by Jasmin Kaur
“A gift for the ladies at Aasra Shelter.” Kunal passes Taara the bouquet and she reluctantly sniffs them. He turns to Mom. “Kiran, I’ve been meaning to ask you . . . what gave you the motivation to speak up about Ahluwalia? I mean, it would have obviously been easier to say nothing. And safer. . . .” He shifts his body to see her better.
“I suppose it was just . . . Sahaara.”
“What do you mean?” I sit up a little straighter at the sound of my name.
“You . . . wrote something. I didn’t mean to find it, but it gave me the courage I needed to stop living in fear.”
Fuck. She found my letter. I know I should be freaking out, cringing at the fact that she read something so personal, but right now, I just want to hold her.
“You know, my father was an activist, too.” Kunal rests his coconut-brown cheek in his palm. “He was born in Dharavi—it’s a neighborhood that’s seen as a slum. Even after he left, he fought for rights of people living there. To have access to water and electricity and so on. It was an uphill battle, of course, trying to create change. Even though he moved south, people would look down on him as soon as they found out where he was born.” I sneak a glance at Taara and catch a hint of crimson skin. “But that’s the life of an activist, isn’t it? People will try to tear you down for any reason they can find. And you need to carry on.”
“I don’t know if I’d . . . consider myself an activist,” Mom replies. “I was just trying to do the right thing. So that others wouldn’t have to go through what I did.”
Kunal smiles kindly. “Sounds like an activist to me.”
“Arre! It was my turn to go!” Vidya angrily curses at a gray sedan under her breath and pulls another sharp turn onto a pothole-filled road. A piercing, pungent odor filters into my nostrils.
“What is that?” I sniff.
“Burning plastic, probably,” Kunal replies. “In these neighborhoods, people are forced to burn their waste to get rid of it. Government provides no other infrastructure.”
Sure enough, we pass by a flaming mound of garbage before the car slows down and comes to a stop on a tiny dirt road bustling with life. To our left, a patchwork of boxlike wooden homes squish themselves against each other, their painted walls chipping and peeling. An elaborate array of shops decorates the right side of the road, some of their roofs made of wavy, rusted sheets of metal, others simply covered in brown tarp. Directly across the street from us, a dark-skinned woman in a yellow sari stands behind a sizzling vat of oil, wiping sweat off her brow and cradling a deep-fried delicacy in a ladle. She stares into our car, studying each of our faces.
I wonder how obvious it is that we’re outsiders.
“All right!” Vidya pulls her key out of the ignition. “Kunal will stay in the car to keep an eye on the street. And because they usually only allow cis and trans women inside the shelter, for safety reasons.”
Mom’s shoulder tenses up hard against mine. “But wouldn’t it be better to have both of you there for security?” she asks.
“The shelter’s a safe place,” Kunal gently reassures her. “And from a security standpoint, it would be best for me to stay here and keep an eye on who’s traveling in and out of the gulley.”
Mom nods her reluctant agreement and we step outside, hot, sticky air immediately wrapping around our skin. I try to fill my lungs but my inhale is shallow and labored.
As we step carefully along the cobblestone path caked with dirt, my head is grazed by wet T-shirts and chunnis hung out to dry under the raw Mumbai sun, their touch a physical initiation into a neighborhood that refuses to be ignored. Somewhere behind one of the doors, a mother yells mercilessly at her kid in what sounds like Marathi.
“We’re just in here . . .” Vidya pushes open a metal door tucked among a ramshackle collection of others that line the lane. Emerging from a dark, tunnel-like alley, we find ourselves in a cement courtyard outlined with a balcony above. Joyful children chase each other on the veranda while their chatty mothers laugh with their whole chests, washing clothes in soapy buckets and hanging sheets on the railings. Without breaking from their conversations, they follow us with their eyes as we walk below.
“This way.” Vidya gestures toward a door across the courtyard.
Inside the building, a kind-faced woman greets us from the front desk. She checks our IDs and then guides us to an empty, windowless room with a polka-dotted bedsheet spread across the cement floor. After a few moments, she returns with a curly-haired, chubby woman wearing a white lanyard over her gulabi kurti.
“Sorry I’m late! Got busy with a new intake, otherwise I would’ve been at the door to greet you. I’m Priyanka. A pleasure to meet you all!” Her smile stretches from ear to ear and she reaches out a hand to shake mine. She wraps Vidya up in a giant hug. “So nice to see you again, Vidya didi. We’ve missed you at the shelter.”
