If I Tell You the Truth

by Jasmin Kaur

  But Mom’s cell phone rings and my wild, reckless ideas chase away all else.

  “Hello?” Mom taps the speaker button so that both of us can listen in.

  “Hellooo! Is this Kiran Kaur speaking?” Nandini Rajalingam replies, her accent similar to Mom’s, but a few layers thicker. There’s something kind of British about the way she rolls her r’s.

  “This is her. I’m here with my daughter, Sahaara.” A tracksuit-clad woman passes by our park bench. She pushes a stroller with one hand and sips coffee with the other. We’re sitting at Bear Creek because, for the third time this week, I came home to Mom curled up in bed at five p.m. Somehow, I convinced her that fresh air would lighten her mood.

  “So lovely to meet you both! And thank you so much for taking my call, Kiran. I was just telling my colleagues here that I was going to be chatting with you and they were so excited.”

  Mom’s eyes narrow and I can practically hear her wondering why they’d be excited to talk to her. “No problem.”

  “Right, so, as I mentioned in my email, our whole team here was absolutely blown away by the brave honesty in your interview. It’s made many rounds in mainstream Indian media, as you must know, especially with the protests in Punjab and Mumbai—”

  “Mumbai?” Mom’s lashes flutter in surprise.

  “Yes, the Me Too protest in Mumbai, yesterday. Did you not see the news?”

  “No—no, I didn’t. I’ve been avoiding the news for the last few days, to be honest. It’s gotten . . . overwhelming.”

  “Kiran, you’ve captured the attention of the whole country. It’s absolutely astonishing to see so many young women speaking up and sharing their stories because of yours. And that’s exactly why we’re so excited to invite you to the Women of Power gala. It’s a title you truly deserve and it would be our utmost honor to host you in Mumbai in April. We’d also love to arrange an interview for Woman’s May issue.”

  “That sounds . . . lovely. And it’s so kind of you to think of me. But, in all honesty, I don’t think I’d be able to come to Mumbai. It would be too dangerous, considering the circumstances with . . . you know. Especially now that my face is plastered all over the news.” She pauses for a heartbeat. “I haven’t even been back home to Punjab in twenty years.”

  “Of course, I can absolutely imagine your concerns! But if we were to fly you out, your safety would be our top priority. We could arrange for security and we’d drive you to and from your hotel, if that would make you more comfortable. And, of course, since you’d be in Mumbai, you’d be a very safe distance from, well, the people that you’re concerned about.” The reckless creature within me deflates a little when she says safe distance.

  “Mom,” I whisper, and give her a thumbs-up. “See, it’s safe! Say yes!”

  “No,” she mouths, and shakes her head. “Can you just let me think?”

  “Hello? Sorry? Are you still on the line?” Nandini asks.

  “Yes, sorry, Nandini, we’re still here. We really do appreciate your offer, but it’s—it’s a lot to reflect on. I’ll have to discuss it further with my daughter and get back to you.”

  We say our goodbyes and Mom hangs up.

  “You heard what she said! They’ll give us security, Mom. We can actually do this—”

  “We?” Mom rises from the bench. “Are you forgetting that you have school? And even if you didn’t, there’s no good reason why we should go there.”

  For a moment, we wordlessly lock eyes, and I wonder if we’re both thinking the same thing. “I can think of a few good reasons, Mom,” I murmur, meeting her at eye level as I stand up.

  “She wouldn’t want to see me.”

  It takes a few seconds for me to understand. “Your mom? You don’t know that. Maybe—maybe she would. Maybe she wants to reach out but she just . . . doesn’t know how.”

  Mom turns away. “I don’t think so.” She begins to walk down the cement path that winds through the park garden. I follow, hurrying to keep up with her pace.

  “What if we got in touch with your relatives—your chachi—and asked them to talk to your mom first, so that it’s not so awkward. We’ll find out how she actually feels. And if she’s down, maybe we could ask her to meet us in Mumbai. I know it’s far from Punjab but maybe—maybe this could actually work.”

