by Jasmin Kaur
He shakes his head, laughing to himself. “Happy? The happiest days of my life usually involve you being right here next to me.”
“Am I even wor—”
“Always. Always. How is that even a question?”
“What if this messes everything up? What if our friendship falls apart ’cause of all this?”
“I know it could hurt.” He winces. “Really fuckin’ bad. But nothing good in life comes without that risk.”
I think of every peril I’ve welcomed in the last seven days that felt both heart-poundingly frightening and completely necessary. I can’t help but agree.
Jeevan shifts in his seat to face me directly, softness in his brow, stillness in his hands. Our chests fall toward each other, the heat of his body magnetic against my suddenly thrumming skin. He lifts my chin and we hover inches apart. Just as they did the last time we were this close, the only things that exist are his saltwater eyes and his parted mouth.
With a slight shake of my head, my lips accidentally graze the soft skin of his. “Not yet,” I whisper. “Only when I’m completely ready. You don’t deserve any less. I don’t deserve any less.”
He nods and sadly smiles, thumb still touching my skin. “Appreciate it, bud.”
“So, um . . . I almost used your knife.” I sniff.
“The fuck?!” He pulls back in shock. “What happened?”
“Long story.” I laugh. “We’re gonna need to sit down at Bear Creek for this one.”
jeevan
is the safest, warmest place i’ve ever been
is not a coat to be taken off
and pulled on whenever i’m cold
is a steady current when all i’ve known
are the intensity of tidal waves
is not an answer
but a question of what could be
i’ve been poring over priyanka’s book
and i find myself rereading the same lines again and again
to be an effective ally to survivors of sexual
assault, you need to be prepared to listen more
than you speak.
i highlight the words in fluorescent blue
that make my chest seize
to push your own ideas of healing or justice
onto a survivor may be to traumatize them again.
remember that they have been through a storm
that has likely felt uncontrollable, outside of their
power to contain.
remember that the abuse may have left them feeling
as if the power of choice was stolen from them
in all aspects of life.
power is reclaimed every time they are reminded
that they have autonomy, that their loved ones
and acquaintances will not be making every
decision for them.
how can you play a role in returning the ability
to choose?
the rest of the painting
comes to me like a thud
when mom hums a boli
as she unpacks her suitcase
mein vi kunda naa kholeaa
ni aageaa kand ttappke
mein vi kunda naa kholeaa
ni aageaa kand ttappke
and i know the folk song
is lighthearted. i know that
it’s about a woman whose
husband goes to the movies
while she’s waiting for him
at home
but the words still chill
me to my core
i didn’t open the door for him
he just jumped the wall and entered.
with a single lyric
the parts of my art gala painting
that i didn’t even know were missing
appear, fully formed
and ready to meet canvas.
election day
There’s a centuries-old tradition of storytelling from my motherland of Punjab. From grandmother to mother to daughter, bolis have seldom been written down. Instead, the rhyming verses that are sung before weddings are memorized by heart, as if to say that we carry each other within our bodies. Some of the bolis are carefree and joyous—celebrations of beautiful marriages that are to come. Others are carefree but painful. Tales of strained relationships with mothers-in-law and men sung aloud as a release. As a way of saying that hurt exists within us but that we will still find celebration in each other’s arms. In our laughter. In our chorus of voices and clapping hands.
My black heels clack against the wooden gallery floor as I step backward into the half-moon of my family to admire my painting. In the meter-long tapestry, dozens of South Asian women gather around in a circle to sing bolis, some dressed in brightly colored salwar kameezes and saris, others in hoodies and jeans, others yet in mini-shorts and crop tops. Each of their heads are draped in bright red chunnis bordered by shimmery, crinkly strips of gold. All of them are brides. All of them are being celebrated. Despite today’s date—a day I’ve dreaded for weeks—the only thing that matters is their wedding day.
“So, they’re getting married?” Standing to my right, Jeevan removes his glasses and takes a closer look at the metallic gold strips that I hand-stitched onto the red scarves in the artwork.
“In a way,” I reply.
“Who are they marrying?” Maasi asks from the left.
“I could tell you, but I’d rather you told me what you think.”
Maasi rests her oversized purse between her legs and continues to survey the artwork. Crossing her arms over her metallic-blue cocktail dress, her eyes follow the Punjabi text that borders the entire painting, her head tilting to the left as she reads the words scribed vertically along the side. Bibi, standing just beside Maasi in her brightest yellow salwar kameez, mumbles the words to herself in Punjabi.
“Are those bolis?” Mom asks from behind me, resting her chin on my shoulder.
“Uh-huh. But I wrote the lyrics myself.”
“Oh, Mother,” Mom begins to translate the text at the bottom, “I met a world that tried to steal me from myself. My body, a glass pot in their hands . . .”
“Thrown away, smashed against the tiles when they were done . . .” Maasi continues.
“But I held my own hand and held yours. I made it to my wedding day . . .” Bibi Jee nods her head.
“And here I am, oh Mother,” I finish the sentence. “Here I am marrying myself.”
