by Jasmin Kaur
Don’t look back, I tell myself. Eyes on the screen, like the news people told you.
This is the first time Mom is hearing Ahluwalia’s statement. Every bit of me is filled with worry and all I want to do is glance back to see if she’s okay, but I’ll be live any second now.
“Good evening, Sahaara. Thank you for joining us tonight,” Anu says, and my heart thumps. The sweaty tips of my fingers grip the table and I try to stare directly into the camera like the tech guy told me to.
“Thank you for having me!” I reply far too quickly. Calm down. Slow down.
“Let’s get right into it, shall we? After evading the media’s questions on this issue for several weeks now, Hari Ahluwalia has released a statement rejecting your mother’s accusations of sexual assault. How do you respond to that?”
“I, um, I’d like to say that his statement is a lie. But, honestly, I don’t think I expected him to take responsibility for his actions, so I’m not surprised by his lie. Over the last twenty years, it’s been my mom who’s had to pay for his actions—not him.”
“As of tonight’s report, no charges of sexual assault have been filed against Ahluwalia. Why is that? Is your mother planning to file a report?”
“I h-haven’t talked about this with my mom yet so I’m not sure if that’s something that she’s planning to do but, like, we have to discuss it still and . . . decide if that’s the direction she wants to go in and—”
Anu cuts me off as I ramble. Oh god, this is not going as planned. “And what do you want to say to those who suggest that these accusations are very well-timed, given the upcoming election? There have been multiple reports that your family has been paid by the HJ Party to sabotage Ahluwalia’s success in recent polls. Ahluwalia is the first member of the People’s Party to stand a chance against the far right. What do you have to say about that?”
Her words sling a noose around my heart. I feel nauseous.
“I—all I can say is that we’re telling the truth. The only—the only thing we have on our side is the truth. Nothing about my mom’s story has to do with an—an election or anything like that. It’s not the fault of a victim—of a survivor of sexual assault—that her abuser decided to join a political party that’s doing good things. That doesn’t change the reality of what happened. That’s what I want people to know.”
Anu nods, looking impressed, and I exhale. “If you could speak directly to Hari Ahluwalia right now, what would you say?”
I’ve fantasized about this moment for weeks. The thought of it has been tantalizing. Overwhelming. It has given me the motivation to wake up every morning and continue living in this birdcage of a body. All I need are ten seconds of courage, just like I once told Mom. “I would say, stop hiding. Stop hiding from the truth of what you did. I don’t care how important you are or how highly people think of you. Look me in the face and take responsibility for your crimes. I exist, I was born, because of the monster that you are. If I have to be haunted by your face every time I look in the mirror, you should be haunted by your actions. Despite what you might tell yourself to fall asleep at night, you are a rapist and you deserve every consequence that’s coming to you.”
that which is etched into my bones
“What on earth were you thinking?!” Mom breathes. “What went through your mind and compelled you to feel that of all the things in the world you could’ve said, exposing your connection to him was a good idea?” We’re standing in the studio, inches apart. Her angry whisper inches dangerously close to tears.
“I had to, Mom. I had to.”
“What do you mean you had to?!”
“It was the only way—”
“—to get his whole family after you?!”
“To shake him up. To make him realize he can’t hide from the truth. I’m literal evidence of what he did.”
“You have no idea what you’ve done, Sahaara. There’s a reason why I’ve never said anything about him being your—your—”
“He created me.” I bring those three ghastly, haunted words to life through gritted teeth. I render them visible and naked and unavoidable in this room. “He made me out of his own violence. And emptiness. And what does that make me if I came from something as twisted as that? As twisted as him? Doesn’t that make me a monster as well? He needs to stare me in the face and feel the wrath of what he created—” My words dissolve into sobs and my body slumps into the fierce grip of Mom’s hug, my head held tight between her trembling hand and caving chest.
She cradles my head in her warm hands and tilts my chin up toward her, wiping my tears with her thumbs while hers flow freely. “You are never—never—a reflection of him. Do you hear me? You are your own person, Sahaara Kaur. Who you are has nothing to do with him—”
“—His jaw. His mouth. His cheekbones. I know you can see it, Mom. I know that’s why you—you don’t look at me when you’re upset. I never understood before, but I get it now. They’re all—they’re all his.”
Just as quickly as shock registers across her face, she blinks it away. “And what about your heart? Your bravery? What about those beautiful paintings you create because the earth inspires you? The way you want to stand up for what you believe in? Hm? Who do those things belong to, Sahaara? Because they sure as hell don’t belong to that—to that piece of shit. I’m sorry, Sahaara—I’m sorry for the way my mind plays tricks on me. But he doesn’t define you. He does not define us.”
you are not your dna
i know better than most
the feeling of your body not belonging to you
the feeling of being snatched from yourself
at the hands of a monster
for twenty years
i held her like a promise
close and guarded
praying she would never know
a hurt like mine
little did i know
the anguish
that can be
hidden in plain sight
right there in our bones.
dear universe
please tell me
please tell me
please tell me
please tell me
that i am more
than my conception.
hardeep
“But it’s nearly been an hour. Shouldn’t she be out by now? She should definitely be out by now.” For what seems like the dozenth time, Mom checks the alarm clock sitting on the night table and then continues to frantically pace the hotel room. Her cell phone trembles with her wrists as she places Kunal on speaker.
