by Jasmin Kaur
“Regardless,” she murmurs. “Could still be filed as humanitarian and compassionate grounds for the daughter.”
For a moment, the officers wordlessly tussle. Arms still crossed over his chest, the man shakes his head and then curtly motions for Officer Gill to speak.
She turns her attention to me. “Kiran, based on what you’ve shared with us, there may be grounds for you to stay in Canada. It could be possible for the IRCC to offer you a path to citizenship.”
“What—what do you mean?” I whisper.
“You can file your permanent resident application. We’ll be doing a check-in after thirty days on the status of the application, but tonight, we’ll be releasing you from custody.”
At the sound of these words, I lose my breath. The relief spilling from my eyes is something I’ve only experienced once before in this rotting carcass of a lifetime.
It is as if I’m cradling my baby girl for the first time.
sahaara
september 2020–february 2021
if i tell you the truth
that i’ve dug
from the hardened depths
of this shrapnel-filled dirt
with these aching, bloody hands
would you believe me?
would you still love me?
the unspeakable
“Mom?”
My phone nearly slips from my fingers when I see her running toward us. After every reassurance that Valeria had given me, it’s only the physical sight of Kiran Kaur that allows me to breathe. My feet can’t carry me fast enough. There is no wall between us. I reach for her, I hold her, I cry into her arms, and she does the same in mine. She wraps herself around me and cradles my head against her chest, refusing to let go, clinging to me like we have both made it out of a burning house alive.
“What happened? What did they say?!”
“They’re giving us time, Sahaara,” Mom weeps. “We can file the application. There’s a chance—we might—we can fix this.” Every razor-winged butterfly that has ever haunted my stomach escapes as water pours from my eyes. Tomorrow, there will be lawyers and questions and forms and uncertainty, but right now, Mom is warm and near. Just as present as a human can be. The feeling that holds every inch of my skin can only be named love.
“Kiran,” Joti Maasi whispers after she’s given us our moment. She engulfs Mom in a bear hug and smiles at me over Mom’s shoulder. That familiar twinkle returns to her teary eyes. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
The early morning drive home is quiet. Mom is too exhausted to talk, and I do my best to keep my eyes open so that Maasi has some company. I peek at Mom in the back seat. She’s pulled off her jacket and placed it over herself like a blanket. Her head rests heavily against the back window. Gratitude flushes through me at the peaceful sight of her.
“You can sleep, Sahaara,” Maasi murmurs. “Don’t worry. I’m fine. This day was way too fucking long.”
My drooping eyelids don’t take much convincing and I give in to the warm exhaustion that tugs me elsewhere. When I open my eyes, we’re home.
“Mom, wake up.” I gently reach for her leg and she’s startled awake.
“What—oh,” she says, blinking sleep from her eyes.
As Maasi groggily leaves the car, Mom’s voice stops her. “Can we, um, can we talk when we get inside?”
“Of course.” She yawns.
The three of us sink into the hearth of my bed. I’d forgotten to turn off the heater before I left home, so the room is deliciously toasty. Maasi sifts through the stack of immigration forms that Mom was given, eyes narrowing as she tries to decipher all the legal jargon. She mumbles something about a lawyer before she gives up and pulls the covers up to her neck.
As if she isn’t seconds from slumber, she says “I’m awake if you wanna talk. Just resting my eyes . . .”
At the mention of “talking,” Mom wrings her hands. She eyes the constellation of Polaroid pictures hanging above my bedpost, her chest quickly deflating. Dozens of family pictures greet me each time I get in bed. Her favorite is the one of us at my grad ceremony. She hung it there herself.
“What’s wrong?” I reach for her knee and she flinches, but doesn’t pull away like she usually does when she’s upset.
“There are . . . things . . . that I haven’t told you guys.”
“What?! You? Not telling us stuff?” I gasp. “Just kidding. Go on . . . I’m listening.”
