Phil’s smiling face fills my computer screen, but all I see is his luscious dimple. I’ve been rough-cutting shots all morning to create a montage of the time Phil and I spent together. One image of Phil fades into another—the ambient light in the shots shifts and casts shadows across his brow, his cheekbones, his lips. I’m trying to convince myself that I’m searching for the best shots, empirically speaking, but I’m not. I’m searching for his smile. Not just any one. The smile I’m sure is meant only for me. The smile that will prove Kareem was right about Phil liking me for real.
“This is pathetic,” I say out loud, pushing back from my computer.
When I walk into the kitchen, my aunt is at the table sipping chai, and my mom is at the stove cooking.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” I say, happy to see Hina. Inviting her over as moral support was probably the best decision I’ve made in weeks. My resolve is bolstered just by her presence.
“Your ummi said you were working on a movie, so I didn’t want to interrupt. But I’m dying to hear about the brunch with Kareem and his parents.”
My mom starts aggressively stirring the pot in front of her. She doesn’t acknowledge Hina’s question, but she heard it. I slink into the chair across from Hina, who gives me a little shrug.
I sigh. “Well, I … we … Kareem and I are just going to be friends. I mean, he really considers me a little sister. It’s sweet.” I’m trying to sound as chipper as possible. My mom still isn’t looking at us, so I open my eyes wide and gesture at Hina to go along. When she gives me a silent “ah” and nods, I know she gets me.
“Hhhhmmph. Little sister,” my mom mutters under her breath and keeps stirring.
“Well, that’s good, no?” Hina asks, trying to sound upbeat. “I mean, it’s always good to have family, and since he’s in college, I’m sure he’s going to be a great source of advice.”
“Exactly,” I say. “I’m sure—”
My mom whips around, waving the wooden spoon in her hand like she’s preparing for battle. “You’re not sure of anything. That’s why you’re throwing poor Kareem on some ash heap before he even had a chance.”
“I’m not throwing anyone anywhere. Seriously, Mom. It’s not like I’m breaking off an engagement.”
It’s absurd. The thing is, Mom hasn’t even reached peak melodrama yet.
“You should be so lucky as to get engaged,” she says.
She’s getting there.
“What? I can’t believe—”
Hina steps in. “Come on now, aapa.” I’m pretty sure she can see that I’m about to erupt. “You didn’t really expect Maya to get engaged. She’s not even eighteen yet. She has to focus on her studies.”
My mom takes a breath and lowers the spoon. “Of course. We want Maya to finish school before getting married, but you know, it can’t hurt to have someone in mind.”
I open my mouth to say something, but Hina nudges me under the table, so I bite my lip and keep my sarcastic remarks to myself. This is not today’s battle.
“Don’t worry, aapa. Maya is quite the catch. I’m sure she will have no problem finding eligible suitors when the time comes.”
“Of course she’s a catch. She’s my daughter, isn’t she?” My mom turns back to the stove, pleased with her retort. I see her shoulders relax. The Hina effect.
My dad enters the kitchen, which is good. If he even sniffs a discussion about something emotional or feminine, he hightails it out of there. “Aaray, I’m getting hungry.” He sidles up to my mom and puts an arm around her shoulders. I sit on my hands. I shift in my seat. Even this G-rated eyeful of parental affection makes me uncomfortable.
Hina swoops in to the rescue. “Maya and I will take these dishes into the dining room, and you can bring the rest when you’re done, okay, aapa?”
“Two more minutes,” my mom says and gestures to my dad to get water glasses from the cupboard.
Hina and I take out the daal, kebabs, and rice and sit at the table. I take a few breaths, savoring the calm. We just sidestepped one argument so we could dive into an even bigger one.
“So you have a plan, right?” Hina asks in a whisper.
“Yes. You tell them I got into NYU while I cower in a corner.”
Hina laughs. “God, I’m not that brave. Be firm and let them know it’s what you want. Tag me in as necessary.”
