by Jasmin Kaur
Congratulations flooded in from every side of the table, Jeevan offering me high fives, Bibi Jee wrapping me up in a warm hug, Maasi capturing the moment on her phone with a video. Mom simply smiled wide, all her pride beaming from her eyes.
I was shell-shocked, a dozen conflicting feelings rushing at me at once. For everyone’s sake, I closed my gaping mouth and grinned, but my stomach was churning.
my grandmother’s smile
stretched from ear to ear
she wore it like an embroidered shawl
stitched with her own fingers
and did not hide it in a vault
when her husband left her arms.
when they told her that widows
should no longer wear bright colors
she smiled even harder and said
i will not abandon my lover’s joy
because he has abandoned his body.
my grandmother would smile
when strangers said i had inherited her mouth
she’d say i may have gotten her lips but, perhaps,
not her sharp, shameless tongue.
my grandmother’s eyes welled with pride
when i was mistaken for her own flesh and blood
and she reminded me that it was no mistake.
that we found each other for a reason.
for unfinished business from another life.
my grandmother’s deepest wrinkles creased
around her smile. if the lines on our palms
told our future, then the lines on her face carried
more stories than i had ever heard. her activist
teens in punjab melted into her outspoken twenties
when marriage and motherhood only taught her
how to shout louder
my grandmother read my face without a word
she knew that i was forcing a smile
and knew exactly why.
she reached for the letter in my lap and whispered
just quiet enough for no one else to hear
you feel guilty because you think your art
is a burden. when another job will bring
more money. but i have lived long enough
to know that the greatest burden is an
unfulfilled heart.
she said
yes, money makes us worry. but haven’t we
always found a way?
for a child to sponsor
their parent’s immigration
they must
1. be eighteen
2. be a canadian citizen
3. have enough income to support two people
and mom had been saving since i was born
and i had been taking all the shifts i could
but we still weren’t there
for my eighteenth birthday, the gift i most wanted
was a paper promising that my mother would
no longer have to hide
but instead i was handed just a little more patience
and an invitation down a path that was never
part of the plan.
choosing one half of my heart
was the most frightening decision i ever made
left me wondering whether i should turn back
excited me and broke me all at once
was their decision as much as it was mine
only seemed right because it came from all of us
felt like stepping into forest after nightfall
with only my hands as guides
the doe
“Sahaara, what’s wrong?” Mom walked into the living room with a wicker basket full of freshly washed laundry teetering in her arms. She placed it on the sofa and cautiously approached me. My eyes remained on my canvas. It sat flat against the coffee table amid murky paint water, fine-tipped brushes, and Bibi’s Punjabi newspapers.
“Nothing.” I added a blue stroke to my ocean.
“You’ve been crying.”
“No, I haven’t.” I filled in the underside of the wave.
“Your eyes are red.”
“I’m fine.” My paintbrush slipped. The words bit at my lips, but I couldn’t summon them before her. She wouldn’t get why I was hurting—devastated—over a boy who had never even called me his girlfriend. She’d just lose her shit because I’d been chilling with him in the first place. Internally, I laughed at all the times I lied to Mom so that I could see Sunny. Was it worth it?
An old Punjabi song crackled over Bibi’s radio. “Ni ik meri akh kashni,” Surinder Kaur crooned as Mom sat down next to me.
“Sahaara, I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“You know you can talk to me, right?”
“Just like you can talk to me.”
She said nothing and I continued to stare at my canvas and Surinder Kaur continued to sing. When had Mom and I become so awkward? I recalled those saffron-tender moments from childhood when I couldn’t wait for her to come home from work, to sit with me in bed and tell me what she’d cooked that day and read me a bedtime story. Back in those days, I felt safest curled up in her welcoming arms, listening to her hum her favorite Neha Bhasin tunes.
“I thought about my mom today.”
Brush frozen in my hand, I glanced up from the painting. “Yeah?”
I watched her without moving an inch, the way one might if they were afraid to startle a deer. Her chest rose slowly, and her exhale was audible. Her eyes were glued to the newspaper on the coffee table. “I never really had a good relationship with her, but sometimes I miss her. That’s kind of strange, isn’t it?” Her mouth quivered as she spoke.
“It’s not strange, Mom . . . it’s human.” My voice was delicate as air, more surprise than sound. She never talked about her family.
“When I was a kid, I would chop sabji with her and help get the flour ready to make praunté. There was this one time when I was ten, I asked if I could flip the praunté on the stove. And she was so proud. Like I was growing into the woman she wanted me to be. And I was so excited to see her happy with me that I would practice making praunté and sabji and naan whenever I had a spare minute. Even when she wasn’t in the kitchen. It was the same with school. I would try so hard just for that look of approval. I wanted Dad to be happy with me as well, but it was different with Mom.”
“Why?”