“Sahaara . . .” She looks me square in the face, more fear than fatigue clouding her features. “You need to know what happened. It was wrong of me to keep you in the dark. If I told two cops tonight, I should have at least told you.”
“Mom, you’re freaking me out . . .” I nervously laugh, studying her pained expression. “What’s going on?”
“Why do you think I stayed in Canada?”
“Uh, because your parents didn’t want you to keep me? And ’cause Prabh Ahluwalia didn’t want a kid out of wedlock?”
She sighs. “That’s just part of the story, Sahaara. Prabh was my fiancé. My parents introduced us, and I was really nervous about him, but he wasn’t terrible. He was romantic. And thoughtful. He treated me well. For a long time, he made me feel like I mattered. Like marriage would be some sort of ticket to happiness. I think . . . I think I could’ve loved him.”
“But?” I whisper. The room is so quiet, I can hear her breath as though it’s mine.
“But I was stupid. I was so stupid.” Her eyes are glazed and red and I can’t bear to look at them. I can deal with Jeevan or Sunny getting emotional. But Mom? The sight of my parent crying will always terrify me.
“It’s not your fault he didn’t want a kid. You couldn’t have known he’d react like that.”
“That’s not it, Sahaara.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s not your father.”
I barely breathe. “I don’t follow . . .”
“There was a party—a surprise party for Prabh. His brother and the rest of the family had planned it. I helped, too. It was at this lavish garden in Chandigarh. My parents were invited but Mom was sick, and Dad was out of town, as usual. I couldn’t drive, so Prabh’s brother offered to pick me up. I was dressed in this new lengha I’d bought just for the occasion. I remember being mortified that Prabh’s mom wouldn’t think it was nice enough. She was obsessed with appearances—even more than my mom and, hai rabba, that was a feat.” She pauses here, gently grasping her thin wrist, slowly inhaling and exhaling as though trying to steady herself. “I was sitting in the car and Hari—Prabh’s brother—he kept looking over at my lengha in the strangest way. It felt like he was leering at me the way boys would at the bus stop. And I didn’t want to imagine he could do something so gross. He was going to be my brother-in-law. I called him Jetha Jee. But he kept staring and . . . I snapped. Asked him what he was looking at. And he said, ‘You should cover your arms, your midriff. That top gives off the wrong idea about you.’”
“What the hell?” I seethe, the vein in my temple thrumming.
“He made me feel horrible. Like a piece of meat. And I asked what he meant by ‘the wrong idea about me.’ He started going on about how women want respect while they don’t respect themselves. How they dress provocatively and behave like . . . whores. And then get upset when men harass them. And that just—that drove me over the edge. Because guys would always holler things at me. It didn’t matter whether I was wearing a salwar kameez or jeans or a sari.”
“So, did you tell him off?”
“I . . . I did. Sometimes I wish I didn’t,” she mumbles, and my skin is cold, staticky. She gazes at the darkened world outside my bedroom window and then ruefully returns to me. “He was a cop . . . so I told him that instead of blaming women’s clothing for the shitty things men do, he should hold men accountable. And this . . . infuriated him.”
“Go on . . .” I say, although I’m not sure if I want her to. I squeeze down on my wrist, pulse throbbing like my hea
rt is everywhere, stomach acrid and gnashing.
“On the way to the party, he stopped at his police station. Told me to come inside because he left his suit there. I said I’d just wait in the car, but he insisted I join him. He said it wasn’t safe for me to sit outside alone at that hour. It was around seven in the evening, so the police station wasn’t so busy, but sometimes, I don’t even think it would’ve mattered if it was. He took me to an interrogation room. I wasn’t even scared at first. Just confused and irritated that he was wasting my time when I wanted to get to this bloody garden party and make sure that all my stupid centerpieces were set up correctly. And that’s where . . . that’s where he . . .” She swallows and breathes deep. “I can’t say the word, Sahaara. It makes me dizzy. Sick. But you know what it is.”