“Hai rabba, child.” Bibi shakes her head, her round cheeks filled with a smile. “When did you become a kavi?!”
“Been writing since I was a kid.” I shrug. “When you and Mom started reading poetry to me. Usually just kept the poems to myself. But when I interviewed the women at the shelter, I knew I had to paint something that . . . spoke. Wasn’t sure how until Mom started humming that tune.”
“What tune?” Mom asks.
“When we came home from Mumbai, you were unpacking your suitcase. You were humming mai vee kundhaa naa khulia ni ageya kandh tapke.”
“And that was it?”
“That was it.” I smile. “Inspiration hit.”
“That’s them, isn’t it?” Mom points to the women painted at the forefront of the warm gathering of women. Seated comfortably on cushions, elevated from the harshness of this earth, four familiar faces smile and laugh and whisper into each other’s ears.
“That’s them. Radhika, Priyanka, Saima, and Khushi.” I’ve dressed each of them in the saris they wore to their interviews. To their left, sitting cross-legged next to them, is the person I love most in the world. In the painting, she throws her head backward and laughs unashamedly, without the usual restraint of her worries.
“Do the butterflies mean something?” Mom asks, pointing to the spattering of violet monarchs that flutter above the women. They are arranged purposefully, moving upward as if they are trying to break free of the canvas.
“When I’m anxious, it feels like there are butterflies in my stomach. It’s like they’re trying to escape. Bu
tterflies also symbolize migration. Mom migrated to Canada, but the other women we interviewed fled from traumatic situations as well. They just didn’t get to go as far.”
“Damn.” Jeevan’s eyes widen as he rests his glasses on his long nose. “That’s deep.” Mom slowly wraps an arm across my chest and holds me close.
With a quick glance at me, Maasi taps Bibi on the shoulder. “Hey, why don’t we go take a look at the other art?”
Bibi nods and Jeevan trails behind them. The three of them meander toward a wiry, geometric sculpture in the crowded Daphne Odjig Gallery. Then they turn a corner and disappear.
“How’re you holding up?” I ask.
She takes a step closer to the tapestry and lingers on her painted reflection. “I’m . . . good. More reasons to be happy than sad, right?”
I check the time on my phone: nearly eight p.m. That means it’s almost eight thirty a.m. in Punjab. The election results should be out soon.
“How are the nerves?” Mom studies me with concern.
“The election nerves will be better once they just announce the damn thing. Whatever comes of this, I just wanna know, you know?”
“I know.”
“I think it’s the same with the performance nerves. I’ll be fine once it’s over with.” My hand instinctively reaches for my purse, where a poem rests, waiting to be heard aloud for the first time.
“You’ll do great.” She rubs my arm. “We’re celebrating you tonight. Nothing else matters.”
When Mom and I sit down for the part of the evening that I’ve been dreading for days, my professor slips into the seat beside me.
“Impressive work, Miss Car.”
“Kaur,” I correct her. “Like core.”
“Right. Glad to see you applied my advice to your project,” Rhonda whispers, her typically disheveled black hair curled into tight locks and her paint-splattered apron set aside for a glittering purple evening gown. Under the dimming lights, her dress gleams as she shifts her body toward mine. “And great choice of attire. Very cultural. Were you trying to connect your outfit to the painting?”
I smooth out the bottom of my burnt-orange kameez, heavily embroidered with black and blue flowers. My matching phulkari chunni hangs down my shoulder, unapologetic about the way it cascades around me, taking up space. “Not exactly. Just trying to be myself, even in a place like this.”
The audience lights hush low and empty seats slowly fill up. Maasi, Jeevan, and Bibi shuffle into our row, offering me pats on the shoulder and smiles of encouragement as they take their seats. When the lights are finally out and only the stage glows, the audience goes pin-drop silent.
The dean begins with a speech, but I hear nothing save for a buzzing in my ear, a nervous murmur in my chest that slowly reaches into my fingertips. There are far too many people here. Far too many eyes that will soon be on me.
There are two pieces of paper trembling between my sweaty fingers: one with a short introduction and the other with the poem I completed just before sunrise this morning.
“Breathe,” Mom whispers into my ear. The audience explodes into applause and Rhonda rises to take the stage.
She reaches for the mic on the podium and my heart taps a little quicker. Dress shining before the velvet black backdrop, there’s nothing onstage to distract us from the sight of her. Nothing that will distract from the sight of me.
“I’d like to thank you all for attending our spring art show. I’ve watched my freshman students this semester create truly awe-inspiring works of art and I could not be prouder of their growth—”
“Look!” a Punjabi dad seated behind me whispers loud enough for me to hear. “The results are in!”
“It has been my absolute pleasure to curate such a fine exhibit—”
“Jit gaya?” a woman behind me whispers to the man.
“He won! Oh my god, he won!” Suddenly, a man I’ve never met before taps Mom and me on the shoulder. “Vadhaiyaan! Congratulations! Ahluwalia won—oh, uh, sorry.” The cheer on his face goes rocky and somber when he recognizes Mom.
