If I Tell You the Truth

by Jasmin Kaur

  “We need to get you to Canada—”

  “Listen to me. I’ve been on my own for six years. I’ve handled my affairs without you for twenty years. I do not need your help now. I’ll figure something out with your chacha.” Hardeep cuts off the call and we sit in silence until we reach the hotel.

  “In and out as quickly as you can, okay?” Kunal says as he pulls up in front of the palace. Vidya waves away the valet as she steps out of the car and we follow her. Kunal and Taara remain seated. Taara’s satin hair is in wild disarray and her blue glasses are so askew, she looks like she could’ve just been through a storm.

  In the elevator, Mom struggles to stand still. She begins to wring her hands, pacing back and forth until we’re released.

  “Sahaara, I need to explain . . .” Mom whispers as we walk down the hallway.

  “It’s okay.” I place a hand on her shoulder. “We can talk about it later.”

  “No—you don’t understand. Those pictures—they’re not what they look like.”

  Vidya swipes a key card into our room door and it swings open. “I’ll stay out here,” she says. “You two pack.”

  In seconds, Mom and I are shoving clothes into suitcases. I run to the bathroom and throw all my makeup and Mom’s into a single bag.

  “I wasn’t cheating on Prabh. I just—there was a boy—a boy from secondary school. And I met with him once—I never knew that Hari saw—I just—” I look back to see her fumbling with sweaters, trying momentarily to fold them and then simply squishing them into an overflowing suitcase.

  “Mom, don’t worry, we can talk about this after,” I gently say as I zip up the makeup bag and shove it into a suitcase. My dresses get haphazardly thrown into Mom’s suitcase and her shirts get pushed into mine.

  “I don’t understand—I don’t understand how he saw”—Mom whisks our passports off the night table—“and how he found me.” I shove my laptop in my backpack and scan the room for anything we’ve missed. Mom picks up a suitcase sitting near the window and accidentally trips backward, landing on the bed.

  “Mom!” I gasp, taking hold of her hand to help her up. My heartbeat slows as I take in her current state: fear etched in her eyes, hair strewn from her bun, body shivering.

  “Sahaara, please believe me.”

  I hold both of her trembling hands in mine as I say, “I do believe you. Always have, always will. And there is nothing that you could have done that justifies what he did to you. This isn’t your fault.”

  When we make it back to the car, Kunal is on the phone with someone. He hangs up the call to hoist our suitcases into the trunk. Then he proceeds to drive to the airport, just as hastily as he drove to the hotel.

  “That was Nandini on the phone,” he says. “She said she’s sorry about all this—and she understands why you have to leave.”

  From the back seat, Mom asks, “Do you have some paper?”

  Vidya rifles through the glove compartment and emerges with a white napkin and a pen. “Does this work?”

  “It’ll do,” Mom says as she begins to write something I can’t see.

  “I’ve booked you for the next flight out. It’s leaving in five hours. Airport’s not far so we’ll get there in time.” Vidya looks back at us. She smiles in that way that Mom would when I was young and scared.

  Despite my hatred for her, I pray that Hardeep is also headed to an airport right now.

  We reach the drop-off zone, a narrow road where cars fight for space to unload suitcases. When we step out of the car to face each other, we breathe a collective sigh: we made it.

  Taara is the first to speak. “You know,” she nervously laughs, “I had no idea working for a fashion magazine would be so exciting.”

  Kunal shakes his head, passing me my suitcase. “I think you two have given us enough excitement for a lifetime. All right.” He claps his hands together. “We need to get you on your flight. Vidya will go inside with you two. I can’t leave the car here. So, I suppose, this is goodbye.”

  Mom shakes his hand. “Thank you for everything—oh, and please get this to Nandini.” She passes him the napkin and he skims the message, nodding before he slips it into his pocket.