  “Sahaara . . .” She sighs. “Is this why you want to go there?”

  Ever since I read that email from Nandini, I’ve been fantasizing about what-ifs. As in, what if Mom’s presence in Mumbai fuels more protests? What if we can occupy so much South Asian media that he begins to cower in fear? What if I can get on TV and tell people the entire truth about me? What if my existence, living proof of his rape, can become the nail in the coffin of his political career? What if we get so loud, so in his face, so all-pervasive and godlike that he can’t ignore us?

  What if I can break him?

  If I tell her the whole truth of my bloodlust, she’ll be horrified. So I only tell her part of it. “You’ve been here for twenty years, Mom. Twenty years of not being able to even go near the place where you were born. Twenty years of not traveling or getting paid fairly or getting to have a license or do normal stuff like everyone else. All because this piece of shit made you feel this afraid. And it pisses me off—like, right into the core of my soul—that he could have that power over our lives. Isn’t it time we stopped living in fear?”

  Her eyes, staring intently into mine, soften and widen at once, as if she is in awe.

  questions for an absent mother

  even if you take my call

  these curiosities will remain my own

  (i do not possess the courage, the nerve)

  1.did it hurt when i left?

  2.how long did it take for you to clear out my bedroom?

  3.did you ever clear out my bedroom?

  4.did you know, deep down, that i was telling the truth?

  5.what did it mean to raise a daughter in a family that wanted a son?

  6.did you know how much i would struggle with motherhood?

  7.were you ready for motherhood?

  8.was it worth it? choosing your reputation over me.

  9.do you love me?

  10.can this relationship mend?

  we knock on the door

  Before she dials, she looks to me for reassurance. Without missing a beat, I smile and nod and tuck away any sign of apprehension. The look on her face—a mixture of fear and anticipation of hurt—tells me that one of us needs to be sure about this.

  “Just ten seconds of courage. Nothing to lose, remember?”

  “Right. You’re right. Nothing to lose.”

  She’s sitting at my bedroom desk, too nervous to nag about the dirty laundry piled around her feet. The phone rings for what feels like an eternity and more than anything, I’m terrified for her. Her chachi seemed nice enough, certain enough, when she offered to help Mom make this call. But I just don’t want this to be another blow to her already aching heart.

  “Hanji, hello?” a woman answers.

  Mom’s lips are parted but only air escapes.

  “Hello? Helloooo, can you hear me? Hello?!” The voice on the other end of the receiver is raspy and irritated. I stare at the cell phone in shock, frozen just like Mom.

  She actually picked up.

  “I’m here. It’s me—it’s Kiran,” Mom spits out.

  Silence.

  “Hello? Are you there?”

  “So you remember me now?” Hardeep says. “After all these years?”

  “You—you never called, either.”

  “How are you doing?”

  “I’m . . . good. I’m doing fine. My daughter’s here . . . Sahaara.” Mom says my name and it wakes me from a trance. I pry myself from the phone screen and try to offer her another encouraging smile. Her skin is a sickly, pale sky.

  “Oh—um—how is she?”

  “She’s well. Just turned nineteen. Studying in university now.”

  “Ah. I see.”


  Another awkward silence snares. I know Mom’s racking her memory for something discussion-worthy. Hardeep beats her to it. “You couldn’t even come for the funeral?”

  “I couldn’t—I’m sorry—I couldn’t leave Canada. I wouldn’t have been able to come back because I didn’t have my documents—” Mom’s voice cracks and she takes a moment to compose herself. Heartbreaking memories from eighth grade come flooding back. The sight of Mom crying in Maasi’s arms, devastated at her father’s death. Crumbling because she couldn’t go to the funeral. Because her own mother hadn’t been the one to break the news to her. Because I wasn’t welcome among them.

  I still feel nothing for the stranger on the other end of the phone. But if this call brings Mom any semblance of contentment, it’ll have been worth it.

