“Ah, yes. Right. Right. Well, come take a seat in my office. Lovely name, by the way. Kiran. Is that Indian?” He glanced back as he guided me down the musty hallway.
“Um, Punjabi.”
“Ah, Punjabi. Lots of Punjabi clients that I work with. You don’t sound Punjabi, though.”
“Sorry?”
“Your accent. I hear the Punjabi, but it comes off a little British. How’d you learn English so well?” His strange comment caught me off guard and I stifled the urge to retort with something just as rude.
“I went to an English-language school in Chandigarh.”
“No kidding, eh? No Indian clothes, either, I see? Not a bad thing. It’s important to look the part when you’re trying to become a Canadian, if you know what I mean.” I silently took a seat in a worn leather chair. He sat down behind the desk, clasping his hands together. “So, how can I help you?”
Anxiety tightened around my parched throat. This was my first time talking to a stranger about my student visa. I’d been painfully apprehensive about divulging any bit of my story to a man I didn’t know, but Joti seemed so certain that he could help. I reminded myself of Sahaara’s innocent eyes, her sweet smile. I had to give this a try for her. “To make a long story short . . . I’m living in Canada on a student visa. I was going to university here, but I didn’t finish my program because I had a daughter while I was still in school. Costs kept piling up and I needed to take on more shifts at work, so I couldn’t finish school—”
“Odd timing to have a kid, isn’t it? Middle of school and all. But go on.”
I raised an eyebrow and continued. “No one from the university’s really followed up with me about my missed semesters and I’ve started building a life here and I’m wondering if there’s a way for me to stay—”
“Oh, there are definitely ways. That’s the good news. The bad news is some routes may take longer than others. . . .”
Exactly what I’d been afraid of. I held my breath, waiting for him to continue.
“So, you got yourself in a bit of trouble. Not the end of the world. Your child—is her father a Canadian citizen?”
“No.” The hairs on the back of my neck rose at his mention. “He’s not in the picture.”
“Got it. Got it. And you didn’t finish school. That’s not good. Raises flags for the government. Do you still have the student visa?”
I nodded. “Until August.”
“You mentioned work. Do you have a work permit?”
I hesitated before I spoke. “I did. I mean, it expired a while ago . . . it’s been two years, I think.”
“And have you been working since?”
“No,” I lied without missing a beat. My instincts told me that it would be unwise to admit I’d been working, even if he was here to help.
“Uh-huh.” He leaned back in his chair, toying with a yellow stress ball and surveying me intently. His face was slightly tinged red, except for two pale circles around his eyes. He looked as though he’d vacationed somewhere tropical and never removed his sunglasses. “Your daughter was born here. That automatically makes her a Canadian citizen. It also means you have a path to citizenship. This is what I’d call ‘the long route.’ Once your daughter turns eighteen, she becomes eligible to sponsor you as a permanent resident. Of course, she’ll need the right amount of funds in her bank account to show the government she can support you and all the paperwork and so on, but I’d say it’s a fairly reliable route to take.”
“Eighteen years old?”
“At least eighteen. Mind you, these things always drag on longer than folks like yourself might initially anticipate.”
“That’s . . .” A million different scenarios crossed my mind. Most of them involved something going terribly wrong between now and Sahaara’s eighteenth birthday.
“. . . not exactly ideal, is it?” he finished my sentence.
“I can’t leave until she’s eighteen and then come back. I—I really need to stay here with my daughter. You don’t understand. I can’t leave Canada.” My shoulders prickled with heat at the thought of returning to Chandigarh.
He cocked his head and nodded. “How old is your daughter?”
“Almost three.”
“Staying here is your immediate goal, then. Not just in fifteen years when the paperwork decides to catch up. I can definitely streamline that process for you.” He eased himself up from his chair and bounced the smiling yellow stress ball between his hands as he paced the room.
“That would be amazing,” I said, relief flooding my voice. “Things are way more complicated than I ever imagined and I want this sorted out once and for all.”
He leaned against the front of his desk, just to the right of me. Looking directly forward from my seat, all I could see were his brown pant pockets. His belt. “I can get your paperwork going, but you should be aware that the fees are going to get pricey.”
