by Jasmin Kaur
I didn’t dare to speak.
“I know you told Chachi. She told me everything. And I hope she doesn’t say anything to your chacha.”
My ribs pressed into my emptying lungs, my last molecule of faith in Chachi disappearing.
“You’re nineteen now,” Mom continued. “I suppose that means you can make your own choice. But you need to understand something very clearly. Maybe it was my fault for not being clear before. After everything your father and I have done, after every opportunity we’ve afforded you—if you do this, you will have no place in our home. You won’t humiliate me with lies and call yourself my daughter.”
I turned onto my side and waited for deep slumber to draw her to another world.
dear mom,
I’m writing this because I figure you all should know where I went. I don’t know how much you want to know. I don’t know how much you care. I don’t care whether you’ll ever believe me. But I’m gone with my friend and I suppose this tells you the decision that I’ve made. Do what you need to do to save face. Tell everyone I went back to Punjab. Tell them I went to a different school. Just know that everything will be a lot easier for both of us if you don’t come after me. I’m sorry that I couldn’t be the daughter you wanted me to be.
Kiran
this isn’t a poem.
instead it’s an obituary
for the girl i used to be
the girl who belonged to
everyone but herself
the girl who swallowed
her heart and bit her tongue
the girl who would have
never dared to run.
the vaginal exam
when was the last time you had a pap smear?
the doctor asked with kind eyes
i don’t—i don’t know what that is
i replied, cheeks reddening
a pap smear is an examination of your cervix
to check for any abnormalities?
she ended her sentence like a question
you’re going to go . . . inside?
i asked
she nodded and i nodded
but my lungs were coiled tight
she touched me with cold metal
between my legs
and i pulled away
muscles seizing, heart pounding
she stopped
looked up at me
breathed long and slow
asked
kiran, are you okay with this?
are you uncomfortable with
your vagina being touched?
are you feeling safe?
would you like to just sit awhile
and breathe?
three months
i’d been trying not to count all the missing pieces
but i’d be lying if i said i didn’t look at my phone
hoping for a call (just one)
i knew this silence
was only making my heart heavier
so i gathered what i was grateful for
and held them close
joti was one
her mom was another
and the thought of this baby
was all the rest
six months
according to a book joti found in the library
babies begin to dream at twenty-six weeks
and i wondered what could cross her mind
before she had encountered this world
i passed all my science exams
learned way too much about chemistry
and each cell that formed her body and mine
but i couldn’t yet explain this cocktail
of everything i felt:
two teaspoons of hope
three tablespoons of fear
six dashes of sadness
and a monsoon of
alone
whatever this was
i hoped she was the antidote.
nine months
dear daughter,
it’s strange talking to a being who you haven’t yet met.
how odd it is to love a person you’ve only felt.
but i’ve known you far longer than i’ve known myself
and the thought of a lifetime with you is a journey
i hope i’m worthy of.
my heart already swells for all the days when you’ll soar
and breaks for all the days when you’ll sink.
but i will be there, my love.
it will be my greatest honor to be there.
ਸਹਾਰਾ / sahaara (n)
a pillar, a refuge, a shelter, a source of support.
when sahaara came
when they placed her delicate, honey-warm body against me
skin still blue and caked with blood and bits from my womb
all the pain of the last ten or twelve or god knows how many
hours evaporated melted into thin air
all the heartbreak of every empty chair in this hospital room
fluttered away like my chest was no longer a closed cage
all the worry about tomorrow halted
as if love was an antidote for time
and this moment could stop the hands of a clock
in that hospital room, on that sun-drenched day
nothing existed in the world but this beautiful being
crying and yawning and resting on my skin
and nothing was as musical as her soft heartbeat
synced to the beat of mine
that sounded so much like the word home.
the social worker
something in my gut told me
to say nothing to the social worker
that would give away my fear
curly red hair
and ice-blue eyes
that seemed to see right through me
she asked us where the car seat was
said sahaara couldn’t leave the hospital without it
said i seemed quite young
asked about resources and support
and whether i needed any help
and a crackling mountain of panic
melted to water
when joti entered the room out of breath
with the car seat we’d forgotten in the car
i promised that i had
all the help i needed.
on the perfect mom
according to a magazine at the grocery store
every new mom needed organic baby diapers
needed a self-rocking swing
needed a lactation massager
needed a traveling high chair
& no one seemed to know that i just wanted
to rock her to sleep once without worrying
that i was doing everything wrong.
our paths diverged
Joti reached for her fourth cup of coffee. I would’ve grabbed another if I wasn’t breastfeeding. We sat on the living room carpet in an elaborate nest of textbooks and cue cards and fluorescent highlighters and color-coded notes. Joti’s exhaustion-riddled eyes flitted across diagrams of oligomeric proteins and actin filaments and microtubules. We were supposed to be studying for the bio-chem exam, but Sahaara needed a feeding.
