Love, Hate & Other Filters(2)

But there is no escape.

The tinkling of her silver-belled anklets signal the not-to-be-missed approach of Yasmeen, who addresses my mother with the honorific “auntie,” the title accorded all mom-aged Indian women, relation or not. “As-salaam-alaikum, Sophia Auntie!”

Yasmeen is only two years older than me; in my mom’s eyes, we should be BFFs. Our parents have known each other since their old Hyderabad days, and my mom has been trying to make a friendship happen since Yasmeen’s family moved to the States several years ago. But in real life, we’re a dud of a match. Also, she’s an annoying kiss-ass.

But the girl’s got style. Yasmeen is dressed to snare the attention of a suitable young gentleman. Preferably more than one, because a girl needs options. Her peacock-colored lehanga that sweeps the floor, her arms full of sparkling bangles, her emerald-and-pearl choker, and the killer kajal that lines her eyelids make her the perfect candy-colored Bollywood poster girl.

“Asif Uncle! How are you? Mummy will be so excited to see you both. Maya Aziz, look at you. You’re adorable. That shade of pink really suits you. You should wear Indian clothes more often, you know?”

I don’t even try to hide it when I roll my eyes. “You’ve seen me wear Indian clothes a million times.”

“Come on, Ayesha is getting ready in the bridal room.”

My mom winks her blessing at Yasmeen. “Take her, beta, and show her how to be at least a little Indian.” So much for family solidarity.

Yasmeen wraps my wrist in a death grip and drags me through the lobby to the tune of “Ek Ladki ko Dekha,” a Bollywood love song that inspired millions of tears.

Everyone seems happy to be here, except me.

It’s not just that I hate weddings, which I do. But also because it’s Ayesha. I’ve known her most of my life. She’s five years older than me, and in middle school I was in awe of her. The arsenal of lipsticks in her purse and her ability to deploy them perfectly was the kind of social prowess I dreamed of. I never imagined her succumbing to an arranged marriage, especially not right out of college. Even if it was a modified arrangement that involved three months of clandestine dating.

Yasmeen leaves me at the door when she spots her mom summoning her to meet another auntie. And the auntie’s son. Sweet relief.

When I step into the bridal prep room, I stop short.

Ayesha is the living embodiment of an old-school Hollywood halo filter. It’s breathtaking. I take a moment to absorb the sight: my bejeweled friend in her intricate ghagra choli—a ball skirt and short blouse of cherry-colored silk embroidered with gold threads and encrusted with tiny beads and pearls.

“Ayesha, you’re stunning.”

“Thank you, love.”

I’ve seen Ayesha smile a million times, but I’ve never seen her smile like this, like she invented the concept of joy.

“I-I have a surprise,” I announce, stammering. I remove my camcorder from my bag and hold it up like a trophy. “I’m shooting a movie of your wedding …”

Before Ayesha can respond (or protest), the door swings open. Her mother, Shahnaz Auntie, triumphantly arrives with the bridal party in tow. They are ready to take their positions. And only an hour behind schedule, which is basically on time for an Indian wedding.

“See you out there,” I murmur.

I blow Ayesha a kiss and walk backward, filming the preprocessional scramble. I take a tracking shot into the wedding hall, aglow with thousands of candles, red-and-orange bouquets bursting from the center of tables. I follow the gold organza that drapes the ceiling and trails the flower-strewn aisle leading to the mandap—the traditional wedding canopy under which the vows will take place.

My mother sees me. Too late for me to hide, even with my camera in hand. She beckons me over to her table, not with a subtle head tilt or single finger hook, but with a full arm wave, drawing the entire room’s attention. She’s chatting with another middle-aged, sari-clad woman. And a boy—I’m guessing her teenage son.

But my aunt Hina is also at our table. Salvation.

It’s hard to believe she is my mother’s sister. Hina is ten years younger than Mom, has short hair, a zillion funky pairs of eyeglasses, is this amazing graphic designer and cool in ways I can only aspire to. The weird thing is, you’d think my mom wouldn’t get along with Hina, but they have this unbreakable bond.

My mom is still waving madly at me. I steel myself, lower my camera, and walk over.

“As-salaam-alaikum, everyone,” I say and bend to kiss Hina on the cheek.

“Maya, this is Salma Auntie.” My mom takes me by the elbow to draw me nearer, then raises her voice. “And this is her son, Kareem.”

Did I mention that subtlety is not my mother’s strong suit?

I glance over at my dad, deeply involved in a conversation with Kareem’s dad—no doubt about the economy, lawn-mowing equipment, or the trend of teeth whitening at the dental practice he runs with my mom.

“Maya, Kareem is a sophomore at Princeton,” my mother says, “studying engineering.” I can practically see the cartoon light bulb over her head as she speaks.

“How’s it going?” Kareem asks. He scans the room, disinterested. Not that I can totally blame him; no doubt he gets my mother’s message loud and clear. He sports a goatee that I assume is meant to make his boyish face look older or tougher. It does neither. On the other hand, it succeeds at drawing my attention to his rather gorgeously full lips. He has a nice mouth in spite of whatever might come out of it.