“My dad just wasn’t that interested in me. He dreamed of a son and when I was all he got, his disappointment never went away. Mom never actually said it, but I always felt like she needed me to be perfect to prove something to him. And the rest of his family. I was the only child she had, so . . . she had no place else to spread her expectations.” She paused. “Sahaara, you know that I love you, right?”
“I know. I love you, too.” I laughed softly. “So, what happened to the Goody Two-shoes? Where’d the rebel come from?”
She smiled sadly. “Just life, I suppose. Reality. There came a time—a breaking point—when I realized that I could try and try and try to make Mom happy, but it would never be enough.”
At some point, the radio station had gone from old-school songs to Punjabi news. The AM 1550 host chattered away about the farming crisis in Punjab. Mom stared at the gray carpet as if she was elsewhere.
“I was upset about Sunny.”
“Who?”
“That guy I went to see on Halloween,” I said with the teaspoon of courage that Mom’s honesty had offered me. “I . . . like him and we had plans for lunch today. I sat there at Boston Pizza for an hour, looking like an idiot all alone. He never showed up.”
Whatever was on Mom’s mind suddenly evaporated and her expression snapped from sad to that familiar look of anger and worry. “What? I thought you were shopping with Jeevan. Sahaara—” She paused, absorbing the way my eyes pleaded, asking her not do this right now. The cement in her tone softened. “I’m sorry. I’m just trying to wrap my head around this.”
“I’ve liked him for a while,” I admitted, unsure how much more detail to di
vulge.
“Didn’t you say he was a nice boy?”
“He is nice. But he wasn’t good to me, if that makes sense.”
She leaned in, a fraction closer. “Wait—do you mean—did he hurt you?”
“Mom,” I sighed, “the only thing he hurt are my feelings.”
Her body seemed to relax, but she said, “That hurt matters, too.”
“Guess so. We’ve got bigger stuff to worry about, though. University, the money stuff . . .” I didn’t add “fixing her papers” to the list. Saying it aloud was always stress-inducing.
Mom was quiet. She stood, returning to the laundry, building tall stacks of shirts and pants and underwear.
“Ahead of Punjab’s election for chief minister next year, we already have some news about potential candidates . . .” Raminder Thandi droned over the radio.
She dropped a mauve sports bra beside folded pants. “You shouldn’t have to worry about money. You deserve to just be a kid. You’re allowed to be sad about a boy without feeling guilty. It’s—it’s my fault you feel like this, that you think about crap that shouldn’t be on your mind. And I’m sorry, Sahaara. I really am sorry for drawing you into my problems.”
My eyes widened in disbelief. I couldn’t remember the last time Mom had apologized to me. What the hell had gotten into her?
“. . . former DGP Hari Ahluwalia is also reportedly considering running for chief minister . . .”
“I appreciate the apology, but—hey, are you okay?”
The sweatpants in her hands slipped through her fingers, landing in the laundry basket. She turned, swift and silent, carrying away the basket before I could tell her that she had no reason to be sorry.
just look at me
i followed you to the bedroom
where you did what you did
whenever your sorrow
was too much to carry
you hid your face
wouldn’t meet my gaze
refused to stare at the being
you brought into this world
there were days when my shoulders ached
but even in the heaviest moments
i wouldn’t have traded you for a lighter load
please, just look at me
i thought
so you can see how much
you are loved
coping
it had been one month and two weeks
of me refusing to look at sunny
when he passed by in the hallway
(even when i could feel his gaze
warming the nape of my neck)
and sunny trying but failing
to get my attention in class
and i was okay.
and i was smiling.
and i was counting
everything that gave me joy
besides his twinkling eyes.
my random-point-in-the-year resolution
(because new year’s resolutions didn’t seem to work)
was to give more of my time and heart and spirit
to the ones who cared about me
and less to the ones whose love i had to chase
i came to this resolution
on a gorgeous mid-may afternoon
at the sight of mom in my lavender maxi dress
sitting in the grass with the sun pouring gold
over her whisper-brown skin
while the smell of her home-cooked praunté
shamelessly wafted through the park
because our culture wouldn’t make us shrink
mom’s steady presence
promised i was whole
even when that void in my stomach
told me otherwise.
a thread of joy, severed
Mom and I climbed the cement stairs that led to the SkyTrain station. We could’ve avoided the train with my shiny new license but she was terror-stricken when I suggested that I try driving on the highway. I was a good driver, I swear, but every time she sat down in the passenger seat, she prayed like she would meet death. The drama.
The white Expo Line train turned up precisely on time. We found two seats in the back, where a diminutive woman eyed up the lavender maxi dress I’d somehow convinced Mom to wear. She rubbed her naked skin where soft goose bumps had risen. “Maybe I should’ve worn something else. I don’t really like showing my arms. . . .”
Just as I was about to go off on a speech about self-love and modesty and the patriarchy, my phone vibrated with a text from Jeevan.
