If I Tell You the Truth

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.