by Jasmin Kaur
you’re doing this for girls like me
you’ll be making the world a little safer
i’ll be right there by your side.
speaking sach to power
“You’ve got this, Mom!” I beam. “You’re gonna do great.”
Her smile is a weak flicker before it snuffs out altogether. Mom lowers her gaze, unsure what to do with her hands. Seated on a white pleather love seat before a seamless green screen, she picks at a piece of nonexistent lint on her sweater and tries to flatten a crease in her khaki pants. Across from her is Bimal Ghatora, the host of Chat & Chai with Bimal. As a makeup artist blots her forehead, Bimal twirls a finger around a lock of perfectly straightened, henna-red hair, just as vivid in real life as it is on TV. Most Saturday mornings, Bibi Jee takes a seat in the living room, dunks Parle-G biscuits into her cha, and watches Bimal Ghatora interview guests on her Punjabi Channel talk show. Her guests are usually up-and-coming Punjabi singers and naatak actors. Her conversations are light and juicy. This one is going to be . . . different.
“How are you feeling, Kiran?” Bimal asks. “Not nervous, I hope.”
“I’m . . . okay.” Mom nods with eventual sureness. “Glad we’re not doing this in front of an audience.” We’re sitting in a little studio in the Punjabi Channel office. Surrounding the perfectly framed sofas and green screen, there’s a tangled web of cords, lighting equipment, and a serious-looking camera. If I were watching from home, I’d think Mom was lounging in a meticulously designed living room. There’s even a cute picture of Bimal Ghatora’s family on the side table beside Mom.
“All right, we’re shooting in thirty seconds,” a bushy-bearded videographer named Satinder says from behind the camera. “If you need to pause or you’d like to say something differently, we can always stop and pick up from where you’d like, teekh aa?”
Mom looks to me for reassurance and I offer her a sturdy thumbs-up. Prem stands serenely next to me, an intricate plum shawl draped across her chest today. Although we hadn’t seen her in months, she was elated when she heard about the PR card and insisted on taking Mom out for a celebratory dinner at Tasty’s. Over paneer sliders and sweet mango lassi, Mom repeated words that were beautiful and terrifying and so very surprising. She doubled down on her insistence that she wanted to go public about her migration story—and name Ahluwalia in the process. Perhaps it was the safety of her PR card that gave her this stunning change of heart.
On the drive to the studio, Prem and I reminded Mom that if she had any doubts about the interview, we could immediately turn the car around and cancel the whole thing without a worry. There was something concrete in Mom’s voice when she told me to keep driving.
“And we’re rolling in five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .” Satinder’s voice trails off and he signals the word one with his finger.
“Hellllllooooo, dosto! Welcome to another episode of Chat & Chai with me, your host, Bimal Ghatora. Today, I have a very special guest joining me. This is a woman who has braved so much just to be with us here today. A woman who claims that everyone’s favorite progressive political candidate for Punjab’s leadership race has actually buried a very dark past. Kiran Kaur, welcome to the show.” I gag at her choice of words. Progressive. Everyone’s favorite.
“Thank you—thank you for having me.” Unsure where to look, Mom glances at the camera and then settles on Bimal.
“Now, Kiran, shall we jump right into your claims about Hari Ahluwalia? He’s the leader of the Progressive People’s Party of Punjab. A former police chief who’s done so much to help Punjab’s youth break free from the grips of alcoholism and drug addiction. You tell a very different story about him. Could you share?”
“Well . . .” Mom begins, “I’d actually like to begin by talking about my own experiences in Canada.” Prem smiles beside me and nods in approval of Mom’s redirection of the conversation. In the car, Prem said that interviewers could get pushy, that she’d cut them off if they asked anything remotely inappropriate. “My story isn’t just about . . . him. It’s been a very long journey for me in other ways.”
“Of course.” Bimal cocks her head to the side. “You’ve lived in Canada for about twenty years, I believe? But you were here, for most of those years, without legal status. What was that experience like?”
