Love, Hate & Other Filters(34)
“Why can’t you trust me?” I ask him, point-blank.
“Beta.” My dad tempers his voice. “It’s not that we don’t trust you. Your ummi worries what will happen to you if you go far away from home.”
“That’s right.” Mom sniffs and dabs her eyes with her napkin. “You know, we’re always hearing stories of our girls who live far from their parents and go with these boys and … get … into … trouble. Some of them even eat pork.”
I stifle a laugh. Laughing would definitely not be appropriate right now, but I’m not sure how the apparently cardinal sin of eating pork equates with the kind of trouble you can get into with boys (say, premarital sex), but in my mom’s logic, it does. “Mom, you know I’m not like that. I never go wild and eat pepperoni pizza. I don’t even break curfew.”
“But what if something happens to you?” my father asks. “We don’t have any relatives in New York. Who will help you?”
“I guess I’ll need to help myself,” I say and then quickly add, “Plus Kareem is only a couple hours away at Princeton. I know I can call him for anything—he told me so.”
My mother perks up at the sound of Kareem’s name. Matchmaking hope springs eternal in the desi Muslim mom’s imagination. “But how will it look if we send you away by yourself, a girl—”
“Look to who?” I ask.
“The community,” my mom says. “You know how people talk.”
“What people?” Hina jumps in. “Your friends? Your family? Aapa, this isn’t back home. And it’s not the same as it was twenty, thirty years ago, even in India.” She offers a sly smile. “Look at me, the heathen. I live on my own, and you haven’t disowned me yet.”
My mother allows herself a smile, but then adds, “You’re my sister. I love you … but … you’re not … not …”
“I’m not married? You don’t want Maya to be too independent like me? Well, I’m happy, if that matters to you. I have a great life and great friends, and I love being a graphic designer. I designed a banner that’s hanging from every lamppost in downtown Chicago to raise money and awareness for breast cancer. And I’m proud of that. I hope Maya can have all the things that make her happy and more. And if she wants to get married, that should be her choice.”
I squeeze my aunt’s hand. It’s escaped me how truly rebellious Hina’s life really is, as far as desi-Muslim standards go—even by American Born Confused Desi-Muslim standards. Hina is forty-something, single, childless, and lives by herself. She’s not just a rebel; she’s a pioneer—what a lonely road it must have been for her to travel.
“Of course, Hina,” my dad says softly, attempting again to soothe the flaring tempers. “We want Maya to be happy in her life, and you are a wonderful aunt. But we made our wishes very clear to Maya. She should have voiced her objections then, not after the fact.”
“Yes, bhai jaan,” Hina addresses him with the very respectful “brother dear” in Urdu. “You are her parents, and I understand your wishes, but remember how your own parents felt when you were coming to America? They didn’t want you to go, but you wanted to do what was best for your family and your future. And Maya wants—”
“I remember very well how heartbroken our ummi was at the airport,” my mom interrupts. “But I was much older than Maya.”
“You were actually only a little older than Maya is now, my dear sister,” Hina points out. “And Hyderabad is a lot farther from Illinois than Illinois is from New York. And don’t forget, you waited a long time to have a kid despite our ummi’s pressure.”
My mom narrows her eyes at Hina. “That was a decision between husband and wife. Why are you bringing up this ancient history?”
“Because it’s important. Because a marriage certificate doesn’t bestow maturity. And even you have to admit that Maya is much savvier than you were at her age. Let her find her new world, too, as you did all those years ago.”
I’m in awe of my aunt’s alchemy with words. It truly is magic. As Hina speaks, my parents’ faces relax, grow wistful, as they remember when they were young and full of dreams.
I hesitate, but I take a chance and break the moment of calm. “I’m asking for the chance to follow my passion. If I don’t take it now, I’m afraid I’ll regret it one day. And I promise, if I hate it or don’t have the talent they seem to think I might, I’ll switch majors to a more practical one.” I reach across the table and place my hand on my mother’s. “But not premed. You know I can’t stand blood.”
This makes them laugh. I’m winning my case, but if I’m going to suck all the marrow out of this bone, I need to hear them say the words. “And I promise if you let me go, I’ll call home all the time, and I won’t turn into an ungrateful, pork-eating, miniskirt-wearing …” Hina puts her hand on my knee to stop my compulsive talking. It’s too bad I won’t be able to take her with me if this works out.
“Beta, you know we want what is best for you.” My dad looks at my mom as he says this. He’s caving. I can see it in his face. Finally he turns to me. “What is the timeline for deciding?”
“May first.”