by Jasmin Kaur
He cannot hear my heart rumbling as he scans our boarding passes, thin and white and slippery between his fingers. After a quick inspection, they are returned to our hands and we are gestured to the door with an uninterested jerk of his chin. It is always a beautiful exhale when authorities are uninterested in us. So often, invisibility has meant safety.
“How’re you feeling, Mom?” I ask as we walk through an opening in the glass wall.
She stares over the diverse sea of travelers in the snaking, endless lineup. At the airport security staff poring over computers that will scan our possessions. At the two CBSA officers in serious conversation with a stout Asian man holding a backpack. Her eyes linger on the officers who we have come to learn far too much about. “I’m okay, puth. I can do this.”
the plane builds speed
and we could be on a greyhound bus
until the ground evaporates beneath us.
my chest pounds in panic as loud as the infant
across the aisle until i peer through the window
and let wonder erase my anxiety
there she is
the earth.
small and infinite all at once.
houses and cities and mountains and humans
shrink as we drift higher
and nothing on google maps
could have ever prepared me
for the endless beauty of this jade terrain
mom leans over and watches silently
then she says
isn’t it beautiful
the way rising up high
can make all of our problems
seem so small?
my daughter sleeps in my lap
and i am thinking about the last flight i boarded
twenty long years ago
when she was still a bundle of cells
bubbling in my womb
how strange it is
to think of that weary girl with a time-bomb heart
waiting for collisions
she never believed she could survive
i plant a kiss on sahaara’s heavy head
if my body is a burial ground for midnight-dark memories
and a thousand open-ended regrets
i can, at least for a moment, bask in the sunlight
of what has bloomed.
mom is drifting off against my shoulder
and i am lost in a tantalizing daydream
that’s been on my mind for days
jeevan said healing does not require
the listening ears of our abusers
that he had nothing to gain
from sharing his letter with his father
but my machete heart has other ideas
a jagged-edged monster giggles
and dances beneath my rib cage
every time i imagine
the news network interview
where i will confront ahluwalia
before the entire watching world
and make sure my face haunts him
in the same way i cannot escape his.
customs
we land
beneath a hazy morning sky
that is unlike any
that’s ever hung above surrey
and i am suddenly overwhelmed
by the way we’ve been carried
halfway across the world in less
than the length of a day
we follow the signs
and the flurry of passengers to customs
border security.
eyes scarlet with exhaustion
we wait in an airtight maze of humans
itching to flee the airport
and carry on to their next destinations
passports?
a thin, brown man with a giant mustache
says as we finally make it to the front of the line
from behind his desk and a layer of glass
his beady eyes survey our passports
he looks up to compare them to our faces
mom gulps, fear rising in both of us
although we’ve done nothing wrong
what is your purpose of travel?
he asks.
we’re guests of nandini rajalingam
at woman magazine.
we’re attending one of their events.
i reply with the lines i’ve been
rehearsing for days. the safest words to use,
nandini has told us.
are you conducting business
while you are here? are you
working?
no. just attending
an event.
and where will you be staying,
he looks mom directly in the eye,
ms. kiran kaur?
she looks at me and i think we are both
scared of the exact same thing.
she tells him the truth about where we’re
staying, though.
the taj hotel.
arrivals
Even if Taara wasn’t carrying a highlighter-green sign that read “Kiran & Sahaara,” I would’ve spotted her immediately. Her silky black hair cascades down to her waist in influencer-worthy waves and I can’t look away. When I say influencer-worthy, I mean I’ve only ever seen hair like this in the magical, carefully curated realm of Brown Girl Instagram. Her hair sways with her tall body as she rises from a metal bench and waves at us, practically bouncing on her tippy-toes to grab our attention. A muscly, middle-aged pair of security guards flank her on either side and nod politely. While Taara is wearing a summery floral crop top and a knee-length yellow skirt, they are clad in black pants and T-shirts, plain in every regard but for their silvery earpieces.
“Hello!” Mom yawns, rubbing exhaustion from her eyes. Her ancient suitcase drags behind her in an awkward S shape, halting if she doesn’t pull it at the right angle. Between a sleepless twenty-one-hour flight, a long wait in customs, and an even longer wait for our baggage, both of us are ready to collapse.
“You must be Kiran and Sahaara!” Taara says, a smile frozen on her heart-shaped face. “So nice to meet you! Welcome to Mumbai!” She leans into Mom and me for air kisses and hugs. “This is Vidya and Kunal. Your security escorts while you’re with us.”
Vidya and Kunal extend their hands, in turn, to both Mom and me, curtly nodding and smiling. The gentlest creases frame Vidya’s thin lips, beauty marks scattered across her warm-caramel skin. Her T-shirt is tight around her sinewy shoulders and well-defined abs. Kunal stands a few inches shorter than her but looks equally invested in his fitness regimen. The faintest shadow of a beard lines his full cheeks and dimpled chin. “Very nice to meet you both,” Vidya says, brushing aside a stray hair that has escaped her neat bun. “You must be exhausted. We’ll take your bags to the car.”
