If I Tell You the Truth

by Jasmin Kaur

  I sealed up the suitcase and stood, eyeing myself in an oval mirror that hung between a worn night table and a smiling portrait of my aunt, uncle, and their two young children. At the moment, my two little cousins were off at summer camp and Chacha, Dad’s younger brother, was dealing with insurance clients at his office. That meant Chachi was the only one home to see my tear-ravaged face. My insides crumpled at the thought of crying in front of her. It would almost be as bad as crying in front of my parents.

  Breathe, I told myself, glaring at my quivering bottom lip in the mirror. The more you cry, the worse your face is going to get. My dark moon eyes were already bloodshot and swollen and utterly embarrassing.

  Two sturdy knocks suddenly landed on the door. “Kiran, puth, are you coming downstairs?” Chachi called. “Breakfast is ready. Well, it’s lunch now, I suppose. . . .”

  Breath wavering, I dipped my tongue in false cheer. “Hanji! I’ll be down in a minute!”

  With one last glance in the mirror, I reminded myself of all the hell I’d already faced. An awkward conversation was nothing.

  in the kitchen

  chachi’s sleek black braid snaked down her spine

  and she glanced back from the stove

  to smile and fret and remind me

  that it was okay to feel

  somehow

  my bee-stung eyes didn’t horrify her

  it’s perfectly human

  my aunt said

  to miss home

  to miss your parents

  never feel ashamed of your tears

  i nodded and lowered my gaze

  and didn’t correct her assumptions

  about why i was in shambles

  we couldn’t be happier that

  you’re staying with us!

  our home is your home.

  chachi was the day to my mother’s night

  kinder than necessary

  softer than the rest of my rigid family

  even if i couldn’t tell her the truth

  about everything hidden

  beneath my tearful smile

  perhaps

  i could find solace in her warm embrace

  biology major

  orientation day arrived

  before i’d even managed

  to orient myself in time and space

  i was a newborn to this new country

  terrified of getting lost on the bus

  and finding my classes on my own

  and trying to make friends

  when i could barely do that back home

  i knew why i had to be here

  i knew i couldn’t stay in canada

  if i didn’t go to university

  i knew i couldn’t support a child

  without a stable career

  i knew i had so much more to fear than a new school

  but, god, i was still terrified.

  freshie

  The word no was an art form foreign to me. I mean, I’d always loved the idea of saying no, but nothing made my skin crawl like the thought of disappointing people. So, of course, when Chachi asked if I could take the bus to SFU for my orientation, I ate all my nerves, dropped an enthusiastic not a problem!, and desperately hoped that I wouldn’t end up in the wrong city.

  This was the real me: the girl who pressed all her desires flat to avoid causing a stir. The girl on the phone who told Mom that she was having a baby? I didn’t know her, and she certainly wasn’t here with me at this school.

  I knew that if I started running right now, I could catch the bus. I was sure of it. I could get the hell off this frightening, confusing concrete jungle of a campus and hide beneath my comforter, perfectly safe, perfectly alone.

  Pull it together, Kiran. Isn’t that what the white people say? You’re stuck here.

  I pried my eyes off the long walkway that led to the bus stop and turned to face a monstrously intimidating cement building, far larger than my familiar, teacup-sized college back in Chandigarh. I forced my feet forward.

  The atrium was swarming with students, most gathered in a dense lineup that led to unopened double doors. I scanned the line in search of someone who I could talk to: a group of white boys in red SFU sweatshirts and matching hats chattered loudly among themselves; a tall, gray-haired woman stared idly out the window to our left; a bored-looking girl in black overalls blew an enormous pink bubble, glancing at me and then popping her gum in my direction. My heart galloped against my ribs. The last thing I wanted to do right now was stumble over my English while I asked these strangers for help.

  Canada won’t be so bad, Dad had said before I left home. I’m sure you won’t be the only Punjabi at your school. And even if you are, maybe it’ll build some character.

