Love, Hate & Other Filters(4)

My dad loves the agony and ecstasy component of sports movies. But I saw a story about destiny and rivalry and tenacity. I saw a director, the Muslim Indian director, capture the smoking, tragic charisma of Ayrton Senna. I couldn’t stop thinking about it or talking about it.

So later that summer, when I was making my annoyance about having to attend my cousin’s wedding in India well known to anyone in range, my dad bought me an entry-level camcorder and suggested I put together a movie of the weeklong festivities. It was love at opening shot.

“There was a great Satyajit Ray retrospective at school last semester.”

Kareem’s voice catches me by surprise.

I smile and nod. “The Apu Trilogy is one of my favorites. I love his use of light, and did you know that Fran?ois Truffaut stomped out of the first movie, Pather Panchali, at Cannes because he couldn’t stand watching a movie about peasants eating with their hands? Total pretentious jerk.”

Kareem doesn’t answer. He seems to be studying me. You know how some people have smiling eyes? His eyes dance. I lose track of what I was saying. I bend down and pretend to fix my heel so he can’t see the abject horror and embarrassment on my face. When I pop back up, I start shoveling food into my mouth.

“Slow down; there’s more in the kitchen,” Hina whispers.

I chew and swallow hard. “Thanks for saying that, by the way,” I murmur to her. “About me making beautiful movies and all.”

“I meant it.” Hina bends close again, her mouth at my ear. “You need to tell them soon, you know.”

I nod, careful to keep my voice low. “NYU wants the deposit in a few weeks. There’s no way they’ll let me go. But I have to go. So many amazing directors have gone there. I mean, James Franco teaches there.”

Hina laughs. “You might not want to lead with that.”

I laugh, too, in spite of myself.

“Maya, you won’t know what your parents will say unless you ask,” she adds. “Lose your courage now and you’ll regret it. And frankly, how many more Indian lawyers do we need?”

“You done eating?” Kareem asks suddenly.

Before I know it, Hina is in the midst of a conversation with my mother and Kareem’s mom.

I look at my still half-full plate. “I’m waiting for dessert.”

Kareem grins. “I don’t think you’re in danger of missing it. Want to take a walk?”

“A walk?” I echo.

“Maybe get more shots for your movie? I could be your key grip.”

“Do you even know what a key grip does?”

The question flies from my mouth before I have a chance to regret it, but his eyes still dance.

“Well, not exactly. But obviously it’s important, or else why would it be called key grip instead of average grip or not-so-critical grip?”

I smirk. “Well played. The grips deal with lighting. So fiddle with the light bulbs and see what you can do with that disco ball and all those random reflections.” I point to the mirrored orb dangling in the center of the dance floor—if there were going to be dancing at this wedding.

Kareem pushes back his chair. “I’m up for the challenge.”

I like how he accepts the supporting role and doesn’t try to desi-mansplain things to me. He’s willing to try new things even if he might fail or look like a dork. It’s a different kind of confidence than I’ve seen in some of the guys at school, and it’s really appealing.

“We’re going to get more footage, Mom,” I say as I stand up and grab my camera.

My mom looks at Kareem’s mom, then raises an eyebrow at me. “Don’t get lost, you two.”

Kareem walks close to me. His arm grazes mine. Heat spreads through my body. Then he does it again. Clearly, it’s not an accident. He towers over me. Which isn’t hard considering I’m five-three. He looks ahead, but I sense him smiling.

“So I take it this isn’t your first feature film starring an Indian wedding,” he remarks dryly.

“I’m actually a highly sought after director on this circuit. I specialize in goat sacrifices and masterful film school angles of aunties with muffin tops.”

“And how did that come to be your film style?”

“It’s kind of a long story.”

“We’ve got time. It’s an Indian wedding. They do tend to drag on. Haven’t you heard?” Kareem gives me a little nudge.

I grin. Probably for a little too long.

“Like three years ago, my parents dragged me to a family wedding in India which I did not want to be at, and my camera gave me an escape. I mean, I still had to endure ludicrous cheek pinching and itchy clothes and too-late dinners and too many questions, but the camera gave me distance and something to hide behind, literally. I ended up making this twenty-minute documentary capturing all these weirdly lit, unglamorous aunties-yelling, caterer-butchering-the-goat moments and even included a brief montage of crying babies right before the final shots of the unsmiling and garlanded bride and groom exchanging their vows under the mandap.”

He nods gravely. “So we’re talking Oscar material here.”

“Shut up,” I say, swatting at his arm.

“Seriously. It sounds amazing. I’d love a private screening sometime.”

I come to an abrupt stop. I have to force myself to speak because suddenly my tongue is made of wood. “There’s the cake. Let’s get a shot before they cut it.”