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. Butterflies 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.