  “Bali said you’re coming to Mumbai . . .”

  “Bali?” I mouth. “Who’s that?”

  “My chachi,” Mom whispers to me. She returns her attention to the phone. “Yeah . . . for just a few days at the end of April. It would be . . . nice to see you. I know it’s far—”

  “Far?” She laughs. “Kamaleeay, of course Mumbai is far. My knee hasn’t been good. Your cousins have been helping me with the shopping, taking me around town whenever I need them. Those good boys, God give them long lives, so dedicated to their family. Nahi taan, I’d be stuck in the house all day. I had a surgery, did you know? Well, of course you wouldn’t.”

  Mom pauses, breathing through the sting and swell. “I understand. I’m sorry you haven’t been feeling well. How’s your health?”

  “I’m fine. My health is fine.” Her drawling sigh is static over the receiver. “I presume you won’t be coming to Punjab.”

  “No . . . I can’t. You’ve probably seen the news?”

  “Have I seen the news?” she scoffs. “Of course I’ve seen it. Who hasn’t seen it? You couldn’t just let me live the rest of my days in peace, could you?”

  “It wasn’t about you. It was about me finally being able to come forward about what I’ve gone through.”

  “Rani Ahluwalia called me after you came on the news. But I told her to just leave me alone. She knows I haven’t spoken to you. That you’re not some child who I can keep in line. But the embarrassment . . . didn’t you think about how this would affect everyone else? This wasn’t just about you.”

  “Has anybody—are you safe? Has anyone threatened you?”

  “Rani was angry with me, furious for years. She said we humiliated her son when you canceled the engagement, when you . . . but after your father died, she softened. She knew that none of this was my fault. That I’d done the best I could. Maybe she felt bad—I don’t know—but she and her family have always given me my space. So, yes, I’m safe. You’re right, though. You—you shouldn’t come to Punjab.”

  Mom’s gaze drifts above my head, glazing, departing from the present. “Yeah. Okay,” she eventually mumbles.

  “What days will you be in Mumbai? I’ll come. I’ll be there.”

  “But . . . wouldn’t it be unsafe for you if the Ahluwalias knew you were coming to see me?”

  “What the Ahluwalias don’t know can’t hurt them.”

  project (re)proposal

  missing a week of school was a yes

  from all my professors

  but i haven’t spoken with rhonda yet

  i’ve rehearsed the words in my head

  a hundred times but they still manage

  to get stuck in my throat

  hi, rhonda

  do you have a minute?

  so basically, my mom’s been selected

  to speak at a gala in mumbai.

  she was chosen for this really amazing

  award because of an interview she

  did where she was telling her story

  and it wouldn’t be safe for her to

  go alone because of what

  she’s been vocal about

  and i was basically wondering

  if it would be possible for me

  to join her for a week in

  april . . .

  she mulls over my words

  for a fraction of a moment

  and says

  that would cut through

  our final project presentation

  week

  but i think it could be an

  important learning experience.

  what’s your project about,

  again?

  how my mom is a survivor

  of sexual assault and how

  that connected to her being

  undocumented

  why not interview others

  while you’re there?

  women who have lived

  through similar situations—

  why not connect with a local

  organization in mumbai and

  expand the project?

  the water in his eyes

  “The fuck is Sunny Sahota’s problem?” I swing open the door to Jeevan’s bedroom and he slowly swivels around from his laptop, pulling out one of his earbuds. His face is a mixture of bemusement and confusion.

  “How’d you get into my house?”

  “Keerat opened the door.”

  “Got it. And, uh, did I miss something? Sunny?” He closes the door behind me, carefully maneuvering past an overflowing bookshelf and cramped desk to reach a springy mattress resting on the ground.

  “So this asshole doesn’t message me for months,” I declare, plopping down on the gray beanbag pushed against the wall, “and then he turns up outta nowhere to question me on Ahluwalia? He started asking me whether he was definitely the rapist and it wasn’t someone else . . . like my mom can’t remember his face.” Like I am not haunted by it every time I look in the mirror.