“And I’d like to welcome our first artist, Sahaara Kaur, to the stage!” The room roars with applause and my ears ring. My feet carry me forward, but my head is a staticky river of rushing water. Somehow, I float to the podium, blinking at the bright stage lights that cast the entire audience into a starless night. My family is seated in the third row, but I see no one.
I stare into the haneri, the darkness that transports my body across a sea where I only imagine the two people who need to hear these words. I seat my mother in the audience of my mind, taking in her never-ending abundance of love. I place myself beside her, refusing to see my face as anything but my face. Refusing to hate myself for my bones when my heart and thoughts have always been mine, just like Mom said.
Mine. I am mine.
“Hi . . .” My voice echoes through the room, reverberating in my ears. “My name is Sahaara Kaur. I’m a first-year visual art student at Daphne Odjig. I painted If I Tell You the Truth, which is a mixed-media mural that captures South Asian women singing traditional Punjabi folk songs called bolis as a statement about sexual abuse and liberation. I, um . . .” The mic screeches with feedback. “I had a speech prepared but I think I’d like to just recite my poem, which speaks to the artwork.”
Amid the hushed room, a few invisible bodies snap their fingers. I concentrate on the image of me and Mom, holding Mom close, holding me even closer. With a deep breath, I imagine myself growing younger, returning to the little girl who would look in the mirror and only see wonder in her blinking eyes and beating heart and smiling mouth. For her, I free the very last butterfly—the one that calls me a monster.
She smiles into her sweet dimples. My heart slows its pace.
I begin.
to be read aloud
our hearts are a boli
an echoing chorus of beings
too loud to be shaken by the dark
a song bottled in the unbreakable glass of a new world
where power does not mean violence
and violence does not force us to run from our skin
my mother’s bravery is a boli
passed down through generations of women
who have worn too much patience in their braided hair.
on their callus-covered hands. on their exhausted feet.
a battle cry that casts away our haunted nights
and frees us from the ghosts of trauma at daybreak
my body is a boli
a sweet psalm i am still learning how to chant
off-key and flawed, at times,
but sung loud in the face of power
that cannot force me to disappear
because even if i run out of words
even if i lose my train of thought
even if i tell you the truth only to lose my breath
i am surrounded by women
who will pick up where i left off.
Notes
covid-19
In the year 2020, our way of life shifted dramatically. Written prior to the global mobilization against COVID-19, some sections of If I Tell You The Truth were unable to account for the significant changes that we lived through in this year. Sahaara graduated from high school in June of 2020 and Kiran was arrested by Canadian Border Security agents in September of the same year. With countries across the world closing their borders, shutting down their commerce, and enforcing stay-at-home orders in unprecedented ways, Kiran’s lack of safety and security would have only increased in the year 2020. Although the public health care system in British Columbia has made great strides in recent years to prevent reporting of undocumented immigrants who come to hospitals for emergency medical care, this was not always the case, and there are still gaping holes in the system. Deeply frightened of accessing public services for fear of her undocumented status being exposed, Kiran would have avoided medical care unless completely necessary, feeling much safer, instead, getting help from Joti, a reg
istered nurse. At the time of writing this note, arrests of undocumented immigrants have continued in the United States, even during state and national lockdowns. The Canadian government has slowed deportations and new detentions during the COVID-19 crisis. We have seen prisoner hunger strikes take place in detention centers across North America, in protest of deplorable living situations amid a public health crisis. The structure of detention centers does not allow for social distancing in any healthy regard. Incarcerated people are often at higher risk of illness than the general population, due to enclosed living spaces, lack of medical care, and a lack of basic sanitation supplies.
grade eleven
This poem refers to the term Turtle Island. Many First Nations communities recognize the land known colonially as “North America” to, instead, be Turtle Island. In this poem, Sahaara honors her understanding of decolonization as she reflects on her classmates’ racist belief that Canada was built by and belongs to European settlers.
the last days of august were slipping through our fingers
In this poem, the news report describing the arrest of an international student was inspired by the real-life case of Jobandeep Sandhu. Mr. Sandhu was arrested by Canadian police in 2017 for working more hours than his student work visa permitted. His story sparked powerful conversations about the plight of international students who struggle to remain financially afloat while paying extremely inflated fees for their educations.
beneath a moonless sky
On the night of August 31, 2020, Kiran is arrested by Canadian Border Services agents and taken to a detention center at Vancouver International Airport. In 2020, British Columbia’s primary detention center for undocumented immigrants moved from Vancouver International Airport to Surrey, BC. The closing of the original detention center at the airport was sparked by immense community pressure. In 2014, Lucía Vega Jiménez, a Mexican migrant escaping domestic violence who was detained at the Vancouver Airport center, died by suicide. Her death triggered outrage from community activist organizations who demanded that CBSA explain why the agency did not independently report her death until the media covered it. Ms. Jiménez’s death has often been cited as the reason why the Vancouver detention center was shut down: no detention center is conducive to the health and wellbeing of detainees, but this center offered extremely little natural light, limited ventilation, and no outdoor spaces or health services.