The flood of relief met a wall. Of course it was too good to be true. “What would I be looking at? My friend had mentioned that you have low fees. . . .”
“Well, for a case like this, you could be getting into the thousands. But you seem like a lovely girl. Really lovely. So, I’m going to try to lower all those overhead fees for you. I’ll do my best.” He paused. “But since I’m doing you a favor, I’m going to, you know, need a favor in return.”
“I’m—I’m sorry?” I stammered, my pulse suddenly and strangely picking up.
He placed a hand on my knee, winter-cold even through my jeans. He slowly slid it up my leg. “It would be absolutely terrible if, perhaps, someone reported your legal status. I can make all that worry go away, beautiful.”
For a moment, my body was frozen in place.
“What do you say, Miss Kaur?” He slid his hand farther up my leg, grazing my inner thigh. A shot of adrenaline punched me hard in the chest. The rage and fear kicked in simultaneously. Something between a scream and a cry escaped my mouth and I stood, the heavy leather chair falling to the floor behind me.
“Hey, easy—easy, sweetheart—”
“You—you fucking—” I breathed, backing away and reaching behind me for the door handle. As soon as I found it, I bolted from the office, down the hallway, past the front counter, heart thumping and body moving with all the speed my trembling legs would allow.
I tore open the plaza doors with a force that could’ve cracked the glass. I ran across the parking lot, across the street, along the sidewalk. I kept running until I reached the bus stop. My heart rattled against my bones and something rose up in my throat. Without thinking, I vomited onto the snow, the ice splattered in my fear. A woman standing at the bus stop pulled her daughter closer and pretended not to see me.
Why did I go there? Why did I sit there for so long? Why didn’t I run when he got so close? Why can’t I breathe?!
My breath became shallow, air filling and half emptying my lungs in quick increments. The world around me twisted, trembled. I couldn’t feel my body. The only thing loud and clear was the ringing in my ears.
Sit down, I told myself. I fumbled with my cell phone and tried to dial Joti’s number. My fingertips would’ve been numb even without the snarling wind. After a few rings, the call went to voice mail. I tried again and again to reach the only person who could help me.
“Hello? Kiran?”
I couldn’t get any words past my shallow breathing.
“Kiran, are you there? Is everything okay?”
“Hey,” I managed.
“What’s going on?”
“Um—” I begged my breath to steady. I needed to tell her what had happened.
“Hello? Is everything okay?”
“Joti, I—I went to the immigration consultation.”
“How’d it go? What’d he say?”
“He, um, he . . .” Standing there in the frost, I could feel the truth transfiguring on my tongue, writhing away from my will to speak it aloud. It became a volatile creature stretching duct tape over my lips. “He said . . . after S
ahaara turns eighteen, she can sponsor me to live in Canada.”
“Shit. Shit! That’s gonna take a while but it’s better than nothing. Let’s get him to start the paperwork. . . .” The rest of her words were lost beneath the ringing in my ears. Why couldn’t I tell her? Why was it so much harder to speak the truth than to bury it away?
how i survived
i sealed up the nightmares
barred my mind from my tongue
slid away from the truth
grew fangs across my skin
shielded myself with fear
trusted no one but myself
held the world at arm’s length
vowed to protect my daughter
by any means necessary.
august 4, 2005
i crossed an invisible line in that moment
when the clock struck midnight
and my visa expired.
everything that happened now
would be on the other side of safety.
the tragedy of september
ikuko’s grocery was closing for good
and i cleared out the last aisle
gutting my heart with each
sealed cardboard box
when day turned to dusk
mrs. ikuko handed me my final wad of cash
and said nothing but good luck.
that night, the woman who had become my mother
looked me in the eye and said two words
that had always sounded like a threat:
trust me.
aunty jee said she knew someone
who would hire me at her restaurant
without worrying about my papers
who would turn the question mark
under my chest into a period.
who would bring a definitive end
to one of our worries.
we’ll have to tell gurinder the truth
about your immigration status
she’s annoying
a bit of a know-it-all, really
but she can be trusted with this
aunty jee said
aunty jee promised
with no other options
i gave in
the unpaid bills weighed heavier
than my caution.
sahaara
august 2012–june 2019
being a kid sucked.