“It’s been a busy few months. Promise I’ll be back to volunteer soon,” Vidya replies.
Priyanka turns to me and gushes about how excited her team has been to host my interviews. She asks if I have my consent forms ready for the women I’ll be interviewing and I pass her the documents. My art professor told me that without the appropriate consent forms, I wouldn’t be able to interview people on behalf of the university. When Priyanka has read through everything, she glances up at me, resting her glasses above her forehead. “So, tell me a little more about your art project, Sahaara. It says here that it’s about empowering victims of sexual violence. What does empowerment mean to you?” She asks the question with kind curiosity, but with all eyes suddenly on me, I’m just as nervous as I was when Rhonda grilled me about the assignment.
“Well . . .” I begin, not entirely certain where my sentence is going, “to me, empowerment is about helping victims realize that they do have voices. I want victims to know that there are people who will stand with them as they tell their stories. Empowerment is about guiding women away from fear.”
As I speak, Priyanka surveys me thoughtfully, lips pursed. “Sahaara, as you get into allyship work in spaces like this, just be mindful of two things: listening and centering.”
“Oh, um, what do you mean?” I ask.
“Just a sec,” she says. She quickly slips out of the room and returns a moment later with a pink book in hand. Black cursive across the cover reads It’s Not About You: How to Be a Better Ally to Survivors of Sexual Assault. “I want you to check out this book. We’ve got a ton of copies here, so please do take it home. It’s all about how to actively listen to survivors. Sometimes, if we aren’t careful, we can slip into the habit of thinking we know what a survivor needs. A well-meaning ally might insist that their friend go to the police or that there’s only one way to deal with a tough situation. Usually, life’s a lot more complicated than that, na?” I nod, doing my best to absorb her words.
“You’re doing beautiful work and your efforts are deeply appreciated. Just remember, love, we need to be learning from survivors. Not guiding them.” Priyanka moves on to Mom and asks for permission before grasping her hand in both of hers. “Kiran. I have to say, it’s such an honor that you’re here with us. Truly. Thank you so, so much.”
“For what?” Mom shakes her head in confusion.
With a crescent of light in her eye, Priyanka says, “For making it easier for all of us to tell our stories.”
the interviews
trigger warning: sexual assault
portrait i: priyanka
downturned eyes
upturned mouth
that’s only smiled since we arrived
priyanka sits down before me
while my phone clicks onto a tripod
to save a conversation
i’ve anticipated for weeks
i begin with the question
i’ve wondered ever since
we met over email
what made you want to work
at a shelter for survivors
of sexual assault?
she doe
sn’t hesitate
before she speaks
i went through things
that no child should ever
experience
i was privileged enough
to have community support
a family that held me close
a circle of friends that lifted me up
but i was chased by the thought
of those who weren’t so
well-favored by chance
i wanted to do something—
anything—to undo the ugliness
of this world
portrait ii: khushi
khushi filters into the room with reluctance in her gait
i follow priyanka’s lead and put the camera down
for fear that it will become a wall between us
my broken hindi is as useful as punjabi
before a woman who speaks marathi
understanding fumbles between us
until priyanka says
why don’t you speak in english?
i’ll be your translator
khushi’s first question is for me:
what made you want to talk to us?
i reply
i’m sick of the unfairness of this world.
your stories deserve to be heard.
but why?
she presses
what good do you think
my story will do?
somewhere behind me
mom exhales.
portrait iii: saima
she sits down with a frown
and a baby against her breast
four months old
she says
and his father didn’t want either of us
after he found out that my izzat was taken.
izzat. honor.
a word all of us understand.
just like that, her storytelling begins
and i pause her only to remind her that
the recording will only ever be seen by us
my husband’s cousin came to live with us
just after we got married
and that’s when all the trouble began
i hadn’t moved far from home
but this house was the farthest thing from it
never enough for my mother-in-law
although her son was a drunk
she forgave me when i gave her
a grandson
but when i told her about the rape
she named me a worthless whore
pushed me out of the house
and tried to keep the baby
i ran and i ran and i ran
ahmed in my arms
and collapsed here
the only place
that still wanted me.