Mom begins to relay her story, describing how she knew very little about her rights as a young international student. When she gets to the part about giving birth to me in Canada and overstaying her student visa, she glances faintly in my direction, then returns her attention to Bimal.
“Fascinating!” Bimal flashes a Colgate smile. “But what an awfully great risk to take, overstaying a student visa, knowing your child could also be at risk. Some would, perhaps, call that irresponsible. Why would you make such a decision to raise a child in Canada without legal status?”
Shock registers on Mom’s face. She hunches forward, like she’s been punched in the gut, and I wince with her. “F-fear,” she stammers. “Crippling and paralyzing fear. When I first came to Canada, I knew I couldn’t go back, because of Hari Ahluwalia. But I was so afraid of making the wrong move and getting sent back to Punjab without a question. I felt like, the less I said, the safer I would be—the safer my daughter would be—until I could figure out a certain path to citizenship.”
“What were you so afraid of?” Bimal airily asks, as if they’re discussing the weather.
“I guess . . . what would happen if . . . I came back with my—with my—”
“Kiran,” Prem speaks up. “Are you comfortable answering this question?”
“No. No, I’m not.” Mom worriedly looks back and forth between us.
“Bimal, why don’t we move on to the next question, then?” Prem suggests without blinking.
“Sure, not a problem!” Bimal simpers, sickly sweet. “So, Kiran, you mentioned experiencing a great deal of confusion around gaining citizenship. How did you figure out how to become a citizen?”
“I wasn’t really sure who to turn to for help—who I could trust—but years ago, I met with an immigration consultant. He offered to help but he—he tried to, um, he tried to take advantage of me just like—”
“That’s horrible, Kiran! Can you explain for our viewers in more specific terms what you mean by taking advantage?”
“Oh, um . . .” Mom’s voice quivers and fizzles out. Acid creeps up my throat, just as it did when she first told me about Ahluwalia. She never told me about this immigration consultant. . . .
“Bimal, she’s uncomfortable,” Prem says. “Move on to the next question.”
Quietly, I slip past Prem and step into the hallway, searching for the washroom that the studio assistant pointed out when we came in. When I finally find it, I rip open the door of an empty stall. Hair falls into my face as I give in to my stomach’s clawing urge to empty itself.
I have no clue what Mom has truly been through. I have no idea what else she could be carrying that’s never been spoken aloud. But every time she shares a piece of her story, something inside me tears apart and all I want to do is help her mend. I just want to prove—to her and to myself—that this world can do more than hurt us.
helpless
there is a kind of pain that exists
when your loved one carries a hurt
too heavy for either of you to bear
when your hands don’t know
how to mend their wounds
and your rage has nowhere to go
i would do anything
to reverse time
so that she would
never know suffering
like this
even if it meant
i was never born.
before i get into my bed
i crawl into mom’s
i have always been softer than her
it doesn’t take much for my throat to break
for fog to fill my eyes
but this time
she cries with me
<
br /> and i become the mother
hugging her close
and she becomes the child
certain that the world
is only as big as the arms that hold her.
on sunday,
the world will know my truth
and in this thin blade of time
i think i have it in me to tell joti, as well
i recount the story that was buried
when we were both young and reckless
and she could only guess at the truth shivering
beneath my skin
she says
kiran, this was never your fault.
kiran, you did your best.
kiran, you have always done your best.
kiran, you are whole and holy.
kiran, you are deeply loved.
kiran, your past doesn’t define you.
and i tell her
this body feels like a cage
and i’ve lived in it all these years
but it’s still an unwelcome stranger.
perspectives
On this foggy Sunday morning, a gray sky grazes the earth the way Mom’s words will inevitably encounter every South Asian in Surrey. Bibi and I are huddled on the plastic-covered sofa in the living room, TV switched to the Punjabi Channel, waiting to see what unfolds with warm cha in our hands. Although I missed the end of Mom’s interview in person, there hasn’t exactly been much of a wait to see the rest. The studio is rushing it onto TV less than twenty-four hours after recording. Our stomachs collectively churned last night when a melodramatic thirty-second clip aired, demanding that everything tune in for “shocking!” and “explosive!” and “scandalous!” allegations. Grumbled expletives abound, Maasi hit the off button on the remote. We spent the evening playing bhabhi and discussing the petty drama in Maasi’s hospital unit and trying to distract Mom’s worry with laughter.