“I’m going to carpe this diem,” I say, and for an instant I imagine Kareem nodding his approval.
My parents join us in the dining room, carrying in the remaining dishes. They take a seat, and my mom fills our plates.
“Oh, I forgot the naan,” she says, slapping her palm to her forehead. “Let me go heat—”
“Jaan, it’s okay.” My dad takes my mom’s wrist, gently pulling her back to the table and her seat. “Let’s all sit down and have a nice, peaceful family lunch.”
I catch Hina’s eyes. No time like the present. “Dad?” I ask, inflection rising. “This might not be the peaceful family lunch you hoped for.”
“Why?” my mom asks, panic tingeing her voice. “What happened? What’s wrong?”
“Aapa, there’s nothing wrong. Let Maya explain,” Hina says.
I gulp. This is happening. Right now. “Mom. Dad. You know how I love making movies?”
“It’s a very nice hobby,” my father says. His tone is firm. “We are all looking forward to the movie of Ayesha’s wedding.”
“It’s more than a hobby.” My voice falters. I look from my dad to my mom. I take a deep breath. I straighten my shoulders and sit up in my seat. If I don’t sound convincing to myself, they definitely aren’t going to buy anything I have to say. I clear my throat.
“I want to make movies. Forever. As a career. I want to study film, in school.” My parents stare at me like they are looking into an abyss, searching for light. “You know how I got into Northwestern and U of C?”
“Two excellent schools where you can study to become a lawyer.” My dad’s voice is firmer now. Flatter, too.
“Umm. Well … I sort of also applied to NYU and got in.”
Dad drops his silverware. “Sort of?”
“Not sort of. I applied to NYU. I was accepted.”
“NYU,” my mom repeats.
“Uh-huh. Yes. NYU. New York University.”
“But that’s in—” She turns to my dad.
“Yes, Mom. It’s in New York. That’s why it’s called New York University.” Wrong moment for sarcasm.
“Maya.” My dad’s tone is sharp. “Watch how you talk to your mother. So what you’re telling us is that you applied to this school behind our backs, and you got in, and now you expect us to let you go there?”
My mom shakes her head. Her expression is both less angry and more puzzled than his. “Maya, you’re not going to NYU. The answer is simple. No. It’s too far. We agreed that you would be staying close to home.”
I feel a little prickle of anger. “No, Mom. You and Dad agreed. Not me. I want to go to NYU. It’s one of the best film schools in the country. They say my films show a lot of promise, and they have amazing professors, and it’s only two hours by plane. And I know it’s more expensive than U of C, but I promise I’ll work extra hours at the Idle to save money and even get a job in New York to make up some of the difference.”
My parents start talking to each other in Urdu, the primary and personal language they share. Anytime the topic veers toward something serious or emotional, especially anger, they revert to Urdu. I get it. It’s familiar, the language they grew up with and met each other in. I can keep up because I understand it, but they know I can’t respond, not really. People in India always say Urdu is this sweet language of poetry, but to me, Urdu just sounds like my parents.
“She can’t go. She has to stay close to home. This is your fault, you know. You’re the one who got her that dumb camera. Always encouraging her.” My mom is in free fall. “I knew we gave her too much freedom. Always letting her do whatever she wants, never taking her to the mosque—”
“Jaan, jaan, calm down.” My dad tries to pacify my mother, but the bulging vein in his forehead tells me he is far from relaxed. “Let her explain. Maybe this is a phase.” He turns toward me; the English language and I reappear in the conversation. “I don’t understand how you simply … lied … so easily … and applied to NYU and now expect us to say, ‘Okay, go ahead’? This isn’t just a matter of money, Maya. You know that.”
“Dad, I’m sorry. I should’ve told you. But I made a spur-of-the-moment decision to apply. I didn’t dream I’d get in. And you’re so adamantly against it … I did tell Hina, and—” The blurter emerges; it’s a mistake to implicate my aunt.
Now my mom looks upset. She turns her fiery gaze on Hina. “You encouraged her? My sister and my daughter lying to me. What did I do to deserve this?” my mom yells as her eyes grow shiny with tears.
