Love, Hate & Other Filters(5)

I train my camera on the four-tiered fondant behemoth. The sides of the base layer are decorated with Indian elephants connected nose to tail. Each of the other layers is trimmed in red-and-gold paisley. And there are flowers, real ones. Red and orange roses surround a tiny Indian bride and groom on the top layer.

“Check it out. The tiny bride is wearing a sari. We’ve so arrived.” Kareem laughs. “I wonder what she’s made of.” He reaches toward the dolls.

“Stop,” I warn him, but continue to film.

Kareem yanks his hand away in mock dismay. “I wasn’t really going to touch it. I’m not a total idiot.” I swing the camera to his face. “I thought I’d add a little drama to your movie. You know, ‘after one too many cups of tea, the handsome Kareem fled with the bride. Chaos ensued. The bride’s father swore vengeance on the guest who had stolen the bride’s heart before the nuptials.’”

My face feels warm, but if I’m blushing, he can’t see it. Through the lens, I take in his broad shoulders and lean, muscular arms. I focus on his face as he continues his narration about the kidnapped plastic bride. The lens is drawn to his dark eyes, and so am I.

Kareem takes a step toward me. “So are you going to the after-party?”

I feel a flutter of nervousness as I lower the camera. “After-party?”

“At Empire, in the city. One of Saleem’s friends put it together. So the young desis can throw down away from the prying eyes of our parents. It’s a surprise for Ayesha.”

“Not as if she didn’t have other plans for her wedding night.” The words spill out of my mouth before I can stop them, and I turn bright red.

Kareem laughs. “I’m sure they’ll only put in a brief appearance. I can pretty much tell you there is only one thing on Saleem’s mind right now, and it’s not cutting that cake.”

I sweep the back of my hand across my eyes, trying to wipe away my embarrassment.

“I’ve never met an Indian who blushes so much. Have you devised a method to defeat desi DNA?”

“You can’t expect me to give up all my secrets that easily.”

Kareem takes another step forward. “So you in or out for the after-party?”

“I could crash at my aunt’s place in Chicago, but I don’t have a change of clothes. And I don’t have a car—”

“Come with me. I can drive you home tomorrow, too.”

“The thing is, I work in the morning.”

“I get it. You’re the responsible Indian girl. Give me your phone.”

I wince at Kareem’s presumption, but essentially he’s right. “Why do you need it?”

“Trust me.”

I self-consciously hand him my bedazzled phone.

Kareem dials a number. His phone rings. “Now I can live-text you from Empire and tell you how much fun you’re missing.”

“Let me guess, you give good text.”

“When it counts,” Kareem breathes into my ear and slips my phone into my palm.

As we step away from the cake, Kareem edges closer to me and puts his hand on the small of my back. The warmth of his handprint sinks into my skin through the thin silk of my clothes. There’s a tingle along my collarbone. Part of me wants to run outdoors into the cool evening to get a handle on myself. Instead, I breathe in deeply and let this new sensation consume me.

The young man studies his face in the mirror. The scruff on his chin makes him look boyish, a kid dressing up as a grown-up for Halloween. Only the bruise-colored circles under his eyes betray his age. It’s a step in the right direction.

His fingers vibrate with the soft buzz of the clippers. Waves of thick black hair fall into the rusty basin.

When finished, he moves his hand across the top of his stubbly head, pausing briefly at the scar halfway down the back of his scalp, a souvenir care of his father’s belt buckle. The past, made visible.

His mother, who loves his hair, will be devastated. He scowls, curling back his lips to bare his teeth.

It doesn’t matter.

She will never see him again.





Kareem: The party wasn’t the same once you left.

Me: Awww, you say that to all the documentarians, don’t you?

Kareem: Only the cute, irreverent ones.

Rereading Kareem’s flirty texts in bed, I still feel the touch of his hand on my skin. It’s all a little cliché for my tastes—the words on the phone, the silly smile I can’t get rid of—but so is being seventeen and unkissed.

Kareem: So are you a doc film purist?

Me: I love old classics and foreign films, too. And I can always find something to mock in a blockbuster.

Kareem: In other words, you’re open to temptation.

Me: Totally depends on the tempter.

That dialogue! It’s even unfolding like a screenplay. We had the meet-cute, so I allowed us the full rom-com text treatment this weekend. Now it’s Monday morning and I’m second-guessing, right on schedule.

Staring up at Aishwarya Rai on the Bride and Prejudice poster above my bed—a typically well-meaning, completely misguided gift attempt from my mom—I hope I’m not getting ahead of myself. But maybe that’s the message my mother meant to send with the poster. “It’s a desi Pride and Prejudice! You love that book. But it’s better because there is singing and dancing!” She left out the part about obedient daughters and no kissing. The all-important subtext. She literally clapped when I agreed to hang it on my wall.