  I didn’t need character. I needed a thimble of familiarity.

  My clenched breath unfurled when I caught a glimpse of dark-haired, unmistakably Punjabi girls poring over their French manicures. “Sat sri akaal!” I called in Punjabi, waving at the group as I approached. “Is this the orientation for new students?”

  The group eyed me and then each other. A tall girl in the middle pulled the pink binder in her arms a little closer. “Yeah,” she said, her English crisp with whiteness. “There’s a table over there where you sign in. . . .” She pointed to two middle-aged white women sitting behind a desk to my right. I watched as a girl with side-swept bangs whispered something in her ear, eyes flashing toward me as she spoke. Was I missing something?

  As I walked away, a high-pitched voice echoed loud and clear, rising, undoubtedly, from the girl I’d just spoken to. “Why are there so many freshies here?” Laughter and groans erupted behind me.

  Freshies. I didn’t know what the word meant but I couldn’t help but feel like it was directed at me. Was I being paranoid? Maybe it was a Canadian thing that I didn’t understand?

  When I returned to the line, I pasted my eyes to the ground, not making the mistake of speaking again.

  No one is possibly paying attention to you. You can’t be the only new person here.

  There was no coaxing myself out of my nerves: after the registration incident, I felt like a neon sign in this auditorium. Did my sun-marked skin glow with the word outsider? Loser? Maybe it was something a little colder.

  Loud chatter swallowed the cavernous room as freshmen slowly poured in, filling the seats closest to the top before stragglers settled in near the bottom. From what I could see, most people seemed to know each other, probably arriving from the same high schools. Pulling my notebook open to a blank page, I did my best to look invisible—just as dull as an empty seat. I began to scribble a to-do list that I’d later have to tear out and hide:

  Visit a gynecologist

  Buy prenatal vitamins

  Find a place to rent

  The last item was going to be exceptionally tricky, but at least I had time on my side. It would be a few months until my stomach would bloom so large that I’d no longer be able to hide it beneath an oversized shawl. A few months before Chachi and Chacha would realize the truth and inevitably kick me out of their house. A few months to find a bedroom where I could afford the rent, go to school, and safely raise this child.

  A shiver stole through my spine. Was I actually doing this?

  “Rahul is trash!” someone loudly declared, and my head shot up instinctively, searching for the voice. It was coming from a brown girl with a pixie cut a row below mine. “He’s always been trash. He will always be trash. Accept it. It’s the truth.” Her thick blue streaks were mesmerizing. She couldn’t possibly be Punjabi with hair like that.

  “How?!” her friend replied, toying with her raven-dark braid. “He left his family for Anjali. That’s definitely not trash behavior.” They were talking about my favorite movie. I pretended not to eavesdrop.

  “So, he treats Anjali like shit, marries Tina, and then finds Anjali once Tina is dead? What’s so romantic about that?” the blue-haired girl argued.

  “Hold up. You’re talking about Kuch Ku
ch Hota Hai Rahul. I’m talking about Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham Rahul.”

  “It’s the same Rahul!”

  Her friend paused, as if calculating something. Then she burst out laughing. “That makes no sense.”

  “It makes complete sense!” The blue-haired girl looked around as though searching for someone. My stomach jumped when her eyes locked onto me. She had spotted me staring. “What do you think?”

  “S-sorry?” I stammered, warmth creeping into my cheeks. “Are you talking to me?”

  “What do you think about Rahul and Anjali?”

  “Oh . . . I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” I mumbled. “I loved Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham but, to be honest, Rahul was kind of terrible in Kuch Kuch Hota Hai. . . .”

  “See! Terrible, Simran. Terrible,” she laughed to her friend. Her honey-brown eyes returned to mine. “I’m Joti. This is Simran.”

  “Kiran. Nice to meet you two,” I quietly replied. My eyes wandered to the silver septum piercing dangling from Joti’s slightly upturned nose.