“It’s not Hina’s fault. I—”
“It’s okay.” Hina puts her hand on my arm and interjects, “I did support her decision. I do. Maya has a talent. You don’t want her to waste a gift from God, now do you?”
“Oh, don’t you start, as if you are so pious,” Mom snaps. “Maya got this defiance from you. You’ve set a terrible example.”
Hina lets the words wash right over her. She is serene. “Aapa, do you pray five times a day—regularly?”
“I … I … Well, you know each night I pray for Maya. Obviously I have not been doing a good job.”
I throw up my hands. “What does praying have to do with going to NYU, anyway? I’m not modern or whatever because of Hina. I’m the way I am because I live now. In the twenty-first century. In America. And I want to make movies.” My eyes are wide. I’m rebelling. I’m going to be a desi movie-making rebel. Just like Deepa Mehta. Of course, I could never mention her name as a role model, because even though Water was tragic and beautiful and amazing and got an Oscar nomination, it caused riots in India, and she got death threats. Not the image I want my parents to associate with me being a director.
Mom’s expression grows bitter. “I really should have sent you to boarding school in India.”
“Everyone, calm down,” my dad urges. “Sofia, you’re going to raise your blood pressure. And Maya, you need to listen …”
“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.”
“That is … that is this Thursday,” my mom yelps. “Maya—”
“I’m sorry. I know I should have told you earlier, but I wasn’t sure how. I thought you’d be so mad you’d hate me.”
“I am mad. But how can I hate you? You’re my daughter. Your dad is right. We want what is best for you. We want you to be happy.” My mom and dad look at each other, then at me. Something passes between them in that look. Some kind of silent communication married people share. And Hina’s right: maybe I’ll be able to share that sort of glance with my own husband one day, but on my terms.
My mom stands up from the table. “The food has gone cold now. Let me reheat it.” She sighs. “I guess you are your father’s daughter—always wanting to see new things.”
The morning light streams into the kitchen. I don’t think anyone of us slept. It’s clear in our bleary eyes and sluggish movements and hesitant syllables. All of yesterday’s dishes are still in the sink.
“Maya, you left food on that plate. You have to rinse it properly before putting it in the dishwasher,” my mom reminds me.
After Hina left, my parents didn’t say another word to me about NYU. They didn’t say another word to me, period. Mostly they were huddled in their room, presumably talking about me, but there weren’t any raised voices, so I took that as a hopeful sign.
“Sorry, Mom.” I’m not going to argue that our new dishwasher is connected to the garbage disposal so we don’t have to be all old school about loading the dishes.
There were little cracks in the parental college resolve last night and I know what Hina would advise, so I try to channel her patience and understanding of my parents’ anxieties.
My dad is at the table drinking chai. Out of the corner of my eye, I spy my parents steal another one of those silent, meaningful looks at each other. My dad gives my mom a wan smile.
“If you’re going to be on your own. You can’t just eat off dirty plates. God help you.” My mom shakes her head.
“On my own? You mean—” I turn to look at my mom who just shrugs. “Dad? Does that … I can go … to NYU?”
My dad nods once.
I’ll remember this nod forever.
I turn from the sink, wipe my hands on my jeans, and wrap my arms around his neck and whisper a thank you. I look at my feet. They are still on the floor. I don’t know how this is possible.
My dad strokes my hair. It’s been a long time since I’ve allowed that to happen. It grounds me. I am here; this is happening.
I walk back to the sink to hug my mom.
My dad clears his throat. “Your mom is right. Just because you’re going to be far away doesn’t mean you can eat off filthy dishes and whatnot.”
I have a feeling we are not talking about clean dishes anymore, but I add extra dish soap to the sponge to get every speck of food off the plates, just in case. I nod and let my dad continue.
“When you’re in the dorm, you will treat it just like you are in this house. All the same rules apply. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Dad.” I smile, nod, and continue loading the dishes.