  Heart finally close to a normal pulse, I hug Taara and then shake Kunal’s hand. Mom adjusts her suitcase handle and heads toward the door with Vidya. “Let’s get going,” Mom says, glancing in my direction.

  “I’ll be a minute,” I call after her, and I look up at Kunal. “Just wanted to say thanks for being here for us. My mom . . . she doesn’t usually feel comfortable around men, but you made her feel safe. That’s a big deal.”

  Eyes shut to the bustling world around us, he smiles peacefully. “Good. I’m grateful.”

  “I wanted to ask you something, though.”

  “Shoot. But make it quick—I don’t want you missing your flight.”

  “Why were you crying?”

  “What? When?” he asks, genuine confusion on his face.

  “When you grabbed me . . . from Ahluwalia. Your eyes were kinda wet.”

  “Oh,” he says. “Do you want the honest truth?”

  I nod.

  “It was because”—he swallows—“I saw his face next to yours. Same chin. Same jaw. Same cheekbones.”

  “Oh,” I whisper.

  He pats me on the shoulder. “Takes a lot of courage to do what you did, beta. Completely irresponsible, mind you, but still . . . courageous. Now, please, go the hell home.”

  on the napkin

  dear nandini,

  thank you for the courage that your words gave me today.

  i faced him today for millions of reasons—you were one.

  my daughter was another. nirbhaya was another.

  the women at aasra shelter were another.

  although i cannot attend the gala, there are four women

  who i hope will accept woman of the year on my behalf:

  priyanka. khushi. saima. radhika.

  it is an act of bravery to live through hell and run from it

  when we have been made to believe

  that running is far more dangerous than staying

  i beg for a world where we all have the resources

  to seek safety. to find shelter. to find refuge. to run.

  but moreover, more than anything,

  i beg for a world where all the reasons to run

  are washed away.

  breaking free

  There’s a relief that rises into the air with us. When Mumbai becomes a twinkling galaxy below our bodies, for a moment, I am as light as the sky that welcomes me into its weightless embrace. Right now, I do not touch the same earth where he dwells. Right now, we are out of his reach. But the moment of comfort is just that: a moment. A short-lived spark that dies, forcing my eyes to adjust to the darkness. I live in a world where powerful men can have the truth of their actions shined bright in their faces only to smile. Only to live comfortably in their bodies as if they cannot remember the violence. Only to teach the masses how to forget.

  “It was all because of Charan?” Mom whispers. We lift our eyes from the glittering midnight landscape below and find each other’s.

  “The man in the picture?”

  “Hanji. The man in the picture.” She rests a clammy hand on mine. Squeezes. “I was sixteen when I befriended this boy in my English class. He . . . he made me feel special. Heard. Important, I suppose. He made me feel like I wasn’t a complete screw-up. Mom never made me feel like that.” She pulls the blue fleece of an airline blanket closer to her chest.

  “You liked a boy?” I tease. “Scandalous.” She lowers her eyes. “Sorry, just trying to make you smile. Go on. I’m listening.”

  “I got . . . attached to him. Charan. Charanpal Chawla. I would sneak out from my bedroom window to go see him. We’d go to the park and eat smoked corn or catch our favorite Kajol films at the cinema or sit for hours watching the moon at Sukhna Lake. We’d only meet in places dark enough to not get spotted by our parents .
. . or watchful aunties and uncles who would report to our parents.” She shakes her head and laughs. “I thought I was so clever. Of course they were going to find out.”

  “How did they?”

  “Mom caught me climbing out of my window one night. And Dad . . .” She sighs. “He caught Charan.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yup. My dad roughed him up. Scared him into never talking to me again at school. He acted like I didn’t even matter. And I was devastated.” She shrugs, resigned to the way this story played out.

  “But he came back. The picture . . .”

  “Yeah,” Mom sighs, “he did. I hadn’t spoken to him in years. Hadn’t seen him since school ended. But, of course, he had to show up after Prabh Ahluwalia came along. I knew Prabh since I was a kid. He came from a well-off family so, obviously, my parents wanted us together. And he was . . . nice enough. Kind enough. Didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would just disappear on me like Charan. So, I did what my mother wanted and got engaged to him.”

