Hina meets me at the train station, a squat green glass behemoth that looks too big for a city block. My pocket camcorder raised to my eye, I film the Saturday afternoon crowd entering and leaving. I love how inconspicuous this camera is; it fits in the palm of my hand. As we exit, I turn my lens to the pink banners fluttering from the lampposts—ads for a fundraising walk for breast cancer in a few weeks. I make sure to capture them on film.
Hina designed them. They’re all over the city. I’m in awe of her again, as always.
I pan down the line of taxis, right up until Hina and I enter one. She squeezes my shoulder as I adjust my belt. “So glad you’re going on a date and doing teenagery things. Try to get into at least a little bit of trouble, okay? And where is the young, dashing Kareem taking you?”
“A fondue place not far from your apartment.”
“Geja’s Café? He must want to wow you.”
“Don’t worry. He’s not going to pop the question or anything,” I reply coolly, though my pulse quickens.
“Well, my wry little niece, he’s definitely trying to make an impression. And he asked your parents for permission to see you, right? A very suitable boy, indeed.”
The driver pulls over in front of Hina’s place. I love my aunt’s condo—a two-flat walk-up in Chicago’s Old Town neighborhood. To me, it is freedom.
“Go ahead and get settled in your room. I’ll get lunch together.” Hina steps into the kitchen while I head down the hall.
The comfy bed is piled high with Indian patchwork pillows in rich hues of chocolate, burgundy, and emerald embellished with tiny mirrors and gold tassels. The raw silk duvet cover is a deep bronze color. A wooden partition carved with intricate floral designs serves as the headboard. It belonged to my grandparents and smells like the sandalwood incense my nani used to burn day and night.
I unpack my dark skinny jeans, the slightly wrinkled black silk camisole I borrowed from Violet. I hang them in the closet. Then I fold my cherry-colored cashmere sweater and place it on a chair. After that, I kick off my beat-up, round-toed black flats and flop onto the bed, turning to stare at the ceiling. Kareem is picking me up at seven. That leaves five hours for nervous anticipation. I need to get all the blushing out of my system now.
It’s been two weeks since we met at the wedding, and weirdly, it feels like a million years ago, but also yesterday. We’ve texted or messaged each other lots. But that also means my contact with Kareem has been virtual, and my contact with Phil has been real. But for years—literally years—Phil was neither real nor virtual; he was a faraway dream. Until now. Only now I’m about to go on a date with a guy who is actually available, infinitely more suitable, and definitely interested.
This is why they invented drugs for heartburn.
The guest room door is half open, but Hina knocks anyway before coming in. I sit up on the edge of the bed as she perches next to me. “How about we eat a quick lunch and go to a movie before your big date? Or we can on-demand something. Have you seen Roman Holiday? You know, about a princess who feels trapped in her life?”
I smile. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”
“Trust me: Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn are pretty much Saturday afternoon perfection,” Hina says, giving my hand a squeeze.
My mom picks Bride and Prejudice. Hina picks Roman Holiday. Somehow their movie choices totally define my relationships with them. They both try. One misses the mark. The other nails it.
After the movie, we sit on the couch, sipping cups of creamy spiced chai.
“Did I ever tell you about Anand?” Hina asks out of the blue. She rarely talks about the guys she dates; it must be some tacit agreement she has with my mother. So I immediately perk up.
“Ummm, no. But I am all ears.”
Hina smiles. “It was in India, before I left to study in England. He was such a beautiful boy. You know I went to the same Catholic girls’ school as your mom, in Hyderabad? Well, there was a brother school run by priests. We shared the same athletic fields. That’s how I met Anand. I was at field hockey practice, and he was playing cricket.”
“Awww. And it was love at first sight?”
“Not exactly. Maybe? I don’t know. I never really thought about it in those terms. Anand just started showing up to my field hockey practices and our games, and one day I finally asked him if he was going to talk to me.”
“Bold move, Hina.”
Hina chuckles. “My friends were so scandalized. But you know, I’ve always been a straight shooter.”
It’s one of the things I love best about my aunt.
“Well, he started bringing tiffins, and we would have little picnics of samosas and chaat and pakoras with mango juice in glass bottles.”
“So he would cook for you? How adorable.”
“Oh, no. He had his cook do it, and then his driver would bring it to the fields so it would still be warm after practice.”
“Must be nice.”
“It was. Of course, we could never really go anywhere, so the entire fleeting romance took place on school grounds.”
“I’m guessing from his name he was Hindu?”