Mom’s sitting in her room right now. I doubt she’s gonna come out until the TV’s off.
The interview begins and I listen to all the words I heard yesterday. I observe the details of my mother as she speaks: the way she skittishly squeezes her hands when she’s overwhelmed or sits up straighter when she is more outrage than anxiety. A few minutes in, they move past the parts I’ve already seen. Bimal Ghatora asks questions about me—what it was like raising me as a single mother and the hopes she has for my future. I try not to get teary because Bibi Jee gets ridiculously worried when anyone’s upset. After we left the studio, Prem said Bimal asked whether Hari was my father. She shut down the question and told Bimal that they couldn’t air that part.
“Before we end, Kiran, is there any message that you’d like to leave with viewers?” Bimal asks.
“Yes.” Mom looks directly into the camera with a fierceness that draws all attention away from her trembling hands. “Hari Ahluwalia is a . . . rapist, disguised as a respectable man. I’m frightened to say all this, but I’m sharing my story because I want more than a world where our daughters suffer in silence because of the same things their mothers have lived through.”
Rapist.
I’ve never heard her say that word out loud before. She’s drifted in its vicinity when describing her trauma, but it’s never actually escaped her lips. Bibi Jee turns off the TV and we both sit in silence for a long moment.
“I had no idea . . .” she finally whispers. “Rabb nu patha, I knew she was strong, but I never questioned where all that strength came from. Kiran is like my own daughter. How could I not know all this?”
“Bibi, it’s my mom we’re talking about. She’s the only woman I know who’s more stubborn than you. Of course she was gonna keep all this to herself if she wasn’t ready to share.”
“True. That’s very true.” Bibi Jee sighs. “Hari Ahluwalia, though? I really don’t know if that was a good idea. . . .”
“What do you mean?”
“She shouldn’t have talked about that publicly.”
“Bibi, she had every right to. People deserve to know the truth.”
“But people aren’t always interested in the truth, are they? Especially when it comes from the mouth of a woman. They want a thamaasha. Drama. And these dirty politicians? They always manage to come out of the mud with their hands clean.”
There is a flame kindling within me and I can feel it lashing at my lips. “Isn’t that exactly why we need to say something? This shouldn’t be the world we live in.”
“It shouldn’t be, but it is. Your heart is in the right place, puth, but you’re young. You don’t understand how cold this world is yet.” She removes her thick glasses and tucks her wiry silver hair behind her ears. “Let me ask you this. What are you hoping will be the result of sharing all this publicly?”
“The same thing you were hoping for when you were protesting against the genocide in eighty-four. I want justice. I want this guy to pay for his actions.”
“And how successful were our protests, my love? What justice did we ever see?”
There’s so much I want to say, but I pinch my tongue. How is my Bibi reacting like this? This is a woman who organized sit-ins and blockades when she was a student, who once swallowed tear gas for her convictions. Both confusion and frustration sting the corners of my eyes, threatening to become full-blown tears. Nothing is worse than bawling when I can’t get my point across so I try to change the subject. “Gurdwara now?” I ask, unclenching my jaw.
“Hanji, let’s go. Call your mom. I’ll start the car.”
Gently, I knock on Mom’s bedroom door and peek inside. She’s sitting at the edge of her unmade bed facing the window. Her head rests contemplatively in her palm. “Mom? Let’s go to the gurdwara.”