Jeevan: Call me please. Dad got into fight with Mom. I called the cops and they arrested him. Mom is talking to a cop rn.
Every hair on my body rose in sharp unison. “Mom, look . . .” I croaked, tilting the phone toward her.
She gasped. “Call him. Now.”
“Hey. Sahaara?” I could barely make out Jeevan’s words through the piercing buzz of the SkyTrain.
“Jeevan? What happened?!”
“My dad started yelling at my mom about—about some stupid shit. Like, the typical shit. And I started yelling back. And my mom—she told me to stop and just stay out of it. So I took Keerat and we—we just went to the park. Like, I tried to cool down or whatever. And—and then, like, after an hour we came back and—and—” His words were fractured like he was fighting back tears.
“And then what happened?”
“When I came back . . . fuck, man.”
“What happened?”
“He had, like, fucked up her face—” His voice cracked at the last word and the phone went quiet. His silence was punctuated by sobs.
“Holy shit. Holy shit, Jeevan. Is she okay?” I barely breathed.
“We’re at the hospital. She’s talking to a cop in the room.”
“Jeevan . . . oh my god. Are you okay? How’s Keerat?”
“I’m fine. Keerat was shaking. She’s sitting with Mom right now. I’m, like, numb. I can’t even process what the fuck just happened.”
“Okay—um—if you guys wanna stay over at our house tonight, come over, okay?” I looked over at Mom for approval and she quickly nodded, hand over her heart in worry. “And I think you should stay with your mom while she’s talking to the cops.”
“Shit. Yeah, I should. Okay, I’m gonna go. I’ll text you.”
“Love you guys.”
“I love you, too.”
As soon as I hung up, Mom asked what had happened. “Remember when you said you thought his dad could get violent?” I sighed. “You were right. His dad beat up his mom.”
“Hai rabba.” Mom shook her head. “Jeevan called the police?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“I don’t know if that was a good idea. . . .”
“What do you mean?”
“The cops will complicate things. What if he doesn’t go to jail?”
“Shit. That’s true. . . .” My stomach sank as I imagined Jeevan’s dad coming home, electric with fury. Their family wasn’t safe.
“And what about Keerat? She’s young. What if social workers get involved?”
“But did they really have a choice? His dad could’ve done way worse if they didn’t get people involved.”
Mom nodded sadly, hands clenched together in her lap. Heartbreak held my body just as I knew it grasped hers. All I wanted was for my loved ones to be safe and, somehow, this was too much to ask for.
The setting sun glistened through the dirty train window as the tracks curved left. I watched as Surrey bloomed before me, a city as beautiful and troubled as its people. “This is . . . Gateway,” called the robotically calm intercom voice as the train slowed to a halt.
“One more stop,” I murmured as a crowd of passengers spilled from the train. Just before the doors closed with the three chimes that signified imminent departure, two transit cops entered. The first, an older white woman with graying hair. The second, a young Asian man wearing a grimace. Mom’s shoulder tensed against mine. She hugged her purse close.
“Mom, it’s okay,” I whispered in
to her ear. “I think they’re just checking for payments and stuff. Try to relax.” So easy for me to say when I wasn’t the one in constant danger of deportation.
The Asian cop inspected each seat ahead of us, all empty save for two turbaned men chattering away in Punjabi. As he approached, his thumbs were tucked into his police belt, his arms puffed outward. In a moment of nerves, Mom caught his eye and immediately jerked her head toward the window. I could practically feel her heart thumping out of her chest.
“How are you, ma’am?” the officer asked.
She mumbled something inaudible without looking away from the window. God, I wanted to ease her panic, but I had no idea how. Her anxiousness would only make him suspicious.
“Would I be able to see both of your Compass Cards? And some ID?”
“Sure,” I answered for both of us. My voice was steady, but my heart was suddenly racing as well. I handed him my transit pass and driver’s license as Mom rifled through her purse. She found her Compass Card and passed it to him. He scanned both cards and nodded.
“And can I see some ID?”
“Oh, um—” Mom began.
I quickly interjected. “This is my aunt. She’s visiting from Punjab. I think she left all that stuff at home.”
The officer silently watched Mom’s expression. Then he nodded in my direction. “Okay, let her know that she should carry her visa documentation with her.” He spoke to me as if she wasn’t sitting right there.
“Definitely!” I carefully stood up as the train doors opened at Surrey Central. “This is our stop. Excuse me.” Mom and I slid past the cop and hurried out of the train. We squeezed our way through the crowd of commuters and didn’t look back until we reached Simon Fraser University.
When the heavy glass door shut behind us, I looked at Mom: she was violently shivering.
“Mom, it’s okay! We’re fine. We’re safe.” I tried to reach for her hand, but she pulled away.
“We need to keep going,” she said, throat quivering, muscles clenched. “What if he comes back? What if—”
“Mom, it’s fine . . . he’s not gonna come this way. Let’s go home?”