The acid in my throat already told me where this was going, but her words still punch me in the gut and vacuum the air from my lungs. I don’t know what to do or say besides resist an urge to puke. I can’t even cry.
“Mom . . .” I croak after a few moments. “What the fuck? What. The. Fuck!” Maasi flinches in her slumber but doesn’t wake.
“Afterward . . . I was shocked. Frozen inside. I couldn’t even process what had happened. It was like something broke within me. Like I was a jammed clock or something. And . . . I got back in the car—his car. And I went to the party. And I acted like everything was fine because I didn’t want to ruin Prabh’s birthday. His mom saw a tear in my lengha and she scolded me for it. I was so numb . . . I just apologized. A few weeks later, I found out I was pregnant. And I—I was so desperate. I needed something—someone—to hold on to. So I held on to you.” As Mom speaks, my face burns hot and red. Rage courses through every inch of my skin. Through every goose bump and hair on my body. I want to break something. I want to break him. I want to break all of them. I don’t know why I’m sitting in Canada right now when I should be in Punjab tearing the flesh off his bones.
“Did you tell Prabh?”
“I did. And he took his brother’s side. Didn’t believe me for a second.” She draws her ivory cashmere sweater closer, as if a chill is passing through the room. Hunched forward, her waifish body shivers. Her vulnerability pours rage into me like a corrosive fuel. How could anyone dare to put their hands on her?
“Fuck him. And his brother and his stupid fucking family. We’re here and they can’t do shit about it.” I cuss without a filter and she doesn’t stop me.
“Sometimes, it feels like I can’t get away from him . . .” Mom shakes her head, wiping tears with her sweater.
“What do you mean?”
“Hari Ahluwalia, Sahaara. That’s Prabh’s brother. The one who’s running for chief minister of Punjab.”
hari ahluwalia
despite myself, i google his name
and like a car crash
i cannot look away
although the sight is chilling
there i am
etched into his jawline
and his chiseled cheekbones
and his slightly protruding ears
this is why
i am restless until dawn.
tonight
i want to peel away my skin
break free my eyes
drain the blood from my veins
empty every last drop
that was placed within me
by a monster
tonight
i wonder
whether any goodness can exist
in a body made from
coldness and fear
tonight
i want to give myself back.
the next morning
the veil slivers my tongue as it closes
and once more, the nightmare
is too volatile to speak aloud
i have now told the truth
exactly four times
and i don’t know how
i managed to forget
the aftermath of its retelling:
the vomiting
the near-fainting
the force that flattens my lungs
and siphons oxygen from my throat
worst of all, the flashbacks.
i don’t know how to explain to sahaara
why i can’t tell joti the story right now.
waking from a bad dream
What the fuck am I doing here?
If Jeevan hadn’t reminded me that I could lose my spot if I didn’t show up on the first day of classes, I’d still be holding Mom close, processing whatever the hell is coursing through my skin right now. Instead, I’m struggling to keep my eyes open beneath fluorescent lights, wedged between a white boy in a black beret and a girl who won’t stop talking about how her avant-garde art is completely groundbreaking.
“I look forward to seeing you all again at the end of the week. Please remember to purchase your textbooks and complete your readings before our next session, as we’ll be jumping right into our discussion about Les Nabis.” Marianne LeBlanc speaks with a thick French-Canadian accent, surveys us through ice-blonde bangs. She is both a very distinguished art critic and the teacher of my modern art course. If my mind and body weren’t still reeling from the night, I’d probably be a little more starstruck to be here.
The room is just a notch larger than one of my high school classrooms and, somehow, this calms me a tiny bit. I already miss the comfort of Jameson, the safety of its familiarity. Instead of desks, the room is filled with long rows of hardwood tables, six students crammed into each one. There isn’t a single empty chair in this course with a waitlist of at least forty students desperate to learn from Ms. LeBlanc—I mean, Marianne. Apparently, we’re supposed to call teachers by their first names now.