the grown-ups always thought
i was too little to notice
when they weren’t
being honest.
grade five
august was ending and i was so very sad
grade five was coming and i hoped it wouldn’t be bad
the summer was filled with swimming pool waves
rihanna and bieber were my musical faves
a new kid moved in right behind our house
the only thing that rhymed with house was mouse
his name was jeevan randhawa and he was okay
he had a lotta comic books but i had to say
i missed my friend manisha
why’d she have to move away?
this diary was for me, myself, and i
maasi could look, but no one else had better try.
grade six
i was woven by mom
who quietly said i love you
by asking if i’d eaten
my heart was dyed by joti maasi
who loved with pride and without a care
the only adult who knew all my secrets
i was decorated in grandma’s stories
and every poem she had memorized
from bulleh shah to kartar singh sarabha
all passed down from revolutionary ancestors
but there were also tears in my cloth
gaping and frayed and worn
of the people who birthed my mother
even though she sometimes said i had
this woman’s eyes and that man’s puffy nose
my father was an empty space
a man named prabh
whose last name i didn’t know
a man who doesn’t matter
mom said
because family are the ones
who are there when you need them
grade seven
you and maasi usually went quiet
when i stepped into the room
but this time you asked me to sit down and listen
undocumented.
that’s why you
carried sadness on your shoulders like a cinder block
couldn’t find a job where you wouldn’t be treated like trash
saved every penny you earned for our future
never went to the doctor, even when you ached and shivered
always said you were too busy to get your driver’s license
worried so much about me switching schools
couldn’t cross the border with maasi
lived in canada without your blood relatives
i’m sorry. you were too young. i didn’t want you to worry.
that’s what you said
when i asked why you never told me
i didn’t know what to say
i didn’t know how to help
i didn’t know what to feel
but butterflies fluttered in my stomach for days
and i just wanted them to escape.
then came my anger
i told myself that a good daughter
wouldn’t blame her mother
for a situation as overwhelming as this
but instead, frustration lapped and lashed
at everything i wanted to know
about why she was undocumented
the questions were red around the edges
before i could cool down:
why did you have to overstay your visa?
why didn’t you just go back to punjab
and live away from your family?
why’d you have to make things
harder for yourself?
mom answered none of them
and barely grimaced
before she turned away
as if she couldn’t face me
i didn’t ask the last ones
because i knew they were more
heartbreak and hurt
than sincere curiosity
why drag me into this mess?
why even have me?
my heart crashed into the rocks
every time i asked her a question
that she didn’t want to answer.
what did my dad do?
what was he like?
why didn’t he want me?
why didn’t he want us?
mom said
he was a bad person
and it doesn’t matter
i nodded and said nothing else
because she was sad and silent.
but the questions were eating away at me
she yelled at me
for not finishing my homework
and i just wanted to know
if he would have held me, instead.
google search
sobbing in my room after our fight
mom walked in and sat on the edge of my bed
quiet the way she usually was when distant
prabh ahluwalia
she said
that’s his name
just like she did when she was angry
or wistful or simply lost in her head
she refused to look at my face
before she left the room
and i wasn’t sure whether
to smile or well up in tears
as i bolted to a laptop too slow and old
to understand the urgency in my fingertips
i googled his name
and combed through hundreds of facebook profiles
until sleep tugged at my eyelids and i gave up:
&nb
sp; all those search results
and none looked like me.
a confession
sometimes
i stared into the mirror
after everyone went to bed
studying my features
as if they were pieces
of a jigsaw puzzle
that had to be solved
with only half the box
my eyes belonged to mom.
and maybe her mom as well.
and, apparently, my nose
belonged to a man
that mom called her father.
but the golden-brown earth of my skin
and my stiletto-edge jaw
looked so very distant from
the woman who birthed me
in the stillest hours of the night
i found myself trembling
reaching for my chin
outlining it with my fingers
tracing my skin with both hands
searching for all the missing
parts of my story.
another confession
sometimes
i felt guilty for thinking
i needed more than her.
jeevan
he and i sighed at the exact same time
heavy hearts worry in our chests
lives that felt like a freakin’ mess
despite all the holes
in both of our bodies
we were two pieces of different puzzles
that happened to fit together perfectly