Love, Hate and Other Filters(68)
Right before Tenth Street emerges onto the cacophony of the West Side Highway, I stop to get a latte, wrapping my cool hands around the cup for warmth. As soon as I cross into Hudson River Park, the traffic din dies down, giving way to the sloshing of waves against the piers that jut out into the river. I love the unruly water that gives the Hudson its personality. On chilly afternoons, the park is mostly quiet, except for a few bicyclists and people walking their dogs. As I stroll far out onto the pier, I savor the sweetness of having a corner of New York all to myself.
At the end of the wide dock, I gaze down the open river corridor to the Statue of Liberty far in the distance, beyond the pile field of submerged logs that once supported the old piers. I breathe in the salty air—thinking of the first deep breath thousands of immigrants once took as they sailed into New York Harbor, dreaming. Even my own parents, though they arrived by plane from India, first stepped foot on American soil in New York. They stayed with family friends in Queens for a week before their onward journey to the Midwest. An old framed photo on my mother’s bureau pops into my mind: my parents standing on a tour boat against white rails, close but not touching. The Statue of Liberty in the background. My mother is graceful and thin with a sari draped over one shoulder and pulled modestly like a shawl around her back. My father, bushy-haired and smiling, squints in the sun. The hopes and ambitions they must’ve had, newly married and in love. How impossible it would’ve been for those two young people to envision where their lives would lead them. I want to walk into the picture, take their hands, and say that there will be incredible and heartbreaking changes ahead, but that their lives here will be good.
The wind chaps my cheeks. I glance down at my watch and start toward my dorm. At the next corner, I pause, setting up a crane shot for the movie in my mind:
The sky darkens as people brush by The Girl. Her green scarf flutters on the screen as the overcranked motion eventually slows around her. She turns to smile at the camera overhead, the vibrant resonance of New York swelling, as the edges of the frame fade to black.
When I first got word that Hot Key Books was interested in publishing Love, Hate & Other Filters, I was absolutely thrilled that Maya was going to receive multiple stamps in her passport and I’m forever grateful that the team at Hot Key Books believed my story could sail seas and cross borders.
To Fliss Johnston, my brilliant editor at Hot Key Books, thank you for reading this book on your plane ride back from Bologna and for loving this story and for giving it wings and letting it take flight.
This book you are holding in your hands exists in the real world because my amazing agent, Eric Smith, liked a tweet in the virtual one. Eric, thank you for being a fierce advocate and friend. And for knowing that there was a truth in this story that needed to be shared.
To my fabulous team at Hot Key Books, thank you for embracing Maya’s story; forever will your names be uttered with reverence in my home. But for the world and for the record, let me say them here. Jenny Jacoby, thank you for your keen eye, and patience through the editing process. Anneka Sandher, you brought Maya to life before our eyes and gave me the loveliest of covers. Nicola Chapman, Tina Mories, Nico Poilblanc, Vincent Kelleher, Angie Willocks, this book would not have been a book without your passion and commitment. To Asmaa Isse, Carla Hutchinson, Talya Baker, Emma Matthewson, and Jane Harris, thank you for being champions, for loving Maya’s story and pushing for it to be told.
To the entire team at my wonderful U.S. home, Soho Teen, thank you is too meager a phrase. Simply, you made the impossible real. Special thanks to my remarkable editor, Daniel Ehrenhaft, whose unwavering belief in my ability to make this story shine was the light when I needed it most. Bronwen Hruska, publisher and champion, you took a risk and lifted up Maya’s story and for that I am eternally grateful.
To dear friends and fellow writers who inspired and raised the bar high and believed: Sara Ahmed, Harvey ‘Smokey’ Daniels, Dhonielle Clayton, Aisha Saeed, Heidi Heilig, Sarvenaz Tash, Nicole Poindexter, Lizzie Cooke, Gloria Chao, Sangu Mandanna, Franny Billingsley, Ronni Davis Selzer, Hebah Uddin, Jonathan Levi, Amy Adams, Tiffany Schmidt, Sona Charaipotra, Adam Silvera, Beth Hahn, Claribel Ortega, Kat Cho, Rena Barron, and Anna Waggener. I am eternally grateful for your eyes and ears and wisdom and love.
Team Rocks, thank you for the laughter and tears and medicake. Waterfall glory forever!
I’ve been fortunate to meet many wonderful, supportive folks online. The KidLit Authors of Color group, you remind me every day why our stories are worth fighting for. Fight Me Club, you are all warriors; thank you for having my back. You have my sword, always. My fellow Electric 18s, may our stars burn long and bright. To my tweeps, especially all the indie booksellers, teachers, and librarians, thank you for being guardians of childhood and defenders of our cultural lighthouses.
My family provided enough fodder to fill ten books. To the top six and bottom six, thank you for your endless sharaarat and hangama. May your condiment packets and yogurt containers never run out and may the perfect sheets always line your suitcases. Special shout-out to Raeshma Razvi who tutored me on film terms and listened to my endless bakwas.
In many ways this book is a valentine to my hometown of Batavia, Illinois. To childhood friends, I hope you found something to smile at in these pages. The Lincoln Tree may be gone, but my love is forever. Go Bulldogs!
To my sisters, Asra and Sara, thank you for your encouragement and for putting up with the Baji treatment all these long years. We’re still the winningest sister trio in Batavia High School tennis history (this may not be technically true, but I write fiction, so, yes, yes, it is).