When Marianne finally dismisses us, I’m out the door before anyone has even gathered their textbooks. The stairs leading to the parking tower are down the left corridor past the Starbucks—I think? I speed walk in the direction that feels right, periwinkle canvas bag slung over my shoulder. If I leave campus now, I could be back in Surrey by three p.m. I won’t miss the meeting with All Humans Are Legal.
Last night lingers in my chest. It could’ve been longer than a lifetime. Somewhere between the mess of Mom getting detained, me calling Valeria, Mom being released and then telling me about Hari Ahluwalia, the anxiety in my chest unraveled and tightened a thousand times over. Right now, my stomach is fluttering. Bubbling. Prickling. I am composed only of sharp edges.
When I sink into the driver’s seat in my truck, I catch an accidental glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. My whole body recoils at the sight. For years, I thought that if I ever uncovered the truth about my biological father, I’d feel a liberating sense of closure, like the missing pieces of me were complete. Instead, I awoke in a body that is more foreign than before. I am a stranger. An echo of violence.
Evidence of a crime.
Those ugly moments rise in my throat. The times when I’d get pissed at Mom for keeping me in the dark. For telling me so little about him and the rest of his family. The worst of them was in ninth grade, when Mom was lecturing me about homework. I got so goddamn frustrated with her breathing down my throat that I said I wished I knew my father because he was probably less suffocating than her. The recollection makes me wanna puke.
After all those lonely nights of wondering where I came from, here I am, more lost than ever.
Jeevan grins through the hazy glass window of the coffee shop when I finally make it back to Surrey. Mom is right beside him, adjusting and readjusting her blue ombre shawl and marigold kurti. With Maasi working an early shift at the hospital, Jeevan canceled a counseling session to come in her place. He insisted on being here for us, despite me promising that we’d be cool on our own. My heart swells at the sight of his sweet smile and curly head of hair. Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without him.
Two women I don’t recognize are seated across from Jeevan and Mom. They turn to wave at me and I feebly wave back. The younger one must be Valeria.
/> “Hiii, Sahaara! Nice to see you face-to-face!” Valeria stands to politely hug me. Up close, I’d recognize her anywhere. She and her cousin Marisol share the exact same watery-green eyes and penny-deep dimples. Valeria gestures to the older woman. “This is Prem, one of our senior lawyers at All Humans Are Legal.”
Prem stays seated but smiles kindly and shakes my hand. With her thick Kashmiri shawl draped across her body and short, gray-streaked hair, she looks much older than Mom. I glance over at Jeevan and he fist-bumps me as a greeting. His eyes follow me as I take a seat, his features marred in concern. I smile a little harder, trying to prove that I’m good.
“How’s it going, Mom?” I whisper. “How you feeling?”
“Better than yesterday, I suppose.” She looks utterly relieved by the sight of me.
“Sahaara, we were just chatting with Kiran about the work we do with undocumented immigrants,” Prem says. “Truly, I wish we’d met sooner. I’m so sorry that you were dealing with all this in isolation.”
“Yeah. It’s been . . . hard. We weren’t sure where to go for help. It was scary, like, thinking she could get reported if we talked to the wrong person. So, we tried to just wait it out, until . . .”
“Shit hit the fan?” Valeria interjects, head resting on her palm.
“Basically.”
“This really isn’t uncommon.” Prem removes her glasses and rests her folded hands on the table. “In a lot of the cases we deal with, there’s so much fear about getting deported that people suffer in silence for years. And, of course, there are those who take advantage of that fear.”
“Like Mom’s manager,” I sigh. Steam billows from cups of cha that almost smell homemade. They sit before everyone at the table except for me. Jeevan picks up an empty glass and pours me a cup without prompting.
“Right.” Prem nods and takes a sip of her tea. “Kiran was saying her manager threatened to call immigration on her. Oftentimes, employers like that hire undocumented people just because they know they can pay them less and overwork them. Who would they tell if they were being mistreated?”