  “Did you meet up with Charan while you were engaged to Prabh?”

  “I did. I was young and stupid and I thought—I thought that if I saw him, just that once, I’d know for sure what I felt for Prabh. What I wanted. Because, when Charan called me out of nowhere, after all that time, I still felt something. And it wasn’t . . . what I felt for Prabh. It was different. Denser.”

  “Where’d you meet?”

  “A restaurant. I remember I chose it because it was on the other end of the city. Far enough from home that my family and Prabh’s wouldn’t run into us. I sat down with him and he told me all sorts of garbage. Said he felt bad for cutting me out of his life when we were in school. Said he wanted me back . . . that I should just drop this thing with Prabh and forget about going to school and marry him. Like that would make everything better.”

  “So, let me get this straight.” I laugh. “This guy ditches you because he’s scared of your dad and then shows up one day, tells you to forget about school and your fiancé and just asks you to get married?”

  “Yeah.” Mom shrugs again. “Maybe he thought he was being flattering but it only made me feel more suffocated. Alone. And I held his hand and I said thank you for lunch and then I left. I never should’ve held his hand.”

  “You were my age, right?”

  “I was.”

  I squeeze her palm a little tighter. “You were a teenager. And you were scared and confused about a huge decision that you weren’t ready to make. Holding someone’s hand doesn’t justify what Ahluwalia did. Please believe me.”

  “I’m trying.” Her chest slowly rises and caves. “It makes sense now . . . what he said.”

  “What who said?”

  “Hari. When I was sitting in his car before—before it happened. He went on this whole speech about how I wouldn’t get away with embarrassing his family. I thought he was talking about my outfit. About my midriff showing. Really, he was talking about Charan.”

  “So, that whole thing on TV where he said he confronted you about it—”

  “The rape. That was the confrontation,” she murmurs.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

  “That night when I was telling you the story, I didn’t think to mention this because I didn’t even know the two things were connected. You know how hard it is for me to talk about things I bury away. Charan was someone I buried.”

  “I get that.”

  “My mind is strange, I think. Packed up tight like a suitcase. And if I have to dig for one memory, all the way at the bottom, I make a mess of all the other stuff as well. Everything comes out. Spills onto the floor. So, I try to just . . .”

  “Keep it all in.”

  “Hanji.”

  Mom strokes my hand with her thumb. “There’s, um, something that’s been on my mind.”

  “What’s up?”

  “It seems like you’re beating yourself up over this thing with Jeevan. You’re feeling guilty because of your confusion, because of what happened. Am I right?”

  “In a way, yeah.”

  “This world makes us feel like our stories begin and end with men—the ones who want us or don’t want us or hurt us or love us. But if I’ve learned anything, it’s that happiness doesn’t need to hinge on the boy you end up with.” She touches my cheek. “You can choose yourself, too.”

  “I don’t think I know how to choose myself, Mom.” I sigh. “Self-love is hard when your body feels like . . . it isn’t really yours.”

  Her saucer eyes meet mine. “I think I know what you mean, puth. But you are so much more powerful than you think you are. I meant exactly what I said at INN: who you are has nothing to do with him.” She pauses, reaches for my hand, and holds it in her warm grasp. “You know, when you wrote me that letter, it changed everything for me—everything. Maybe it’s time you wrote another letter. To yourself. To your body.”

  dear body

  it’s fair to say we haven’t been on the best terms.

  god, i’ve been angry at you.

  i’ve hated you.

  i’ve wanted to erase you.

  and you dripped water at my rage.

  of course, there will always be a piercing hurt

  when i remember how you were formed

  but you deserve so much more than punishment

  for a crime you never committed.