“Actin filaments are important to cells because they . . .” Joti read from a green cue card and then glanced up at me.
“They . . . they maintain the integrity of the—ouch! Sorry. I don’t think Sahaara’s latched on properly. Shit, my nipples feel like they’re gonna fall off.” I placed a pinky between my nipple and Sahaara’s gums to break her latch. My newborn erupted in shrieks and I quickly placed her back on my breast. There was quiet once more.
Joti placed the cue cards on the carpet. “Why don’t you take a break, Kiran? Let’s try again when she’s asleep.”
I shook my head. “No point. She’s gonna start crying as soon as I put her down.”
Joti’s mom was sitting on the plastic-protected sofa, sipping cha and observing our futile attempt at exam prep. “Kiran, what’s happening with
your other courses?” she asked.
My back stiffened with worry. I’d passed my first semester with a near-perfect GPA. This semester, I was hanging on by threads. “Two of my professors are letting me finish the semester from home, by correspondence. And one said I can’t get credit for the classes I miss but I can come for the final exam. And, yeah, you already know about bio-chem. . . .” If it weren’t for Aunty Jee offering to babysit Sahaara while I took the bio-chem exam, I’d fail the course.
“Hmm—” The landline rang and Aunty Jee leaned over to get the phone. “Kidhaan, Deepi? How was your day?” Aunty Jee stood up and gave Joti an oddly pleading look. I caught a grimace on Joti’s face before she busied herself with chemistry notes. Aunty Jee disappeared into her bedroom but her muffled voice carried through the paper-thin walls.
“What’s going on?” I asked, confused by Joti’s sudden discomfort. “Did I miss something?”
“Nope, nothing at all,” she said, swiftly returning to the subject of school. “Your chem class is on Monday afternoons, right?”
“Yeah. Same time as your bio class.”
“And if you don’t pass?”
“Then . . . I’m officially in violation of my student visa rules. If I’m not a full-time student, I could lose the visa. I need to be in at least four classes a semester.”
This was a brick to my chest. What would happen if I violated the visa rules? Would the university report me to immigration? Would I randomly receive a knock on the front door while I was breastfeeding Sahaara? Could they send me back to Punjab and keep Sahaara here?
To violate the rules was to enter a black hole. I had no clue what I’d encounter.
“I could find a babysitter.”
“But money’s pretty low, right?”
Another brick. “It is,” I mumbled. “Wish I could take a semester off. Just one.”
“I know we can get through this,” Joti said, “but we’ll need to be realistic. It’s gonna be an uphill battle from here.”
“Graveyard shifts.”
“Huh?”
“By the summer, maybe—hopefully—Sahaara will sleep through the night. And then I can find overnight work. And then maybe I can save up enough for another year of school?” I knew how ridiculous I sounded. International student fees were horrific, and we weren’t allowed to work more than twenty hours a week.
“Joti.” Aunty Jee emerged from her bedroom. “Your sister wants to talk to you.”
“Mom . . . I’m not. You already know this.”
“Joti. Please.” She couldn’t say no to the desperate plea in her mom’s voice and got up to grab the phone.
“Hi—yup—I’m good—yup—that’s good—okay—see ya.” She passed the phone back to Aunty Jee as quick as she’d picked it up and returned to her sea of notes. Aunty Jee shook her head and said her goodbyes to Deepi.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “Are you and Deepi not talking?” Joti’s sister, Deepi, had visited over winter break and she’d been nothing but sweet. Even though we’d never met before, she had surprised me with a set of bibs and bottles for Sahaara. I couldn’t imagine why Joti would be upset with her.
“It’s nothing.”
Nervousness deepened the lines on Aunty Jee’s forehead. “Joti, this has gone on for long enough. You’re increasing my blood pressure with all this drama. We need to talk about it.” She crossed her arms, pulling her purple sweater closer to her body.
“That’s a little dramatic, Mom,” Joti mumbled, worry betraying her soft brown eyes.
“Kiran, Joti is upset with Deepi because—”
“—because she was being an asshole about you staying with us.”
The silence was awkwardly punctuated by kirtan pouring out of Aunty Jee’s radio. My throat went dry. “Oh,” I eventually mumbled.
Aunty Jee slowly sat down on the sofa, eyes pleading and apologetic. “Deepi and I had a long talk about all this silly business. I think she understands now.”
“Sure she does,” Joti said under her breath.