“Exactly. But honestly, we barely even talked about that. We both knew nothing more could come of it. So we spent that spring talking and eating and laughing, and then he went to Bombay to study architecture at university.”
“That’s it? That’s the whole story? You never saw each other again?”
“We saw each other once more, when he came home for holiday. I went to see him at Nampally Railway Station just when he was leaving to go back to school.”
“And …”
“And that was my first kiss. A little peck in a dark corner of a bustling train station.”
“That is so cinematic,” I say.
Hina laughs. “From you, that is high praise, indeed.”
“So were you heartbroken? Did you regret it?”
“Heartbroken? A little. Regret? No. What was there to regret? I wasn’t going to Bombay with him. We were both young and different religions, and I had no desire to elope and bring down the entire wrath of both our families on our heads. So now it’s simply a sweet memory. That’s all it was ever going to be.”
I sit back and stare into my half-empty teacup.
“Something on your mind?” Hina asks. “First kisses, perhaps?”
“Yes. No. Maybe, but not necessarily with Kareem …”
Hina raises an eyebrow at me and gives me a warm smile and settles into the couch.
I hadn’t planned to, but I end up telling her about Phil and the tutoring sessions and how my stomach roller-coasters every time I’m around him and about how he has a girlfriend. Then I talk to her about Kareem, who is the parental dream of suitability. But he’s a lot more than just his biodata.
“The thing is,” I say, after my breathless debrief, “the timing is all so bizarre, I mean why now? Why me?”
She stares at me as if I’m totally clueless. “Why not you?”
Even Hina can make me blush. It really is a disorder.
“What is, in fact, bizarre, my dear,” she continues, “is that you don’t see what a beautiful, brilliant young woman you are. You still think of yourself as that gawky, flat-chested seventh grader with braces and two braids.”
I’m not sure how to respond. I wouldn’t admit this to anyone, not even Hina; I can barely even think it when I’m alone, but there are moments when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I’m happily surprised at the reflection—it’s me but not me. I can see the shiny black hair that falls below my shoulders, the woman’s body that looks good in a fitted sweater and tight jeans. Plus I can see I’ve been upping my lipstick game.
Hina clearly wants more juicy details, wants to know which boy I prefer, but even getting near that thought makes my stomach lurch. I don’t know who the Gregory Peck is to my Audrey Hepburn; I have no idea if either boy is or isn’t. I check my watch. “Crap. Kareem will be here in an hour. I need to get ready.”
I hear Hina chuckling to herself as I bolt off the couch and run into the guest room.
Forty-five minutes later, freshly showered and changed into Violet-approved denim and silk, I slip into my black satin shoes. I put on a pair of dangly silver chandelier earrings and grab my sweater, then study my reflection. There is a lot of skin. My skin. I chew on my lip, hoping it’s not too much. For my final task, I dab on a bit of bronzer and a claret lipstick like I promised my mom. My word is my bond—at least about lipstick. Finally, I decide to go big and add eyeliner and mascara.
The bell rings. He’s five minutes early. How un-Indian of him.
Hina buzzes in Kareem and then disappears into her bedroom. I’m glad I’m not home. My parents would linger, inquire after Kareem’s parents, demand that we stay and chat over a cup of chai while insisting that the restaurant would hold our reservation.
I open the door.
Kareem is taller than I remember. Maybe cuter, too? I try not to stare into those sparkly dark eyes. He’s dressed in indigo jeans, a navy blazer, and a light blue collared shirt, the top two buttons unbuttoned.
“Hey.” God, I hope I’m not trying too hard, because that’s the exact opposite of cool. Eau de desperation.
He steps in and bends down. I think he’s coming in for a hug, so I move forward. Our heads bump as he tries to give me a kiss on the cheek.
Awkward. I step back, cheeks already aflame.
Kareem laughs. “Ah, there’s the blush. That took, what, fifteen seconds?”
“Ha, ha. Come on in.” At least I’ve provided the icebreaker.
“You look amazing, by the way,” Kareem adds casually. He steps forward and puts his hand on my forearm. If he’s trying to keep me blushing, he’s doing an excellent job.
“Uh, thanks …”
Thankfully Hina chooses this moment to appear from the back.
“As-salaam-alaikum, Auntie,” Kareem says. His respectful nod oozes tameez, proper Hyderabadi-boy etiquette.
Hina laughs. “Please, Kareem, call me Hina. No need to stand on ceremony with me.” Then she raises an eyebrow. “So, Geja’s? Going for dark, romantic, and sophisticated, are we?”