  She caught me staring again. “Like it?” She smiled.

  “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to—I think it’s lovely.”

  “So do I . . . but my mom isn’t really feeling it. She thought I was getting a koka like yours.” She pointed to my more traditional nose ring, a tiny gold piece on my left nostril.

  My fingers gravitated toward the piercing that Mom had chosen for me. “I . . . like yours better,” I told Joti. “I think I’m gonna take this out soon.”

  Joti surveyed me with something thoughtful and nameless before she spoke. “What program are you in?”

  “I’m majoring in biology.” Hardly my favorite subject, but it always landed me the highest grades. Dad said the numbers were all that really mattered. If it had it my way, I would’ve applied for English. “I might do a chemistry minor as well.”

  “Look at that,” Joti said, tilting her head to survey me. “Another bio student. Aren’t we a perfect set of brown girl stereotypes?”

  I peered from her glimmering piercing to her bold haircut to my own distorted reflection in her purple glasses and couldn’t help but laugh. If we were a brown stereotype, maybe they needed another category.

  “Do you know what the word freshie means?” I asked Joti as we left the orientation. We had spent the first hour in the lecture hall receiving welcome after welcome by university staff. Then we were divided into groups and shown different buildings on campus. Joti told me to stick by her side during the campus tour, even though I was supposed to join the red group. I happily obliged. This place was a concrete maze and I had no idea how I’d find my classes on my own.

  “It means fresh off the boat,” she explained, rolling her eyes. “Like, straight from Punjab. It’s how they make fun of new immigrants around here. Why?”

  Blood rushed to my cheeks once again. “Oh.”

  “Kiran, why?” Joti stopped dead in the center of the sidewalk. Students pushed past us on either side, but she was unbothered by their glares. “Where’d you hear that?”

  I explained the incident with the Punjabi girls in the atrium. Joti’s mouth fell open and fury filled her eyes. There was another emotion there. I think it was pity. “Fuck ’em,” she bristled through gritted teeth. “Those girls are still stuck in high school. They don’t get that their own parents were new immigrants at some point. Don’t take it personally. We’re not all like them. I promise.”

  I could feel tears threatening to form, so I changed the subject. I’d dealt with enough embarrassment today. “Where’s your family from, originally?”

  “We came here about six years ago,” Joti said, moving along the sidewalk again. I followed at her side. “Immigrated from Jalandhar.”

  The surprise was plain on my face. “You weren’t born here?”

  “What made you think that?” she asked.

  “Well, I mean . . .” I adjusted the textbook in my arms, hoping I wouldn’t sound horribly presumptuous. This funny, thoughtful girl had given me the time of day. I didn’t want to ruin my ridiculous stroke of luck. “I don’t mean to offend you at all, but you don’t seem like a lot of the other Punjabi girls I know.”

  “Maybe you don’t know enough Punjabi girls, then,” she laughed, the irony of my recent immigration from Punjab lost on neither of us. Then she went quiet for a moment, as though she, too, was choosing her words carefully.

  “I was joking about the stereotype thing I said earlier. I think we’re all pretty complicated. Just beneath the surface.”

  I nodded in agreement, hand instinctively reaching for my belly. I was no stranger to complications just beneath a cookie-cutter exterior. But, to put it bluntly, her “surface” confused me. It seemed like Joti was welcome to be herself on the outside, as boldly and as loudly as she wished. If I had come home with a septum piercing, my parents would’ve immediately marched me back to the jewelers to get it removed.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to judge you or anything. I guess I just assumed that you would have to be born in Canada for your parents to let you . . .”

  “Look like this?” she finished my sentence, stifling a grin beneath pursed lips. “Don’t get me wrong. My parents weren’t always open to me doing this shit. The way I see it, our parents are growing with us. I’m the youngest sibling and my sister was an easy kid to raise. She never wanted to go out or dye her hair or whatever. Love her, but she was a complete Goody Two-shoes,” Joti sighed in exasperation. “My parents were expecting me to be another Deepi. I took some getting used to.”