  “What the hell? Why does he care so much about the guy?”

  “Apparently his dad’s a People’s Party supporter.”

  “You okay?”

  “I’m fine . . . just weirded out. He was half trying to be supportive and half edging into victim-blamey crap. Didn’t expect that from him. In high school, he was the type to call out predators and shit.” I think back to random conversations about Six Nine and Harvey Weinstein and R. Kelly. Sunny always initiated the discussions. Sunny was always on the right side.

  Jeevan scratches his scruffy chin. He rests his square jaw in his palm. “People are disappointing as hell when their own heroes turn out to be monsters. The mental gymnastics are fucked. He might’ve said all that but remember that MMA fighter? We were shooting hoops once, and he started talking about how he wasn’t sure about the allegations ’cause the victim dropped charges.”

  “Wow. Wooooow.”

  “Don’t let him get to you, though. For every person like that, there’s someone else who believes Aunty Jee.”

  Not letting it get to me is way easier said than done. Mom stopped watching the news reports weeks ago, but Jeevan and I couldn’t disconnect if we wanted to: her story is all over Instagram and Twitter and TikTok (although the TikToks disappear quick ’cause they’re political). Brown activists are writing about how shitty Hari Ahluwalia is, just as I’d hoped they would, but desi meme accounts are posting about it, too. Even if the memes make fun of him, the comment sections are grotesque and heartless. Hundreds of random people debating whether or not Mom is telling the truth, as if our lives are just a fun topic of discussion.

  Meanwhile, the piece of shit himself hasn’t said a word. I wonder what it would take for him to speak.

  “I should get going,” I mumble. “Gotta start packing for Mumbai.”

  “Can we, um, can we talk about that? Why bother going out there? Just an unnecessary risk, isn’t it?”

  “It’s gonna be fine. We won’t even be near Punjab.”

  “But, Sahaara, these politicians play by their own rules. You don’t know what they’re capable of. Don’t you remember that HJ Party MLA?”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “There was a who
le case last year where this HJ Party guy tried to murder a girl who accused him of rape. He ended up killing her uncle.”

  “But, Jeevan.” I swallow. “There will literally be sixteen hundred kilometers of distance between us and him. And we’ll have security. And no one out there even knows we’re coming—”

  “Except your grandma?”

  “She’s not my grandma.”

  “Sorry . . . what do I call her?”

  “Hardeep.”

  He touches the back of his neck, his chuckle tentative and unsure. I know how rude it is to refer to elders by their first names, but Hardeep doesn’t deserve much respect, in my opinion. “Okay . . . what if Hardeep snakes you guys out to the Ahluwalias? Given all the shit she put your mom through, I wouldn’t put it past her to tip them off about your mom being there.”

  “She’ll keep her mouth shut. Trust.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Jeevan, think about it. Why would she say anything about us when the Ahluwalias would get pissed off at her for even talking to my mom?”

  Nervous laughter tremors in his Adam’s apple as he pushes back thick curls. “This sounds like a naatak. How is this real life?”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “Sahaara . . . just . . . why do you want to do this?”

  “For my mom.” I say this with a self-assuring nod. “It’s been twenty years since she’s seen Hardeep. And yeah, I think she’s a bitch and she doesn’t mean shit to me, but my mom still deserves to see her. And figure out their shit. And not live the rest of her life feeling guilty, regretting the fact that her relationship was destroyed because of . . . me.” At the last word, I go radio silent. My existence is at the root of so many things that have hurt Mom. Her overstayed visa. Her severed connection to family. Her struggle to even speak to her mother. I am the thread that binds it all together.

  “But . . . you can’t actually blame yourself for that. Your mom made her own choices. . . .” Jeevan joins me on the ground. He rests a heavy arm around my shoulder and I lean into his chest, that familiar scent of lavender detergent wafting from his black hoodie.