“That means you are going there to study, and that’s it.”
“We want you to make friends, too,” my mom adds. “Nice ones. Girls. And maybe you can join the Muslim Students Association. You know, Yasmeen told me all about the one at her college. She organized their Eid party. It sounds perfect for you. You could film all the events.”
I bite my tongue. Literally, I bite down on the tip of my tongue to stop the words that are about to roll off it. My muscles tense, but I keep a smile on my face. “That’s a great idea, Mom.”
My mom turns to my dad and nods, clearly pleased with herself.
“Maya, your mom and I are giving you permission to go to NYU, but don’t think this means you can go behind our backs again. No more surprises.” My dad pauses and gives my mom that silent look again that tells her to continue while he leaves the kitchen. Just before he walks out, he kisses me on the top of the head. Approval.
“You understand what your dad is saying, right? You’re growing up. You need to be careful, especially when you’re on your own. Especially with … boys. You see what I’m saying?”
“Yes, Mom. I promise. I’ll focus on my studies. No surprises. I’ll make you proud.”
I don’t know what else to say because of course I’m going to go out, and I hope there will be boys or a boy at least. Maybe even one here. But my assurances appease my mom, even if they feel false to me. I will study. I do hope I make them proud. But this is my first taste of adventure, and as Kareem might say, I’m going to carpe the hell out of every diem. Maya Aziz, beyond Batavia. I can’t wait to tell Kareem I did it. And Phil. I want to tell him, too.
But I’ll think about that awkwardness later. For now, I want to revel in the happiness that fizzes inside me. New York. New life. My parents’ change of heart has to be a sign of good things to come—maybe Phil’s not in my future, but my other dreams can be. They already are.
I tell my mom I can finish up in the kitchen. But she doesn’t move. When I turn to look at her, she’s gazing at me with tears welling in her eyes.
“Mom, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, beta. You’re growing up. Hina was right. You are a wonderful young woman. May God grant you a long life and every happiness.”
I step over to her and hug her, my soapy hands dripping on the floor.
She steps back. “I have to take the nazar off you.”
“Mom, it’s okay. No one gave me the evil eye. I’m good.” My whole life, any time I had any sort of school achievement, or even when I get what my mom refers to as “compliments of envy,” or especially when I would suddenly get sick, my mom would take the nazar off. Sometimes preemptively.
Don’t fight her on her superstitions, I say to myself. WWHD? What would Hina do? Hina would quietly give my mom this little victory to assuage her concerns. I walk over to the fridge, take out an egg, and hand it to my mom.
She carefully takes it in her right hand and sweeps it over my head while she recites a quiet prayer asking God to remove the evil eye and keep me under his protection. The whole ritual barely takes two minutes, and it gives her peace of mind.
She smiles and hands me the egg. “Now go put it outside in the pot with the jasmine plant. I’ll bury it later. Be careful—”
“I got it, Mom. Don’t worry.”
My mom goes to join my dad in the living room.
I start for the back door, but I lose my footing and slip on the sudsy water I dripped all over the floor when I hugged my mom. I throw my arms out to balance myself so I don’t fall on my ass. I’m impressed with my catlike recovery, but sticky egg white and yolk drip down my fingers because in my effort not to fall, I’ve crushed the egg in my hand. I can imagine my mom’s freak-out if she’d witnessed this sacrilege, so I quickly wash off in the sink and sweep up any remaining eggshell and dump it into the sink. I turn the water on and run the garbage disposal. My mom got the calm that came with the ritual, so I’m not going to tell her about this. What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.
Cautiously he slides out of his parking spot.
The moment before, just before. He panics.
She makes him hesitate.
A small, dark-haired girl holding her mother’s hand, looking up at her, a smile like sunshine, her dress red as a poppy bursting against green grass.
Collateral damage.
Sweat drips off the hook of his nose.
He bites his cheek. Hard. Blood fills his mouth.
At least now, they will know his name.
His right foot bears down hard on the accelerator.