the morning after

My thumb traced over the words printed on yellow-worn paper as a fresh tear betrayed me. Rumi’s Sufi poem insisted that what I sought was also seeking me.
I wanted, so painfully, to believe him.
A fat droplet slipped through my fingers and landed directly on the ghazal. Over the months since the violation, it had almost become a ritual to cry into this book. Dried tears jutted from its pages like ribs peeking out from skin. Each tear was an emblem of a lonely night when I wanted to break free of my body. They were evidence of hurt but also proof that I could solidify and survive.
I was seeking safety. If safety was seeking me in return, I would kiss its hands in gratitude. In my eighteen years of existence, I’d never felt more alone, more vulnerable, more heart-shatteringly afraid.
Last night, my aunt and uncle picked me up from the airport and drove me to their home in Surrey. Sitting in what would be my bedroom while I was living in Canada, I made the most terrifying phone call of my life.
I told Mom that I was pregnant. My mom. As in, Hardeep Kaur. As in, the woman who once told me that I couldn’t use tampons because they’d take away my virginity.
There was no going back, no more delaying the inevitable series of catastrophes that would arise from her only child being pregnant out of wedlock. What was going through her mind? What was she doing? Where was she sending her earth-rumbling rage now that I was no longer in arm’s reach?
I dabbed at the fallen tear with my gray cotton sleeve and reluctantly closed the book’s saffron cover. Its spine couldn’t support me forever. Chachi had already knocked on the bedroom door twice, asking if I was ready for breakfast.
It was nearly noon.
With a sigh, I dropped The Musings of Rumi among the perfectly folded chunnis and jeans and hoodies sitting in my oversized suitcase. I would try to unpack later today. Perhaps it would help me settle into these new surroundings.
Right now, I had to put on a show for Chachi. It wouldn’t be long before she’d return to the door, wondering if everything was okay. I’d be forced to sit with her in the kitchen and make small talk without:
a) Bursting into tears because of the cells proliferating in my abdomen and my mom’s burning anger and, well, my entire catastrophic life
b) Projectile vomiting, courtesy of violent morning sickness
Two very difficult tasks, but if Mom had prepared me for anything, it was holding it together before an audience. Composure, she would say. You keep your composure no matter what. Digging through neatly packed stacks of clothing, I carefully drew out a thick black shawl that could hide my blooming stomach.
At nearly three months pregnant, I was starting to show. I mean, I didn’t think I was showing until Mom made those putrid comments outside the security gate at Delhi Airport. In my mother’s typical fashion, she went on a heated tirade about how I didn’t look like a girl worthy of marriage into the Ahluwalia family. Kiran, you need less butter on your praunté and more sit-ups in your workout routine, she had said. At the acid of her words, I squeezed my nails into my sweaty palm, willing my tongue not to snap back. I was about to leave her and Dad’s side for the first time in my life. Four years of university in Canada. Four years of oxygen. Four years to figure myself out without the fire of my parents’ scrutiny hot against my skin.
I sealed up the suitcase and stood, eyeing myself in an oval mirror that hung between a worn night table and a smiling portrait of my aunt, uncle, and their two young children. At the moment, my two little cousins were off at summer camp and Chacha, Dad’s younger brother, was dealing with insurance clients at his office. That meant Chachi was the only one home to see my tear-ravaged face. My insides crumpled at the thought of crying in front of her. It would almost be as bad as crying in front of my parents.
Breathe, I told myself, glaring at my quivering bottom lip in the mirror. The more you cry, the worse your face is going to get. My dark moon eyes were already bloodshot and swollen and utterly embarrassing.
Two sturdy knocks suddenly landed on the door. “Kiran, puth, are you coming downstairs?” Chachi called. “Breakfast is ready. Well, it’s lunch now, I suppose. . . .”
Breath wavering, I dipped my tongue in false cheer. “Hanji! I’ll be down in a minute!”
With one last glance in the mirror, I reminded myself of all the hell I’d already faced. An awkward conversation was nothing.