by Jasmin Kaur
“It meant a lot that you asked us to come,” I reply for both Mom and me. “Really and truly. Your email came at a time when we really needed some hope.”
“I heard from Vidya and Taara that your interviews at Aasra Shelter went well?” Nandini continues.
“Well, they mostly did.” Taara grimaces. “There was that one lady who was quite rude, wasn’t she? The sex worker . . .”
“I didn’t think she was rude at all.” Mom speaks up, to my surprise. “She was sharing the truth of her own experiences. I think we needed to hear it. There are so many women who don’t get to tell their stories—who don’t live to tell their stories—because of their status in society. Because of the place they were born, or the way society looks down on them.”
Taara pours herself a glass of mint-infused water, quickly taking a sip and diverting her eyes from Mom. The rest of the table watches Mom intently, collectively mesmerized by her unfiltered honesty.
“Radhika was right,” Mom continues. “I’m extremely lucky. I have privileges that she doesn’t, just because of my distance from . . . him.”
Nandini slowly nods and continues to survey Mom through her long bangs. “Right. You’re absolutely right.” She turns her head to Taara. “Priyanka from the shelter is joining us at the gala, na? I wonder if the women staying there would join us as well. Will you send Priyanka a message?”
“On it!” Taara practically whistles, eyes reverentially glued to Nandini while she unlocks her phone.
Mom shakes her head. “I think . . . an invitation to the gala is a start, but—”
“Kiran,” Taara croaks. “Kiran. You need to—you need to check your phone. He’s made another statement.”
“W-what?” Mom breathes, and hushed whispers ripple across the table, every hand reaching for a phone. Mom leans into me as I tap a link that Taara’s just texted me.
He stands before a beige wall, camera shaky like he’s recording on his cell phone. “In response to statements made by Kiran Kaur’s daughter, I would like to challenge her to speak for herself instead of having a child speak on her behalf. Open dialogue and discourse are important in any democracy and as a candidate for chief minister of Punjab, I welcome frank and honest conversations. If Kiran Kaur is not afraid of being confronted—of being challenged—with the truth, I would invite her to join me tomorrow on INN for a public conversation about the allegations she has presented.”
“My god . . .” Jaanvi whispers.
“What a shameless bastard!” Vidya spits.
A few phones seem to ping and vibrate at once. Taara’s eyes bulge. “Aaaaaand, we just got an email from INN. They’re asking if Kiran will come on TV tomorrow.” She looks up at Mom. “Hari will be calling in from New Delhi. They want to do a live broadcast with you.”
My skin is numb as a corpse. Mom’s hands grip a cloth napkin, trembling.
She glances at me, opening her mouth to speak and then closing it. I watch as a whirlwind of emotions play out behind her eyes—fear, disgust, anger, shock, and fear, once again.
Then Nandini speaks. “I think you should do it, Kiran. Between this pathetic pretense of concern for democracy and that disgusting stunt they pulled with your mum, you should be given a chance to challenge him. Head-on.” I’m surprised that this ridiculously important woman has an opinion on a situation that feels so utterly and bitterly our own.
All heads seem to shift toward Mom in eager anticipation of her response. She clears her throat. “So much has already been said on our part. Too much. And honestly . . . where’s it gotten us?”
“What do you mean?” Taara shakes her head, genuinely confused.
“We’ve spoken twice now,” Mom sighs, “and the Ahluwalias turned it all against us. They got my own mother to come on television and call me a liar, for god’s sake. Even if I speak, even if he somehow doesn’t get elected, what good will it really do? Who’s to say his opponent is any less horrible than him? Who’s to say this will actually fix anything?”
“Oh, your voice won’t fix everything, Kiran. I’m under no illusions about that,” Nandini steadily says, “but what it will do is frighten a lot of very powerful men.”
“Frighten them?! How could I possibly . . .”
Nandini leans back. Without looking away from Mom, she says: “Of those of us sitting at this table, how many have been harassed by a man . . . this week?”
Nearly all the women raise their hands, some shaking their heads, others responding with an irritated eye roll or a sigh.
“And how many of us sitting here,” Nandini continues, “have experienced abuse from men that . . . goes beyond words called out to us on the street?”
Most of the hands remain raised, some women lowering theirs but subtly nodding to themselves. Taara grips her glass with both hands and doesn’t glance up.
“And why do they get away with it?” Nandini asks the table, eyes drifting across each of us.
“Patriarchy,” someone replies to my left.
“Because men have more power in society,” Shivani replies to my right.
“Money. Wealth. Men control money, so they control the world,” the gazelle-like woman says.
“Because sexual harassment is normalized. Abusers make mistreatment of women seem like something that’s to be expected!” Jaanvi fumes.
“People don’t believe women when they tell their stories,” Taara sighs.
“I agree with all of these reasons. But also . . . izzat. Honor,” Nandini states, and the table erupts in a low murmur of agreement. “This patriarchal idea that a girl’s honor—a woman’s honor—depends on her virginity . . . and who she gives it to. And what happens to girls when all their lives, they’re made to believe that their worth depends on this thing between their legs? When they’re made to believe that if they are raped, their dignity is forever stolen as well? When their reputations become the most important garment they wear?”