  you are my first home

  the only place i will ever dwell

  the vessel that will carry me to the end

  the source of my voice

  and an ocean overflowing with love

  and kindness

  and creativity

  and bravery.

  i don’t know what tomorrow will bring

  but, today, i’m begging myself to believe

  that you are a new canvas

  and i can color you in the paint

  of my choosing.

  while mom sleeps

  i crack open my sketchbook

  and let my pencil fill the holes

  that this trip has cut into me

  the painting blooms in my mind

  five women sitting together

  four who i just met

  one who brought me into this world

  they huddle close

  spilling their truths

  over cha

  in this beautiful oasis

  among their sisters

  khushi

  saima

  radhika

  priyanka

  and mom

  are finally

  and unequivocally

  safe

  him

  It’s nearly ten in the morning when we leave Vancouver Airport. If we’d come home on the day we were originally meant to, Maasi would’ve been waiting outside for us with chocolate Timbits and hugs. Instead, she’s working a twelve-hour shift at the hospital. So I sucked it up and made an extremely awkward phone call.

  Without missing a beat, he said he’d skip his morning lecture to pick us up.

  The drive home is quieter than the forest behind my house. Mom is knocked out in the back seat. My eyes are bloodshot from exhaustion but so very relieved by the sight of him.

  “Glad you’re back,” Jeevan softly says, glancing in his rearview mirror to make sure that Mom is still asleep.

  “Really?” I murmur. “Didn’t exactly seem like you wanted to talk. . . .”

  For a moment, he pulls his gaze from the sparsely populated freeway and rests his gentle eyes on me. “I needed space to figure things out, Sahaara. Doesn’t mean I stopped caring. Still checked in on you to make sure you were okay, didn’t I?”

  “Well, you’d be a bit of an asshole if you didn’t even bother making sure I was alive.”

  “No . . . I’d be Sunny.”

  “Oh. Shit.” I can’t help but burst out laughing. “That was cold, Jeevan. Accurate but cold.” I place my arm on the center armrest, my fingers dangling just over the edge. Jeevan shifts gears and then rests
his arm next to mine. Our hands almost graze.

  When we reach home, I pop Mom’s suitcase out of the trunk and place it in the driveway. Then I try my best to calm the scarlet growing in my cheeks as I ask her the question that I’ve been dreading the whole way home. “Can I, um, have a minute in the car with Jeevan?”

  She glances from me to the back of Jeevan’s head. He’s sitting in the driver’s seat scrolling through his phone. “Of course. Just remember what I said.”

  I return to the passenger seat and toy with my phone case, unsure what to do with my hands. “So . . .”

  “So.” Jeevan and I look everywhere but each other. When we accidentally make eye contact, we don’t look away.

  I cough. “I don’t—”

  “I’ll wait for you.”

  “—know if I’m ready for a relationship.”

  “What?” we both say at the same time.

  For a moment, we are silent, absorbing the impact of our words, studying one another’s features. Jeevan rests a hand on his steering wheel, pulling off his glasses with the other. He stares down at his feet, square jaw clenched. “I’m such a mess,” I finally say. His face falls out of focus as tears blur my vision.

  “Aren’t we all?”

  Mom’s words rush to me. “I know that something beautiful can grow between us. I can see it. I can feel it humming under my skin. But these past few months have been some of the toughest in my life. I’ve learned things about myself that I can never unlearn. I’ve seen things in me that I’ve never seen before. I need to take the time to get to know me before I meet . . . us.”

  His grip loosens around the steering wheel. “You know you don’t have to learn to love yourself on your own, right? You can lean on others.”

  I smirk. “Thanks for the reminder. But I think this one’s on me.”

  “I respect that. Just know that I’m not going anywhere.”

  The selfish creature inside me wants nothing more than to lean over the armrest. It wants to rest my hands on his scruffy cheek, nuzzle into his warm neck, and fall into the safety of his embrace, into the kind lightning of his mouth. “I want you to be happy.”