“There’s a chance her phone is just dead and she’s looking for her luggage. Let’s try not to panic.” Kunal attempts to reassure Mom over the phone, but it does little to mask the worry in his own voice. He’s been waiting at the airport with no sign of my mom’s mother. Hardeep hasn’t answered any of Mom’s texts or calls since yesterday evening when we were at INN.
“I’ll try her phone again.” Mom bites her nail and hangs up. Returning to the window, with her back to Vidya and me, she runs a trembling hand through her hair as if she’s trying to steady it. After a few deep breaths, she places the call. The phone rings for a moment, a desperate shout that could be echoing in a desolate place none of us dare to imagine. Then the dial tone goes silent.
My throat is barren. Constricted. This could all be my fault. This is my fault. Back against the headboard, I draw my knees up to my chest and try not to think of the news report Jeevan warned me about. The politician who killed someone because he was accused of rape.
“There are any number of possibilities, Kiran,” Vidya says, seeming to read our minds. “We mustn’t jump to any conclusions.” She rises from the edge of the bed and begins to pace the room, just like Mom was.
Mom says nothing. Instead she continues to watch the water. The sea outside is restless and unforgiving.
“I’m sending a message to one of my contacts in . . . in . . .” Vidya halts by the night table, gaping at her phone.
&nb
sp; “What?!” I gasp, and Mom swivels around.
“Turn on the news,” Vidya whispers.
Vidya whips the remote from me as I fumble with the buttons. Anu Shergill is on the screen, her signature red lips forming the last words I expected to hear this morning: “We bring you a live broadcast from Chandigarh, where Hardeep Kaur, mother of Kiran Kaur, is about to deliver a statement responding to her daughter’s sexual assault accusations against Hari Ahluwalia.”
Anu Shergill’s somber face is replaced with Hardeep Kaur standing behind a podium, next to an older woman who can only be Ahluwalia’s mom and a middle-aged man who shares his sharp cheekbones.
Mom drifts toward the TV screen, shock and relief registering at the same time: her mother is safe.
Hardeep clears her throat and I’m stunned by the sight of her wheatish-brown, weather-worn face. By her round eyes that are so similar to Mom’s and mine. Mom once told me that we shared her eyes, but she didn’t have a single picture of the woman in her possession. I somehow imagined her taller, a figure that would tower over us with her lofty expectations. To see her now, barely a head above a podium, on TV when I’d been anxiously hoping that she’d walk through the door at any moment, is dizzying.
She begins to read from a piece of paper resting before her. “In regard to the allegations made by my daughter against Hari Ahluwalia, I would, unfortunately, like to state that they are baseless and absolutely untrue to the best of my knowledge.” She pauses to look up at the camera, staring into each of us before she continues. “Regretfully, I cannot vouch for Kiran Kaur’s account of events, but I would like to say that the Ahluwalia family has shown integrity, respectability, and resilience in the thirty-plus years that I have known them and throughout this ordeal. I sympathize deeply with my daughter’s mental health struggles and, presumably, the delusions that they have created within her own child. I appeal to my daughter to seek psychological support for those issues. I and the Ahluwalia family would also like to ask supporters that my daughter be given space to address her issues. . . . We wish her all the best. This statement was not written because of my political affiliations—I’ve actually been an HJP voter for many years. Instead, I have shared this today because . . . I must stand on the side of truth and hope that this drawn-out ordeal receives an amicable ending for all parties.”
Anu Shergill returns to the screen and Vidya turns off the TV with the remote still held within her grasp. For several few moments, we are all silent.
Then Mom’s phone vibrates. “It’s her,” she whispers. She opens the message, face unreadable.
“What’d she say?” I croak.
“Please call me in an hour.”
At the end of one of the tensest sixty minutes of my life, Vidya leaves the room and Mom dials the number.
“Kiran?” Mom’s name is a strangled rasp on Hardeep’s lips.
“What do you want?” Mom replies, no feeling in her tone, no emotion on her face. In the hour since the broadcast, I’ve watched her sit wordlessly by the window, most of my questions ignored, some of them greeted with a shake of the head. She’s elsewhere right now. “Hello?”
“I’m here. I’m here.” Hardeep sighs. “Did you see—”
“Of course we did.”
“I have to explain—”
“What is there to explain? You made your feelings about me crystal clear—”
“Kiran! This isn’t just about you!” she shouts. “You two want to run around making a scene, saying whatever the hell you want as if I’m not the one who’s going to have to pay for it. I’ve lived through the embarrassment of you leaving . . . the humiliation of you not showing up for your own father’s funeral. Now I’m supposed to live through your face plastered all over the news and to top it all off—your daughter claiming that Hari is her father?! Did you ever stop to think about what all this means for me? Did you?!” Hardeep hisses. Mom stays silent. “Do you have any idea what the Ahluwalias said to me after your daughter’s little speech?”
“My daughter is sitting right here,” Mom coldly retorts.