I’m going to die.
“Uh, yeah,” Kareem smiles. “I … we … uh … have a seven-thirty reservation, so we should probably get going.” He turns to me. “Are you up for a stroll? Nice evening for a walk.”
I nod and snatch my purse. I’ve already double-checked it for my mini-cam. I couldn’t leave home without it—in case I want to record any part of the evening or, more likely, hide behind my lens if things go from awkward to painfully bad. “I’m set.”
“Khudafis, Auntie—I mean, Hina. Thanks again for letting me pick up Maya here. Does she have a curfew?”
Hina shakes her head. “Not at my house. Have fun.” She kisses me on the cheek and winks as she closes the door behind us.
“One of us has to say something soon. Ideally a witty or brilliant observation,” Kareem says. We’ve been walking silently for almost ten minutes. I keep trying to think of something to say, but apparently I’ve lost the connection between my brain and mouth.
And that’s my cue. We haven’t even made it to the restaurant yet, but it’s time to draw on my trusty shield. I reach into my purse and pull out my tiny camcorder, switch it on, and focus on Kareem. Roll camera. I adopt my documentary voice-over tone. And action. “Kareem, where are you taking Maya tonight?”
“You’re referring to yourself in the third person now?”
I pull back to meet his gaze. “I’m the director. Kareem and Maya are the subjects in the movie. Go with it.”
“Fine.”
We’re both smiling and trying not to at the same time.
I pick up where I left off. “So what are your plans for tonight?”
Kareem straightens an imaginary tie. I love that he plays along; I also love that he can’t see how delighted I am. “I want to show Maya a good time, and so I chose Geja’s Café. It’s terribly romantic, but I fear that it might also be terribly messy—all that melted cheese.” He pauses with exaggerated drama and strikes a ridiculous pose. “I’m willing to take that risk because I’m the kind of guy that lives on the edge. You know, carpe diem. Suck the marrow out of life.”
“So you’re a Thoreau fan.”
“Nah, just pretentious.”
I stifle a laugh. “So besides tempting fate with melted cheese and literary airs of pretension, what else is in your risk-taking repertoire?”
“The usual: skydiving, Formula One, feeding sharks …” He pauses, either pretending to remember or remembering to pretend. “My mom does say I was an adventurous kid. A troublemaker. Mainly I was curious. Oh, and I loved pirates. Anything on the high seas that involved danger and swashbuckling—you know, big swells, treasure, damsels in distress. My mom loved it, too. She provided the pirate booty. She would put her banged-up jewelry and broken bangles in a small box and bury the treasure chest. I’d have to find it and dig it up. It was pretty awesome, actually.”
I envision a skinny, buck-toothed version of Kareem, running around with his mom, shrieking with laughter. “Arrh, matey!” they shout at each other. I’m smiling, but I feel a twinge of sadness. I don’t have those Kodachrome images of my own childhood escapades. It’s just not how I grew up.
“And now?” I ask, determined to bring us back to the present. “Do you still live a life of adventure?”
“My high-seas days are over, but I’d say tonight has the potential for excitement.” He looks directly into the camera. “Don’t you agree?”
“I’m documenting, I can’t interfere—it’s not my story.” I’m blushing behind the camera. This time, I’m sure he notices.
And I’m right, because he approaches and gently pushes the camera away from my face. “This is totally your story.”
I look into his brown eyes. Out here on the street, they’re less dazzling but more gentle and warm and inviting. They embody him. We continue walking.
Suddenly he stops short. “This is it …”
Our arrival catches both of us by surprise.
Kareem pushes open the door, holding it for me. I step into a dark labyrinth of fluttering candles, shadowy nooks. A flamenco band plays somewhere. Wine bottles line the walls and create partitions between tables. I put my camera back in my purse and let myself breathe it all in; there’s no point in trying to film because there isn’t enough light. A host shows us to our table—a booth toward the back, partially hidden by velvet curtains that can be undone to shroud the space entirely. A waiter quickly arrives with menus, explains the three-course fondue meal, and leaves.
“I guess this place is kind of over the top, huh?” Kareem asks.
I smile back. “It’s very film noir. All we need is a fog machine and a dame with a gun and checkered past.”
Kareem laughs. “Wait. That’s not you?”
“You never can tell.”
His eyes narrow; he strokes his goatee. “So you’re not actually this sweet girl who lives in the suburbs. You have a whole double life where you’re carrying on in a nefarious way …”
I totally get into the act. I love that I feel comfortable enough to do it. “I’m not as simple as you might think.”