“Huh? Oh . . . yeah. I’ll just be a minute.” Hair tangled and uncombed, she remains so still, I could paint her.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I’ll meet you in the car.”
Mom makes it outside several minutes later wearing a beige-and-mahogany salwar kameez, hair covered with a chiffon chunni. I opted for a pair of sweatpants, a shawl, and my Inquilaab hoodie. Bibi impatiently taps on the steering wheel, antsy to leave before the afternoon Sukhmani Sahib prayer begins.
“Kiran, you did great on the show. God, I couldn’t have gone on TV like that . . . I would’ve forgotten everything I had to say. You didn’t seem nervous at all,” Bibi Jee says to Mom, who’s sitting in the back seat. My eyes widen at her sudden switch-up, but she doesn’t notice.
“Really?” Mom is transfixed on something outside the dirty window. “I was shaking the whole time. Bimal kept digging for answers. . . .”
“So, she was pressuring you to tell her those things?” Bibi Jee asks.
“Not exactly, but I wasn’t planning to say all that. She was really nice afterward. I suppose she just wanted the whole story—”
“But, Mom,” I interject. “She said that whole thing about how Hari Ahluwalia is everyone’s favorite candidate. And remember how she kept saying allegedly when you were explaining what he did and—”
“Sahaara, could we just not talk about it right now?”
“Oh—uh—yeah—sorry.” My cheeks go apple red. I didn’t mean to upset her.
at the gurdwara
i walk through the door of a teacher emanating light
shoes off, head covered with my shawl
i avoid my face his face in the mirror as i wash my hands
naked feet enter the darbar, the guru’s court
and i touch my forehead to the earth below their throne
at the back, i cross my legs among breastfeeding mothers
and keertan-singing grandmothers
my own family sitting far ahead
here, i close my eyes to the royal blue carpet
and the guru’s golden palki
letting pain drip behind the shield of my shawl
truth be told, i don’t always know what i believe
but i open my palms to any peace my mother finds
in
the divine
wondering if i’m worthy of this love, too
in this cold betrayal of a body
i ache for an anchor
i pray for another life
i beg for the nightmare of my dna to end.
of course, the aunties weigh in
I’m the first to leave the darbar and head downstairs to eat. The langar hall is a white-marbled community kitchen where anyone and everyone is fed. Between long rows of Persian carpets is a competition of noise: the staticky gurdwara speakers blast keertan from the darbar while chatter in the langar hall seems to overpower it. Eventually, Mom and Bibi Jee come downstairs. They sit down beside me on the grey carpet, placing their steel trays of roti and dahl next to mine.
“Why’d you leave so quick?” Bibi Jee asks. “Looked back for a second and you’d disappeared.”
“Dunno.” I shrug. “Couldn’t really sit still. I needed to move.”
It only takes a single bite of my roti for a random, orangey-haired aunty to tap Mom on the shoulder. Her sapphire chunni slips off her head as she drops a honeyed, “Puth, are you Kiran Kaur?”
Mom quickly swallows her water. “Oh—um—hanji. Have we met?”
“You came on TV yesterday, hunna? On Punjabi Channel?”
Mom’s cheeks flush pink. She nods with a slight grimace.
“Achaaa, I thought it was you!” the aunty says. “Quite a controversial discussion you’ve started. I’ve never heard anything like that on Punjabi Channel before.” A couple of older women eating in the row ahead of ours look up from their conversation in interest. Bibi Jee gathers maha di dahl with a piece of whole-wheat roti and simply observes.
“I didn’t mean to be controversial. I was just trying to tell my story.”
“Mm.” The aunty nods. “It was good that you talked about it, don’t get me wrong, but it’s given people a lot of questions. . . .”
“What do you mean?” Mom asks nervously. The aunties across from us glance back and forth between Mom and the blue-chunnied aunty, lapping up the exchange while sipping their tea.