Mom barely argues when Vidya grabs the handle of her suitcase. Kunal’s steely eyes rove the entire room as he grabs my luggage and guides us to the exit.
“The flight was . . . long.” I sigh. “Me and Mom tried sleeping on each other’s laps.”
“But we weren’t too successful.” Mom yawns once again.
The walk across this arrivals area is a whole journey of its own and I have time to give the internet one more shot (the first thing I did when I got off the plane was try to get online and, of course, it refused to work). A joyful shriek accidentally bursts from my throat when I get bars. My cell momentarily freezes with a sudden, buzzing influx of WhatsApp, Twitter, and Instagram notifications.
Shit. There’s a message from Jeevan.
Jeevan: Hey sorry I missed your call. I was knocked out. You’re back in 8 days right? I’ll see u when u come home. we definitely need to talk.
Sahaara: Hey, just landed. No worries lol. Thought u were ignoring me. :/
It’s nearly five p.m. in Mumbai, so it’s around four a.m. back home in Surrey. There’s no way he’s gonna respond right now, but I still can’t help but stare at the time stamp below his name, hoping it’ll miraculously turn into
“online.” Snap out of it, I think. You’re not even ready for his reply.
I send Maasi a quick text, letting her know we made it here safe, and then shove my phone inside my baggy hoodie pocket. Dressed in saris and jeans and business suits, travelers zigzag around us at a dozen angles, all moving as if they have somewhere to be. When a group of university-aged girls pass by with their suitcases, chattering away in what I think is Marathi, I listen closely, trying to catch a grain of familiarity in their speech. No luck. A man in a black suit grazes my shoulder as he speed walks toward the exit, muttering in Hindi about condo rentals. A teaspoon of excitement jolts through me at my understanding. I’ve watched enough Bollywood movies and speak enough Punjabi to catch the basics of Hindi.
“So!” Taara begins, more jittery excitement in her voice than I could muster with three espresso shots. “We’re headed to your hotel with Vidya and Kunal right now. They’ll be staying in the room next to yours just as a safety precaution. I’m sure you two want some sleep, so we’ll let you get some rest and if you’re up for it, we’ll meet up later tonight? Or early tomorrow morning?”
“Sounds like a plan.” Through layers upon layers of sliding glass doors, we cross a cool threshold into the sun-drenched world outside. Mumbai punches me in the face with a humidity that the air-conditioned airport had sheltered me from. Hot air, sulfurous and fishy, reaches into my nostrils and envelops every pore on my skin. We’re definitely not in Surrey anymore.
We push through an ocean of travelers, trying not to bump into all their suitcases as they jump into their Ubers and Olas and taxis. In the grid of vehicles, there are a spattering of shiny black taxis, distinct with their yellow rooftops. They dot the length of the white canopy-covered roadway as far as I can see.
We’re here. We’re in the same country as him.
“Is it always this hot?” I gasp, fanning myself as we finally jump in the car. Beads of sweat are already forming on my forehead.
“Believe it or not, this is on the cooler side for us.” Taara laughs. She reaches into a humongous checkered tote bag, grabbing a few water bottles and passing them back from the passenger seat. “Here. Make sure you stay well-hydrated, okay?”
Water feels like paradise against my tongue as we enter the queue of honking taxis. My head rests heavy on Mom’s shoulder and bluish drowsiness threatens to steal the first glimpses of this city from me.
“OOOOH! Before I forget!” Taara’s excited chirp pries my eyes wide open. “I’ve printed out a few trip itineraries for you both.”
Oh, shit.
She hands me a piece of paper and passes one over to Mom before I can grab it. Suddenly, the car is brutally claustrophobic.
“So, tomorrow morning at ten, you have the interviews over at Aasra Shelter,” Taara says. “You’re okay traveling there with Vidya and Kunal, right?”
“I guess that’s okay, but . . .” Mom glances up from the itinerary in confusion. “There’s an interview scheduled for Sahaara tomorrow. We didn’t agree to any interviews.” The AC might as well be off right now, the way sweat is dripping down my armpits.
“Oh, but . . . in the email, we talked about it. I believe you said interviews are fine . . .” Taara rifles through her papers, probably searching for the email where I secretly agreed to a television appearance. She anxiously flutters between me and Mom.
“An email? Sahaara was answering all the . . .” Mom’s voice trails off as she turns her attention toward me, eyes ready to ignite.
Hot blood rushes to my ears. My dumb ass was really hoping she’d find out tomorrow, so close to the interview that she wouldn’t be able to say no. There will now be three unfortunate witnesses to my homicide. She’s gonna kill me. “Okay, don’t freak out. I—um—decided to do a couple interviews—”
“Excuse me? You did what?!”
“Hear me out . . . they’re not interviews with you. They’re just with me!”