Kareem shakes his head. “Simple is never a word I’d used to describe you.” He smiles, then reaches across the table and takes my hand in his.
I’m frozen. But I don’t want to move. I stare at the candle between us, feeling as if the flame has leapt inside me. I know I’m blushing, but I don’t care about that, either. Kareem holds my hand tighter. I bite the inside of my lower lip.
When the waiter arrives to take our order, I reluctantly pull my hand away.
“Let’s go for the works,” Kareem suggests, leaning back.
“Sounds good.”
Then Kareem asks me what I want to drink. “A glass of red, maybe? I’ll have a glass of the house Bordeaux.” He’s talking about wine, studying the wine list as if this is something he always does. This is … unexpected. I’ve only tried a drop of alcohol once in my life at Violet’s house, but the guilt left a bitter taste in my mouth that lasts to this day. Then I remember: he’s twenty-one. He’s allowed to do this. But that still leaves the question: Why is he doing it?
“I never … I don’t … really drink,” I sputter. “There was one time … Also, you may be twenty-one, but I’m not …”
Kareem smiles. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be corrupting you on our first date. Seriously, no worries. And no pressure. I enjoy a glass of wine with dinner once in a while, that’s all.”
I’m still at a loss. “But …”
“Why am I drinking in the first place?” Kareem raises his eyebrows.
I nod several times. “Does your mom know?”
“Of course. I had my first sip with my parents.”
My mouth drops open. The stars are misaligned. This is not normal, not for a desi Muslim kid. “But aren’t your parents …? I mean, I heard your mom talking to my mom about going to the mosque and—”
His laugh stops me. “They’re not sitting around getting wasted, denying the existence of God or anything. My dad considers himself a believer. But he also believes in enjoying a glass of wine now and again.”
I’m too dumbstruck to think of anything else to say. My own parents aren’t exactly the fire-and-brimstone types, but they’ve never had a drink. Of that I’m certain. Guilt plows into me. They always take me to the mosque on important holidays; they fast during Ramadan; they sometimes close their office to attend Friday afternoon prayers. I’m wracked with guilt as the waiter sets a wineglass in front of Kareem, then pours a small splash from the bottle.
Kareem lifts the glass by the stem, swirling the dark purplish-red liquid into a little tempest. He tilts the rim to his nose and inhales deeply, then puts the glass back down on the table.
“It needs to open up a bit,” he says to the waiter, who seems to understand whatever this means. The waiter leaves us.
I am staring at him, not sure what to make of his expertise, but envious of it. I want to be worldly and sophisticated.
“Maya, relax. It’s not like I eat pork.”
We both crack up, because we know it’s the one line even most lapsed Muslims won’t cross.
The appetizer arrives—a steaming Crock-Pot of bubbling cheese fondue with three types of breads and apples with tiny dipping forks. I move the candles around on the table in hopes that the addition of the canned heat under the pot will maybe give me enough light to get a decent shot. I take my camera and film as Kareem dips a piece of bread into the cheese, spinning the melted strands around the end of his fork. He plops it into his mouth. “H-h-h-o-o-t-t!” he yells.
“Water,” I suggest, but continue to record Kareem’s open-mouthed struggle with the piping hot cheese—total culinary drama.
He downs a full glass of water. “I can’t believe you didn’t stop filming. What if that cheese had burned off the roof of my mouth and it was the last morsel of food I would ever enjoy?”
“All the more reason to preserve the moment,” I reply. “Priceless.” I put the camera down because I don’t need a shield anymore and because I’m hungry.
We dip and eat and talk about our parents and being Indian and the pressure to be a doctor and the Indian aunties who always think you are a little too skinny or a little too chubby and never perfect. We rate our favorite Indian foods and joke that how the first thing we both want when we fly back from India is an actual Big Mac.
“I wish getting a Big Mac was still my biggest concern when I pass through customs these days,” Kareem mutters.
“What is it, fries?” I joke.
“More like hoping I don’t get chosen for the special Secondary Security Screening lottery.”
My smile fades. He’s not joking.
“Crap. That’s happened to you?” I sigh. Not sure why I am at all surprised.
“Twice, coming back home. The first time they took me into this back room. I waited for, like, two hours with all these other brown dudes before being called into a separate room and being asked these basic questions like is this really my name and what was I doing in India and do I have relatives in Pakistan. Whatever.”