When she pauses, no one takes their eyes off her and no one speaks.
“What happens is . . . abusive men revel in the power of shame. They revel in the fact that shame can keep women in line, just like violence can. The men in suits—the ones who want to keep their hands clean—use shame as their weapon of choice.”
I shiver at the word shame: the reason why a mother could turn her back on her own daughter.
“Isn’t that what Ahluwalia’s trying to do here?” Nandini locks eyes with Mom. “Shame you into shrinking—shame you into silencing your own voice—so that he comes out looking like a hero of the people. But what would happen if shame no longer kept us in line? Would that not frighten men like him?”
A white petal quietly drifts down from the canopy, landing on the white napkin still strangled within Mom’s grasp. It rests there. She loosens her grip.
amid darkness, a glistening moment
i walk into a white marble room
that’s accessorized with more mirrors
than anyone could possibly need
mom steps in a few moments later
wearing heels i already know she hates
there she is, in a glittering midnight gown
that could put a starry sky to shame
here i am, in flowy white chiffon
that could reflect the sun
here we are, the night to the other’s day
the balance we both so desperately need.
the city is in motion
From a balcony on the seventeenth floor of Indian News Network, Mumbai looks formidable and endless, a city with far more stories to tell than time to stop and listen. Hundreds upon hundreds of skyscrapers and concrete apartment buildings fill the landscape before me, as far as the eye can see. The farthest of the buildings disappear behind a pale yellow haze of city smog, blurring the line between land and sky. Black-roofed rickshaws and yellow-topped taxis move mercilessly on the streets below, the sound of their horns reaching us all the way up here.
Her hands haven’t stopped shaking since we got her
e, but her face is oddly serene. “You know, this sky reminds me of Punjab.” She lightly crosses her arms and surveys the sunset from her black chair. “Without all the skyscrapers, of course, but the haze . . . I almost forgot about it.”
“Who knew smog could create such a beautiful sunset?” I shrug. The setting sun is a fiery orange that I’ve never seen back home, casting marmalade onto the smog and golden light onto whitish buildings below.
“Aren’t we familiar with toxic fumes masked as beauty?”
“Shit, Mom. Touché,” I gasp. On an apartment rooftop a block away, I spot a little girl with an older man, perhaps her father. They guide an ornate white kite through the evening sky, the kite swaying in the wind and then nose-diving into their arms. “I, um, I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”
“What?” Mom pivots toward me in her black chair faster than I can take another breath.
“I kinda did something that I didn’t mention before—”
“Sahaara, what the hell did you do? I thought we agreed on no more surprises!”
“Oh, no. It has nothing to do with this trip. It’s, um, Jeevan.” Warmth ripples across my torso, jitters in my knees. “I sort of . . . kissed him.”
My words slowly register on Mom’s face and her anxious, furrowed brow relaxes, giving way to a grin. She begins to laugh, her shoulders heaving with her chest.
Totally confused, I crack up as well. “What—what are we laughing about?!”
Her laughter unrelenting, she reaches out a hand and grasps mine. “I’m not laughing at this, puth! It’s just—of all the things I’ve heard this week—I thought it was going to be something like”—she wipes a tear from her eye—“Mom, I killed someone.”
“I might as well have,” I mumble. “We haven’t really been talking.”
“Hold on. When did this happen?!” Interest sparkles in eyes that have dwelled in sorrow for far too long.
“Why aren’t you freaking out? Aren’t you supposed to be, like, mad?”
“Oh. Well”—she pulls back slightly—“Jeevan’s such a nice boy. I know that he’s . . . good, you know? He has a good heart. And I know you’re growing up, Sahaara. I always knew you’d have to grow up, eventually. I just wasn’t . . .”
“Ready?”
“Willing to let you,” she sighs.
“You’ve been talking to Maasi, huh?”
“She’s helped a lot, I’ll admit. But also, if these past few weeks have taught me anything, it’s that you’re not a little girl anymore. And that’s perfectly okay.” She nods, as if she’s reassuring herself.
I study her dark, tender eyes, unsure what to say. Eventually, I whisper, “Thank you.”
“So, are you going to tell me more or am I going to have to wait until your maasi fills me in?”
I roll my eyes. “It kinda happened outta nowhere a week before we came here. And, um, it got really awkward after . . .”
“Why? Did he—did you not want to—”
“I wanted to kiss him. At least, I thought I wanted to, but, um . . . I don’t know if I was ready.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I swallow, not sure how to say this. “I’ve felt fuzzy, lately. And kissing Jeevan felt right but it also felt like . . . I was trying to escape my head through him. Does that make sense?”
Mom’s gaze drifts from me to the city spread before us. “Hmm. I think I’ve been there before.” She purses her rose-tinted lips.
I tilt my head to survey her. “You know, sometimes I wonder what goes through your mind when you’re quiet.”
With a raised brow, she glances at me for a fleeting moment and then returns her attention to the kites fluttering within the haze. “You’re better off not knowing, Sahaara.”