“Joti, gall sunh meri! Oh nu samaj aa gayee hun,” Aunty Jee insisted. “You two need to talk this out. You both owe each other apologies.”
“I owe her an apology? After what she said?” Joti fumed, a cue card crumpling in her fist. “Mom, she owes Kiran an apology, if anything.”
“What did Deepi say?” I slowly asked, terrified of the answer.
Joti glanced from me to her mom. “She was worried about what taking you in would mean for us—”
“Joti.” I sighed.
“—because of your family situation and your student visa and it was fucked up for her to even—”
“Joti . . .”
“—say any of that because it wasn’t her call to make in the first place. It was Mom’s.”
“Joti, I don’t—I don’t blame her,” I stammered. “She’s right. You guys shouldn’t have to deal with me. It’s not your responsibility and I don’t want to be a burden. I’ll figure out—”
“Kiran, chup kar,” Aunty Jee said. “I want you to listen to me very clearly, puth. Tu sunhdi aa mainu?”
“Hanji,” I whispered.
“Yes, Deepi was nervous at the beginning. She didn’t know how your family would react. She wanted me to think about everything before I made a decision.” She sat down on the carpet with me, easing herself onto her knees despite her achy hip, resting a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Kiran, I’ve always trusted my intuition. It’s never failed me. This life has taught me that sometimes, the most beautiful humans find themselves in painful situations. That doesn’t mean they’re not worth fighting for. Do you understand?”
I placed Sahaara down on an ivory wool blanket as an all too familiar feeling of guilt overtook me.
A hand I knew better than most others reached toward mine. “We’ve got your back, okay?” said Joti.
and so i stayed there
as the years spread and stretched and flew
unconvinced that i wasn’t a burden
but knowing there were hours in the day
when joti and aunty jee were at work
and sahaara was fast asleep
when the monsters tucked away
at the back of my mind
would find me, all alone
how they wanted me
i knew that i needed
to lean on these two women
born from the selfless earth of my motherland
with hearts larger than i deserved
so that the darkness wouldn’t
swallow me.
kiran
january 2005–september 2005
a very long day
The years passed by both far too quickly and in slow motion. Beneath a flurry of bills and toddler tantrums and overtime shifts, single motherhood had filled me with a cloudy, seemingly perpetual fatigue.
I wiped a fresh snowflake from a picture of me and Sahaara. She was climbing up my lap, her dimples the size of dimes, her smile the size of my heart. I’d pick her up from daycare after this meeting but every separation pinched at my chest, no matter how long or short. From her bubbling vocabulary to the way she’d remove her grandmother’s reading glasses and kiss her on the forehead, I found myself in humble awe of this small, wise-hearted being.
I tucked the Polaroid into my wallet and searched for the sticky note Joti had scribbled on:
#320 1649 Simon Rd. Gateway Plaza. Foster Immigration Consultancy.
Goose bumps rose beneath my warm winter coat. Maybe one of our problems was about to be solved.
Today, Sahaara’s babysitter had given me her final warning: if I was late with another payment, we’d have to find a new daycare. I couldn’t plead my way out of this one. All I could do was hope that Mrs. Ikuko would pay me on time. Ever since my work visa expired, she made it seem like this was too much to ask for. Without this week’s pay, I wouldn’t be able to cover rent, either. That would leave me three months behind and Aunty Jee was patient, but she was also s
truggling.
I needed to fix my immigration papers. It was the only way I could work without fearing deadly consequences.
I crossed a street that was more pothole than cement and Gateway Plaza loomed before me in all its beige, frost-crusted glory. From kapra stores to desi banquet halls to Punjabi sweet shops, the plaza carried me home to Chandigarh in bittersweet waves of nostalgia.
I’d grab mithiyaee later, but right now, I was on a mission. As I made my way up to suite #320, both hope and nervousness blanketed me. If things went well today, everything would be different. Joti had found Foster Immigration online, one of the only immigration firms that offered free, extensive consultations. This meant I would finally get some proper advice about staying in Canada.
The office door opened with a creak and I was greeted by an empty front desk. I peeked past the counter to find a long, narrow hallway. The door at the end was slightly ajar.
A fluorescent bulb buzzed and flickered above. “Excuse me?” I called. I waited for a few minutes, unsure whether to stay or leave.
“Hi, hello!” a sunburned, middle-aged white man finally emerged from behind the door. “So sorry to keep you waiting. Secretary went home sick today. Bit of a pain.” He reached out a clammy hand and I shook it. “And you must be . . .”
“Kiran Kaur.” I barely smiled, adjusting the heavy tote bag on my shoulder. “My friend Joti booked an appointment to discuss my student visa?”