“Good. I hope she’s listening. They came over to my house—”
“Hari?”
“No. His mom. And brother. They said if I didn’t discredit your lies, they’d make my life a living hell. They said they’d make sure I lose my home and—and everything I care about.” Mom and I lock eyes and I think we’re wondering the same thing. “But . . . they said if I made the statement, they’d leave me alone. Permanently. They said no matter what else happens, I’d have done my part.”
Mom says nothing.
“You can’t blame me for this,” Hardeep continues, almost pleading. “I’ve been through enough in my life. I just want to live the rest of my days in peace.”
“You’re right,” Mom whispers, “I can’t blame you.” I look up to see anguish force itself into her features like a cracking sheet of ice. A tear spills down her cheek. “I can’t blame you . . . but it still hurts.”
“I’m . . . sorry, Kiran. I did the best I could do for you. I never told them that you’re here—they still think we haven’t spoken in decades. They think you hate me so much you wouldn’t show up no matter what happened to me.” She pauses for a breath. “I told them to leave you alone because of your mental health—”
“You thought you were doing me a favor?! By telling people I made this all up because of my mental health?” she smolders. “Since when have you ever known a single thing about my mental health?”
“But—but why else would you run off—”
“Are you kidding?! I don’t know if you told yourself that to feel better about yourself or—or if you didn’t want to feel like a bad parent, but you’ve known the true story for twenty years. And you made a choice—a conscious decision to ignore it. To dismiss my words. No, I don’t blame you for protecting yourself, but don’t you dare claim that you’re doing me a favor by telling the world—by telling ME—that I’m a liar. Not when I’ve lived with the guilt of not being there for you, every single day since I last saw you. Not when you’ve probably never felt the same. Don’t you dare.”
closure
amid all the new hurt
that a single conversation
places upon my shoulders
one weight is lifted:
i did my very best
i reached out a hand
a hand that, perhaps,
she was never meant to grasp
in this lifetime.
lotus & bee café
The Woman Magazine team, Mom, and I file down a long wooden table, sitting down on tree stumps topped with black cushions. A thick, leafy canopy of orchids hangs over our heads, an acoustic guitar strumming over the stir of dinner-time chatter filling the rustic restaurant. Vancouver could only dream of a vegan joint so hipster.
It’s adorable, but god, I want to go home.
“Ah, I just cannot wait to style you both for the gala tomorrow! We are just going to have so much fun in the Woman Mag closet tomorrow,” squeals Jaanvi, a magazine stylist who I met a few moments ago. Her chocolate brown hair is drawn into an elegant fishtail braid that complements her Tiffany-blue blazer. Her glossy lips look like they were crafted by Kylie Jenner herself. “By the way, that skirt is to die for, Sahaara. Florals look fabulous on you!”
Taara leans into Jaanvi, appraising me through her thick falsies. “Doesn’t it just look lovely on her? The yellow was made for her skin tone. I’m way too pale to pull that off. . . .”
“Thanks.” I politely smile, unsure how else to respond. The sun hasn’t yet set but this day has already worn me to the point of exhaustion. All I want is to banish Hardeep’s face from my memory. To unhear her bullshit excuses.
Vidya and Kunal form a protective wall around Mom and me, Kunal the only man at the table among a dozen fashion-forward women—writers and editors and executives and stylists who eagerly grabbed our hands and air-kissed our cheeks as soon as we met at the door. Kunal quietly roves the room wit
h his eyes, always on guard no matter the relaxed mood of everyone else. Cheerful chatter fills the table like a hearty meal, but Mom and I are quiet, smiling when we must, responding to questions when we must.
“How’ve you been enjoying the city? Have you hit all the touristy spots?” a gazelle-like woman in a jumpsuit asks from the far end of the table.
“It’s been really nice—hot, but we’ve been enjoying it.” I smile.
“Oh, you must hate the heat! You probably have layers of snow in Canada right now, na?” an older woman with a bob cut chimes in from the other end of the table.
“No, um, we only really get snow in December in Surrey. Some years we don’t really get any.”
“Really?!” She rests her head in her palm, studying me in fascination. “I find that so hard to believe—”
“Oh, no, it’s true, Shivani!” a stout woman next to her begins, her elaborate earrings and loose topknot swaying as she animatedly speaks. I lose track of the conversation, relieved that I’m no longer being spoken to.
With a quick glance at Mom, I catch an all-too-familiar distance in her glazed eyes. She’s not here right now. My hand finds hers under the table and after a moment, she squeezes back.
“You okay?” I murmur.
“How long are we here?” she whispers through her teeth. I squeeze her hand a little harder.
“Kiran,” comes Nandini Rajalingam’s wispy voice from directly across us. “I’d like to tell you again just how grateful we are for your presence.” Nandini’s demure tone matches her diminutive stature but she commands the attention of the entire table. Conversations slowly go quiet all around us as the magazine’s editor in chief clasps her manicured fingers together and rests her pointed chin upon them. She surveys us through precisely lined, feline eyes framed by a perfectly straight set of bangs. Seeing her here in the flesh—real as can be and no longer confined to flawlessly curated IG posts on my phone—is a little trippy.