The vein in her forehead is throbbing. She snaps her head toward Taara. “I’m sorry . . . Sahaara won’t be doing the interviews—”
“But, Mom! It’ll be fine. It’s with a news network that Woman Magazine trusts—”
“It doesn’t matter, Sahaara. We’ll talk about this later.”
“Um . . .” Taara flimsily interjects, “I can see about canceling the second interview, but it might be a little late for the first one . . . INN’s already made preparations and, um . . .”
“This is unbelievable . . .” Mom shakes her head, eyes bulging. “Sahaara and I need to talk about this first. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault, obviously. My daughter needs to remember that we discuss serious decisions like this together.”
“If I might suggest,” Kunal says without taking his eyes off the road, “I think we can find ways to safely do an interview. Kiran, you’ve done an interview previously, yes?”
“I have, but that was in Canada. I don’t want people knowing we’re in Mumbai unless they absolutely have to.”
“So, what if . . . the interview is set up in such a way that it looks like you’re calling in from somewhere else? From Canada.”
“What do you mean?” Vidya asks from beside him.
“INN has those correspondent interviews, don’t they? Tell them to make it look like she’s calling in from abroad. Or else the interview won’t happen.”
“I’m—I’m not sure if we can ask them to do that, but I can try?” Taara’s chirpy tone now sounds like a bird in frenzy. She pushes her long hair out of her face, unlocks her phone, and furiously types.
Mom turns toward me once again, balls of fire now fully formed in her eyes, ready to blaze into me the second we’re alone.
I know I could’ve come here, shut my mouth, and gone home, as if the hurt living beneath my skin will dissolve on its own. But deep down, the pain and I both know that’s never gonna happen. So, I mouth the word sorry and mean it. I’m sorry that I couldn’t tell her, but I don’t regret what I’ve done. What I’m going to do. Then I close my eyes to the hazy, cloudless sky, in history’s most pathetic attempt at pretending to fall asleep.
the taj hotel
I knew Mom would have to find out eventually. And I knew it was fucked up to think I could tell her so last minute that she wouldn’t be able to say no. But it was the only way I could do this. I feel like shit, but the icy fortress of anger within me is more brutal than the guilt. Or the fear.
So, when the car’s sudden stop jolts me awake, I glance over at Mom, hoping the fury has eased from her eyes but still wondering how to convince her to let me speak.
Her head rests peacefully against the tinted window. She’s still asleep.
“Mom?” I place a hand on the paper-thin blue cotton of her kameez and gently shake her awake.
“What—where are we—oh . . .” She turns her head toward the impressive sight of the building outside the window. A majestic gray-bricked palace sprawls before us as far as the eye can see. Its ground level is built almost entirely of white, door-sized archways, each one pristine and ivory. Above are several levels of white bay windows that protrude from the walls. I crane my neck to take in the opulent, rust-red domes that mount the corners of the building like minarets. More than a hotel, it reminds me of a grand fortress.
Beneath the golden hour sun, dozens of pigeons fly over the domes and land somewhere out of sight. “Meet the Taj Mahal Hotel,” Kunal says as he puts the car in park.
“We’re . . . staying here?”
I can’t tell if it’s exhaustion, anger, or something else, but Mom looks uninterested. I’m willing to bet it’s anger.
Between idling taxis, I watch as a gaunt, elderly man with a wiry beard walks along the cobblestone opposite the lavish building, unbothered by the tourists who push past him. He sits down among a flock of pigeons, his graying, tattered shirt fluttering against his skin in the hot wind. The pigeons, just as unbothered by the swarm of tourists, happily clamber around the crumbs he scatters among them. A gray sea sways behind the old man, popula
ted by lazily floating boats that dip past the horizon.
“That right there,” Kunal says as he clicks off his seat belt, “is the Gateway of India.” He points toward a grayish stone archway sitting to our left, a magnet that tourists gather around. Nearly the size of a baseball field, the boxy, intricately chiseled gate rests just before the sea, guiding people to the water. It reminds me of the Arc de Triomphe in Paris that I painted for Art II. “Stunning, isn’t it?” Kunal beams with pride.
I follow Mom’s eyes as they travel from the gate to the bony man among the pigeons. She nods absentmindedly. “Stunning.”
i suppose it’s beautiful
the greeter wears a maroon sari and a pristine smile
as she welcomes us into the hotel with garlands and tilaks
the porter is perfectly polite as he takes our bags
and guides us up the elevator to our suite
everyone is kind here
because someone has paid enough money
everyone is at ease here
because someone has paid enough money
and i can’t help but wonder
whether a restless ocean sits beneath
their happy veneers
just as one rumbles beneath mine
whether they are just as hopeful
that today may be the beginning
of a broken relationship finally mending
whether they are just as frightened
that they have made a dreadful mistake
simply by showing up
nothing about this lavish building
erases the muddy truth of who i am