  “I suppose that makes sense. I really don’t know if my parents will get used to me, though,” I said, surprising myself with my honesty. My gaze shifted nervously from Joti to the whistling maple trees ahead. As their only kid between four devastating miscarriages, I was their one shot at crafting the child they wanted. The only place to pour all their hopes and rest their heavy expectations. “I’m not exactly living up to all their dreams.”

  My eyes remained on the earth, but I could feel her studying me. “Give ’em time. They’ll come around. Trust me.”

  I nodded as if I believed her. “So, your dad is okay with your piercing as well?”

  “My dad, um . . .” Joti’s voice seemed to wither in her throat. “My dad actually passed away recently.”

  “Oh my god,” I breathed. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I—”

  “Don’t be.” She half smiled, silencing my impending word vomit. Her eyes wandered the sidewalk and then rested on me. “You couldn’t have known. And to answer your question, yeah . . . he was cool with it.”

  I had no idea what else to say, so I shut my mouth. I really was better off not talking.

  funland

  “C’moooooon,” Joti moaned, pleading with her hands around mine. “I swear to you, it’s not as scary as it looks. We’ll sit in the middle. It’s really only bad if you’re at the front or the back.”

  I placed a weightless fluff of pink cotton candy in my mouth and let it melt to buy myself a moment to think. Joti had accepted none of my excuses to not join her on the roller coaster. The monstrous wooden structure looked terribly rickety. I wouldn’t have set foot on the thing even if I was thoroughly unpregnant.

  “I can’t. I really can’t.” I shook my head. “Heights make me nauseous. I’ll just vomit all over you.”

  “Fine.” She sighed in resignation. “One day, you’re gonna have to join me, though.”

  “One day.”

  When I said yes to Funland, I’d hardly been thinking about rides that would play cricket with my already-queasy stomach. I had come simply to hang out with Joti. Since last week’s orientation, she had taken it upon herself to be my guide to all things Canadian. In her words, she wished she’d had someone friendly around when she first moved to Canada. It was, she said with a sparkle in her eye, the least she could do for a fellow Arundhati Roy fan. She told me that she came from a family that showed love through hospitality, through open doors. The concept was novel and intr
iguing and so very strange. I knew she’d get sick of me eventually, that her hospitality would soon wear thin, as everyone’s did. She’d inevitably grow tired of dragging along this new girl who constantly had her foot in her mouth.

  For now, however, I’d cling to her side, lapping up any adventure she was willing to take me on.

  The amusement park was teeming with children. They ran wild and giddy as uninterested adults trailed behind them, snacks in hand. On this lukewarm day, it seemed as if families were here to soak up the last drops of summer, the calm before school and work would consume them all. A teenage boy with sandy hair pushed past me on his way to the roller coaster, taking a fat chunk of my cotton candy on his sleeve as he brushed by.

  “You could say excuse me!” Joti shouted over her shoulder. He nonchalantly raised a middle finger at us. “For fuck’s sake. People these days . . .” I walked a little closer to her.

  Standing next to Joti in a sea of white faces, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I stuck out like a sore thumb. Although I’d been practicing my English in Chandigarh since the second grade, my accent was still a blaring siren that announced all the ways in which I didn’t belong.

  Wherever possible, I’d let Joti speak on my behalf. Six years in Canada had transformed her tone, but I could still hear warm inflections of Punjab lilting through her English. When she spoke, she’d drift effortlessly between English and Punjabi, while I’d do my best to speak solely in English. I desperately needed the practice.

  “Chall.” Joti grinned. “If you weren’t into the darauna roller coaster, I’m sure you’ll be up for this.” She air-quoted darauna, poking fun at my fear. Joti stopped before a rusty gate that housed a giant metal diving board, just as tall as the roller coaster. At the bottom of the diving board was a pit full of spongy green cubes, each the size of a globe.