way you want them to. But you ran away. You scared all of us. And now you’ve told them you’ve chosen New York over them. It’s an awful lot to handle. Give them time. I know you’ve made the right decision for yourself—even a courageous one—to pursue your dreams and the life you want. Don’t lose faith. Your mother forgave me after all, even if she doesn’t show it.”