“That’s horrible.”
He flashes a bitter smirk. “Hey, at least I wasn’t handcuffed to a wall, right?”
“Don’t even joke about that.”
“It’s not a joke.”
“I’m sorry,” I say and lightly touch his arm.
He places his hand on mine. “Don’t be. You have nothing to apologize for.”
When we’re a block away from Hina’s apartment, I realize it’s drizzling. Maybe it’s been drizzling since we left the restaurant; I’m not even sure. Kareem clutches my hand, and we run to take cover under a crabapple tree. It’s April, so everything is in bloom. Pink petals fall on us, clinging to our wet faces. I glance up through the branches, backlit by the street lamps. I breathe in the sweet, delicate scent. It lasts only a few weeks each spring. If I’d dreamed up this mise-en-scène, I would’ve thought it a cliché. But in real life, it is perfect.
“What are you thinking?” Kareem whispers.
I look at him. “If this were one of my parents’ retro-Bollywood faves, I’d run behind that tree right now and come out singing and in a different outfit.”
Kareem gently hooks a finger under my chin and draws my face toward his. “But if this were an old Indian movie, I couldn’t do this.” He bends down and gently brushes his lips against mine. The earth stops moving. I am frozen in this spot of time.
Turns out, I’m fond of kissing. Extremely. I close my eyes, losing myself in the falling petals, the light rain, the strength of his arms, his breath on my lips. I revel in the moment, the echo of his skin against mine.
Kareem pauses, strokes my cheek with his finger. “Your lips are so soft.”
I blush even as the rain cools my face. Kareem’s lips taste of wine and chocolate. He puts his left hand around my waist and pulls me closer so that our bodies touch. Thunder rumbles in the distance.
I pull away because I feel myself being overtaken. “I should be getting inside. I’m soaking wet, and—”
“Okay, okay.” Kareem nods. “You’re a good Indian girl. I shouldn’t move too fast.”
I cringe a little, but he’s speaking the truth. “No, I’m not … I mean, I am, but it’s that, you know, we’re in front of my aunt’s place.”
Kareem laughs. “Then please allow me to escort you to the door in a gentlemanlike fashion. But first …” He grabs me and kisses me again, longer and harder. I let myself sink into the kiss—wild, reckless, until it’s suddenly too intense. I pull away, breathless.
Kareem takes my hand and leads me to Hina’s front door. He’s not merely being polite; my feet are wobbly.
“I want to see you again, Maya,” he says softly. “But next time, I’ll make sure there are no Indian relatives around.”
“Thanks for dinner,” I gasp. “I had a great time. Have a safe trip back to school …”
Kareem sneaks in one last quick kiss. I gape at him as the rain falls harder. Then he slips into his car. I unlock the front door, turning to wave goodbye before he speeds off.
Once his engine fades to silence, I shut the door and take a deep breath. I’m dizzy as I walk up the stairs to my aunt’s place. I can still feel the tickle of Kareem’s goatee on my face. I walk into the apartment and see the clock on the microwave flashing 12:05 A.M. and laugh out loud. If this were my house, my parents would have called the police by now. And there wouldn’t have been any kissing or hand-holding; I would’ve been too afraid of withering under their interrogation.
I slip out of my shoes, tiptoe quietly into the guest bathroom to strip off my wet clothes, and hang them over the shower rod. Wrapped in a fluffy white towel, I examine myself in the mirror. I run an index finger over my lips and notice a few flower petals in my hair. After brushing out the long, wet strands, I wash off what little makeup is left on my face.
I savor the memory of the moment under the trees.
But when I relive it in my mind, the lips I’m kissing are Phil’s.
As she opens the door, the young teacher shields her eyes from the bright sun. It’s been an unusually warm spring, especially for Springfield, she thinks. She’s overdressed for a day spent with toddlers, maybe a bit too professional-looking in her pale yellow skirt and white cotton blouse, her thick, dark brown hair twisted into a low bun. But the day-care center, mostly for the children of employees, isn’t what she wants to do permanently. She plans on getting certified to teach kindergarten by the next school year.
She dresses for the future.
And the springtime.
Good morning, she singsongs to a little boy in tears. It’s his first day, and it has not started well. His mother is reluctant to leave him.
The young teacher has seen this a hundred times before.
She kneels down beside the boy and tenderly strokes the back of his head. It’s going to be okay, she says. She takes his small hand in hers, a chubby star against her broad palm. I think we’re going to have a lot of fun together. Do you like fire trucks?