“You sure? Talking about what’s going on in your head has worked out pretty well, so far.”
“Has it?!” Her laughter solidifies into seriousness. “What time is it?”
“Four fifty,” I say, checking my phone.
She nods solemnly.
“You’re going to do fine, Mom. You know what you have to say. All you’re gonna do is tell the truth.”
“Before March, I hadn’t seen his face in twenty years. But now, with the videos and the news articles, I’ve seen it four times.”
My hand grips hers tight. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
Her chin jerks in the slightest of nods. “The first time, in March, I was shaking after I saw his picture. I couldn’t breathe.”
“What?! You didn’t tell me. . . .”
“I was okay. I handled it on my own. The second time, my heart started racing but I could still breathe. Same with the third time, in the studio. And then we watched the video at the restaurant—”
“Shit! I’m so sorry it played in front of you—”
“No, Sahaara. When I watched it, my heart was pounding, but it wasn’t from fear. It was from anger. I wanted to face him. I want him to look me in the face, just like you said. I’m ready.”
the physics of my honesty
high school was a lifetime ago
and i don’t remember much
of what i learned
but i do remember that
potential energy is stored up
in an object, waiting to be used
and kinetic energy is that very
same force set in action
a floodgate broke within me
when i spoke the truth
and he tried to call it
nothing more than
a fairy tale
all the rage
stored quietly beneath my skin
pushed my fear over the edge
checkmate
“Kunal, my friend! So nice to see you!” booms a balding, hook-nosed man in an off-white suit. He strides purposefully toward us, down an otherwise empty hallway, a younger man trailing slightly behind him. He’s left the top buttons of his purple shirt open, exposing a hairless chest. Somehow, I feel like he’s just missing three gold chains and a cigar.
Kunal politely shakes his hand. “Mr. Mukherjee—”
“How many times do I have to tell you? Call me Varun.” He heartily pats Kunal on the back.
Kunal places a fraction of distance between himself and the INN exec. “Right, Varun, you’ve met my wife, Vidya. And this is Taara. I believe you’ve been in touch by email—”
“Yes, yes, of course,” he says, nodding at Vidya and Taara, who silently stand beside me. He turns his attention to me and Mom. “But you two ladies, I haven’t yet had the pleasure of meeting. Although it seems I see them nearly everywhere, these days.” He exposes a toothy smile.
Mom tries not to grimace. Unease painted across his face, Kunal makes the introduction. “This is Kiran Kaur and her daughter, Sahaara.”
“The Kiran Kaur.” He extends a hand to Mom from across the small circle that has formed in the middle of the hallway. “A pleasure to meet you. Glad we could have you on the show tonight—oh! And this is Ajay, our new co-executive producer. The lucky bastard just got the promotion.” Varun pats the waifish, goateed man standing next to him and he nearly topples into us with the force. Ajay, irritated and red in the face, nods at the group as he regains his balance.
“Congratulations, sir.” Kunal coolly nods at Ajay. “We’re looking forward to participating in a quick and professional dialogue, tonight. As we discussed, it will look like Kiran’s calling in from Canada, correct?”
“Yes, yes, Kunal, of course.” Varun adjusts the sleeves of his close-fitting jacket. “You know we run a tight ship here at INN and I’m sure the segment’s going to be quite enlightening for viewers. It’s not every day that we host a debate like this. The ratings shall be phenomenal! Really—we can’t thank you enough for joining us tonight, Miss Kaur.” He flashes Mom another toothy smile, a gold incisor gleaming at us.
“I’m not sure if we’re looking for a debate, per se.” Vidya crosses her arms over her chest. “More like a simple laying out
of the facts.”
“Yes, of course, of course.” Varun crosses his arms as well, appraising her. “But there are many versions of facts, na? Truth comes in many shapes and alternatives.”
“Well . . . it was, um, it was very nice to meet you all,” Ajay says, “but I’ve got some business to attend to. Looking forward to your interview, ma’am.” Mom weakly smiles at him and then he turns around, swiftly marching down the never-ending black marble hallway in his navy-blue suit. In the distance, I watch as he briefly glances back at us and then takes a left, disappearing into another hallway.
Raveena, a cheerful assistant who we met earlier, steps through a tinted glass door to my right, a yellow cup of coffee in hand. “Are we ready to get Kiran into the booth?”
“Yes, yes,” says Varun. “Let’s get her set up in there.” He opens a heavy black door behind him that leads to a video-recording studio. With a desk equipped with computers and microphones, and a long, tinted window running across the back wall, it’s almost identical to the room where I did my interview. Varun holds the door open for Mom, Vidya, and Raveena as they step inside.
Before I can enter, he stops me. “Only two guests in the booth at once. We find that it’s best for recording quality that way.”
“Oh, um . . .” Mom glances back at me.
“It’s okay, Mom. I’ll wait outside.”
Vidya rests a hand on Mom’s shoulder. “She’ll be fine,” she says, and I’m not sure whether she’s trying to reassure Mom or me. I offer Mom one last smile that she attempts to return.