portrait iv: radhika
i was a sex worker for thirteen years
and a sex slave before that for five
you had better know the difference
if you’re going to talk to me, child
i came to pay off my mother’s debt
but i stayed, even after i got free
kamathipura was home
sex work was the only trade i knew
and the men always came
from the north and south
the desire to fill their lonely nights
didn’t discriminate by class
or caste or religion or wealth
the men always came
even after they vowed to never return
even after they promised themselves
to their wives again and again
the key was to find the ones in suits
willing to empty their pockets
but sometimes
even when i knew they came from money
they would use my services and refuse to pay
my breaking point
was the lawyer from colaba
who came with his well-to-do friends
to have his way with me
with a hand around my throat
like a noose i never welcomed
and then walk away
like my body only existed
to be taken.
like he believed himself too good
for an equal transaction.
an afterthought
radhika remains seated after she tells her story
she gazes into my phone’s camera
without smile or scowl
gold koka glistening below a single lightbulb
as i snap a picture
a reference for the painting i will craft
to capture her spirit of flame and lightning
i snap another
and her eyes wander past the lens
they come to rest on mom
i’ve seen you on tv
she says in hindi that i understand
but cannot speak
watched the whole interview
she pauses only for a heartbeat. a breath.
you’re lucky, you know.
you got to leave. you got to run away.
that’s what you did, didn’t you?
ran off to canada to escape
all your problems
like only a rich girl could
you come here now
and take your pictures
and do your interviews
and then you go back
to safety.
women like me
don’t end up on tv
like heroes.
we hide ourselves away
but we’re never out of reach
friendship
at indian news network
they search our bags as a safety precaution
but do not search my body
a black blade rests against my breast
and enters the building with me
a small safety that i know
i won’t need here
but somehow
keeping this promise to jeevan
eases a weight off my shoulders
we’ve hardly spoken
since the day
a folding knife keeps him close.
sahaara is getting her makeup done
and i am seated across from her
in a tall director’s chair
in a quiet dressing room
in a high-rise building
that houses india’s largest news broadcaster
trembling in a way that no one notices
but me
in forty-five minutes
she’ll go live on the air
before millions of people
and i am scared
for countless reasons
but i shake
because of the truth
in radhika’s words
why should we be here
greeted with excitement by staff
guarded by vidya and kunal
going to sleep at the taj hotel
while so many others
were never even invited
to the conversation?
with highlight across her cheekbones
sahaara’s face is ready for television
and i think i’m going to be sick.
stick to the points we discussed
i tell her
you just want to say
that we’re speaking out
because no one else should
have to go through this.
for the millionth time
she nods.
now or never
Until Mom got her PR card, butterflies in my stomach were a daily occurrence. They whirled and flapped against my insides with wings sharpened by anxiety. By fear of the unknown. By fear of what would happen if our secrets became found out. It seems only fitting that they would make their return right now, as I sit before two giant computer screens in a cramped news studio, waiting for a red light to flicker and a cue to be given that it’s time for me to speak. Mom refused to let me enter the studio alone, although she knows that she must remain completely quiet a
nd out of the camera’s view. She stands just behind me next to a tinted-glass wall, where the show’s producer and tech person are seated.
“Good evening,” Anu Shergill begins, the somberness in her voice in stark contrast with loud red lipstick. “We begin our report tonight with an exclusive interview with Sahaara Kaur, daughter of Kiran Kaur, who has grabbed headlines in recent weeks—as well as the attention of the entire nation—when she revealed allegations of sexual abuse against the well-admired People’s Party candidate currently running in a tight race for chief minister of Punjab. Most recently, Mr. Ahluwalia has released a statement dismissing the allegations, and student organizations in Punjab that have protested at his events have been disbanded for ‘defamation and creating civil disharmony,’ according to the spokesperson of Chandigarh University. Counterrallies have also taken place, led by Ahluwalia’s loyal supporters, who believe that he is bringing honesty and accountability to Punjab’s political scene.”
Anu disappears from the right side of the computer screen and the broadcast cuts to footage of a pro-Ahluwalia rally. Hundreds of supporters dressed in yellow, the color of the People’s Party, carry signs and banners celebrating the rapist like he’s a misunderstood political revolutionary.
Ahluwalia appears and my heart balls up into a fist at the sight of his chiseled face. He’s flanked with women on either side who carry signs that read WE BELIEVE HIM! “This accusation is a baseless lie from a conniving, calculated woman who’s simply trying to distract from all the good work we are doing. A single charge has not been filed against me because the person making these ridiculous claims knows that they are nothing more than fabrications. Because justice has always been on our side!” He says it all with a shadow of a smile reaching into his dimples—my dimples. With a sneer in his voice that I needed to hear aloud: a reminder of why I’m sitting in this room. A reason to set the butterflies ablaze and release them from the tip of my tongue.