Erotic Stories for Punjabi Widows: A hilarious and heartwarming novel

Erotic Stories for Punjabi Widows: A hilarious and heartwarming novel Balli Kaur Jaswal ‘Big-hearted, earthy and funny… A rattlingly good story’ Deborah Moggach, The Best Exotic Marigold HotelWhen Nikki takes a creative writing job at her local temple, with visions of emancipating the women of the community she left behind as a self-important teenager, she’s shocked to discover a group of barely literate women who have no interest in her ideals.Yet to her surprise, the white dupatta of the widow hides more than just their modesty – these are women who have spent their lives in the shadows of fathers, brothers and husbands; being dutiful, raising children and going to temple, but whose inner lives are as rich and fruitful as their untold stories. But as they begin to open up to each other about womanhood, sexuality, and the dark secrets within the community, Nikki realises that the illicit nature of the class may place them all in danger.East meets west and tradition clashes with modernity in a thought-provoking cross-cultural novel that might make you look again at the women in your life… Copyright (#u60c3e643-d6bb-598a-a757-a8337535b59c) Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017 Copyright © Balli Kaur Jaswal 2017 Cover design: Holly MacDonald © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017 Cover illustrations © Shutterstock.com (http://www.Shutterstock.com) Balli Kaur Jaswal asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Source ISBN: 9780008209919 Ebook Edition © March 2017 ISBN: 9780008209902 Version 2018-09-21 Dedication (#u60c3e643-d6bb-598a-a757-a8337535b59c) For Paul Table of Contents Cover (#u1ae56477-34bf-5e33-9c4a-d3aeea9dfdc8) Title Page (#u1263916f-48fd-565b-9e91-2142f381fcd8) Copyright (#u090cf316-10d0-5b2e-a61a-0a811eaef218) Dedication (#ubaf61919-7cb0-5197-8431-3ec6dc86f3c0) Chapter One (#ue5321ecd-f1eb-530e-8e88-d80646e1e1a5) Chapter Two (#uaba431a5-404b-5142-9a22-5901e5a1bd2f) Chapter Three (#u3577b2f9-77b9-5543-a000-b5f83505e66c) Chapter Four (#udc80a035-ff79-573c-b10e-10081fee818e) Chapter Five (#u8500d1c2-77a1-52e6-a736-9647c9d8fbe0) Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo) Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo) Gransnet Competition Winner (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) Also by Balli Kaur Jaswal (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter One (#u60c3e643-d6bb-598a-a757-a8337535b59c) Why did Mindi want an arranged marriage? Nikki stared at the profile her sister had attached to the email. There was a list of relevant biographical details: name, age, height, religion, diet (vegetarian except for the occasional fish and chips). General preferences for a husband: intelligent, compassionate and kind, with strong values and a nice smile. Both clean-shaven and turban-wearing men were acceptable, provided beards and moustaches were neatly maintained. The ideal husband had a stable job and up to three hobbies which extended him mentally and physically. In some ways, she had written, he should be just like me: modest (a prude in Nikki’s opinion), practical with finances (downright stingy) and family-oriented (wants babies immediately). Worst of all, the title of her blurb made her sound like a supermarket seasoning spice: Mindi Grewal, East-West Mix. The narrow corridor connecting Nikki’s bedroom to the kitchenette was not suitable for pacing, with uneven floorboards that creaked in various pitches under the slightest contact. She travelled up and down the corridor nonetheless, gathering her thoughts in tiny steps. What was her sister thinking? Sure, Mindi had always been more traditional – once, Nikki had caught her watching an internet video on how to roll perfectly round rotis – but advertising for a groom? It was so extreme. Nikki called Mindi repeatedly and was connected to voicemail each time. By the time she got through, the sunlight had leaked away into the dense evening fog and it was nearly time to leave for her shift at O’Reilly’s. ‘I know what you’re going to say,’ Mindi said. ‘Can you see it, Mindi?’ Nikki asked. ‘Can you actually picture this happening?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You’re insane, then.’ ‘I’ve made this decision on my own. I want to find a husband the traditional way.’ ‘Why?’ ‘It’s what I want.’ ‘Why?’ ‘It just is.’ ‘You need to come up with a better reason than that if you want me to edit your profile.’ ‘That’s unfair. I supported you when you moved out.’ ‘You called me a selfish cow.’ ‘But then when you left, and when Mum wanted to go to your place and demand that you come home, who convinced her to let it go? If not for me, she would never have accepted your decision. She’s over it now.’ ‘Almost over it,’ Nikki reminded her. Time had worn on Mum’s initial sense of outrage and stretched it threadbare. These days Mum was still deeply dissatisfied with Nikki’s lifestyle, but she had given up lecturing Nikki about the perils of living on her own. ‘My own mother would not have dreamt of allowing this,’ Mum always said to prove her progressiveness, a balance of boastfulness and lament in her tone. East-West Mix. ‘I’m embracing our culture,’ Mindi said. ‘I see my English friends meeting men online and in nightclubs and they don’t seem to be finding anyone suitable. Why not try an arranged marriage? It worked for our parents.’ ‘Those were different times,’ Nikki argued. ‘You’ve got more opportunities than Mum had at the same age.’ ‘I’m educated, I’ve done my nursing degree, I’ve got a job – this is the next step.’ ‘It shouldn’t be a step. Acquiring a husband, that’s what you’re doing.’ ‘It’s not going to be like that. I just want a bit of help to find him, but it’s not like we’re going to meet for the first time on our wedding day. Couples are allowed more time to get to know each other these days.’ Nikki balked at the word ‘allowed’. Why did Mindi need permission from anyone to take liberties with dating? ‘Don’t just settle. Do some travelling. See the world.’ ‘I’ve seen enough,’ Mindi sniffed – a girls’ trip to Tenerife last summer during which she had discovered her allergy to shellfish. ‘Besides, Kirti is looking for a suitable boy as well. It’s time for both of us to settle down.’ ‘Kirti couldn’t spot a suitable boy if he came flying through her window,’ Nikki said. ‘I’d hardly consider her a serious competitor.’ There was no love lost between Nikki and her sister’s best friend, a make-up artist, or Facial Enhancing Practitioner, according to her name card. At Mindi’s twenty-fifth birthday party last year, Kirti had scrutinized Nikki’s outfit and concluded, ‘Being pretty is about making an effort though, innit?’ ‘Mindi, maybe you’re bored.’ ‘Is boredom not a valid reason to try to find a partner? You moved out because you wanted independence. I’m looking to marry someone because I want to be a part of something. I want a family. You don’t know it now, because you’re still young. I get home after a long day at work and it’s just Mum and me. I want to come home to somebody. I want to talk about my day and eat dinner and plan a life together.’ Nikki clicked open the email attachments. There were two close-ups of Mindi, her smile like a greeting, thick straight hair spilling past her shoulders. Another photo featured the whole family: Mum, Dad, Mindi and Nikki on their last holiday together. It wasn’t their best shot; they were all squinting and tiny against a wide landscape. Dad had died later that year, a heart attack snatching his breath at night like a thief. A pang of guilt seized Nikki’s stomach. She closed the window. ‘Don’t use any family photos,’ Nikki said. ‘I don’t want my image in any matchmaker’s files.’ ‘So you’ll help me?’ ‘It’s against my principles.’ Nikki typed: ‘arguments against arranged marriage’ into a search engine and clicked on the first result. ‘You’ll help me, though?’ ‘The arranged marriage is a flawed system which undermines a woman’s right to choose her destiny,’ Nikki read aloud. ‘Just make the profile sound better. I’m not good with that sort of thing,’ Mindi said. ‘Did you hear what I said?’ ‘Some radical rubbish. I stopped listening after “undermines”.’ Nikki clicked back to the profile and spotted a grammatical error: I’m looking for my soulmate. Whose it going to be? She sighed. Clearly, Mindi’s mind was made up – it was a matter of whether Nikki wanted to be involved or not. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘But only because you’re at risk of attracting idiots with this profile. Why have you described yourself as “fun-loving”? Who doesn’t love fun?’ ‘And then could you post it on the marriage board for me?’ ‘What marriage board?’ ‘At the big temple in Southall. I’ll text you the details.’ ‘Southall? You’re joking.’ ‘It’s much closer to where you live. I’ve got double shifts at the hospital all week.’ ‘I thought they had matrimonial websites for this sort of thing,’ Nikki said. ‘I considered SikhMate.com and PunjabPyaar.com. There are too many men from India looking for an easy visa. If a man sees my profile on the temple board, at least I know he’s in London. Southall’s got the largest gurdwara in Europe. Better chances than posting on the noticeboard in Enfield,’ Mindi explained. ‘I’m very busy, you know.’ ‘Oh please, Nikki. You’ve got plenty more time than the rest of us.’ Nikki dismissed the hint of judgement. Mum and Mindi didn’t consider her bartending work at O’Reilly’s a full-time job. It was not worth explaining that she was still searching for her calling – a job where she could make a difference, stimulate her mind, be challenged, valued and rewarded. Such positions were disappointingly scarce and the recession had made things worse. Nikki had even been rejected from volunteer positions with three different women’s non-profits, all apologetically explaining how overwhelmed they were with a record number of applications. What else was out there for a twenty-two-year-old with half a law degree? In the current economic climate (and possibly all other economic climates): nothing. ‘I’ll pay you for your time,’ Mindi said. ‘I’m not taking money from you,’ Nikki said reflexively. ‘Hang on. Mum wants to say something.’ There were muffled instructions in the background. ‘She says “remember to lock your windows”. There was something on the news last night about break-ins.’ ‘Tell Mum that I’ve got nothing valuable to steal,’ Nikki said. ‘She’ll say you have your decency to protect.’ ‘Too late. Already taken. Andrew Forrest’s party after the year eleven prom.’ Mindi said nothing in response but her disapproval crackled like static over the line. Getting ready for work afterwards, Nikki considered Mindi’s offer to pay her. A charitable gesture, but Nikki’s burdens were not financial. Her flat was above the pub and the rental rate was subsidized by her availability to work extra shifts at the last minute. But bartending was meant to be temporary – she was supposed to be doingsomething with her life by now. Each day brought a new reminder that she was sitting still while her peers moved forward. On a train platform last week, she had spotted a former classmate. How busy and purposeful she looked as she marched toward the station exit, briefcase in one hand and coffee cup in the other. Nikki had begun to dread the daytime, the hours when she was most aware of London outside, ticking and clicking into place. The year before Nikki took her GCSEs, she had accompanied her parents on a trip to India where they made a point of visiting temples and consulting pundits to bestow upon Nikki the necessary guidance to excel. One pundit had asked her to visualize herself in the career she wanted while he chanted prayers to make her visions a reality. Her mind had gone blank, and this canvas of nothingness was the image sent up to the gods. As with all trips to the motherland, she had been given strict guidelines about what not to say in front of Dad’s older brother who hosted them: no swearing; no mention of male friends; no talking back; speak Punjabi to show gratitude for all those summer lessons here that we hoped would nurture your cultural roots. Over dinner, when her uncle asked about the pundit visits, Nikki bit her tongue to keep from replying, ‘Fraudulent bastards. I’d be better off asking my mates Mitch and Bazza to read my palm.’ Dad spoke up for her. ‘Nikki will probably get into law.’ Her future was sealed then. Dad dismissed her uncertainties with reminders that she would enter a secure and respectable profession. These were only temporary assurances. The fluttering anxiety of sitting in the wrong lecture on her first day of university only multiplied throughout the year. After nearly failing a class in her second year, Nikki was summoned by a tutor who remarked, ‘Perhaps this isn’t for you.’ He was referring to his subject, but she saw how the comment applied to everything: the tedium of lectures and tutorials, the exams and group projects and deadlines. They just weren’t for her. She withdrew from university that afternoon. Unable to tell her parents that she had dropped out, Nikki still left home each morning with her Camden Market vintage leather satchel. She walked through London, which provided the perfect backdrop to her misery with its soot-filled skies and ancient towers. Quitting university provided some relief but Nikki became plagued with anxieties about what she should be doing instead. After a week of aimless wandering, Nikki began filling her afternoons by attending protests with her best friend Olive, who volunteered for an organization called UK Fem Fighters. There was much to be indignant about. Topless models were still appearing on Page Three of the Sun. Government funding to women’s crisis centres was being halved as part of new austerity measures. Female journalists were in danger of being harassed and assaulted while reporting in war zones overseas. Whales were being senselessly slaughtered in Japan (this was not a women’s issue but Nikki felt sorry for the whales nonetheless and accosted strangers to sign her Greenpeace petition). It was after Dad’s friend tried to offer Nikki an internship that she had to admit that she had withdrawn from university. Yelling had never been Dad’s style. Distance was his method of expressing disappointment. In the long argument that followed her confession, he and Nikki were rooted to separate rooms, territories that they had unwittingly staked out, while Mum and Mindi orbited in between. The closest they came to a shouting match was after Dad made a list of Nikki’s suitable attributes for a law career. ‘All of that potential, all of those opportunities, and you’re wasting it on what? You were nearly halfway through. What’s your plan now?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘You don’t know?’ ‘I’m just not that passionate about law.’ ‘Not that passionate?’ ‘You’re not even trying to understand. You’re just repeating everything I say.’ ‘REPEATING EVERYTHING YOU SAY?’ ‘Dad,’ Mindi said. ‘Calm down. Please.’ ‘I will not—’ ‘Mohan, your heart,’ Mum warned. ‘What’s wrong with his heart?’ Nikki asked. She looked at Dad with concern but he wouldn’t meet her eyes. ‘Dad’s been having some irregularities. Nothing serious, his EKGs are fine but the blood pressure reading was 140 over 90, which is a little alarming. Then again, there’s a family history of DVT so there are concerns …’ Mindi prattled on. One year into her nursing career and the novelty of using medical jargon at home still hadn’t worn off. ‘What does it mean?’ Nikki asked impatiently. ‘Nothing conclusive. He needs to go in for more tests next week,’ Mindi said. ‘Dad!’ Nikki rushed towards him but he held up his hand, stopping her mid-step. ‘You are ruining everything,’ he said. They were the last words Dad spoke to her. Days later, he and Mum had booked a trip to India even though they had visited only months before. Dad wanted to be with his family, Mum explained. Gone were the days when Nikki’s parents threatened to send her back to India when she misbehaved; now they exiled themselves. ‘By the time we return, maybe you will have come to your senses,’ Mum said. The comment stung but Nikki was determined not to pick another fight. Her own bags were being discreetly packed. A pub near Olive’s flat in Shepherd’s Bush was looking for a bartender. By the time her parents returned, Nikki would be gone. Then Dad died in India. The heart condition had been worse than anything the doctors had detected. In traditional Indian morality tales, wayward children were the primary cause of heart conditions, cancerous lumps, hair loss and other ailments in their aggrieved parents. While Nikki wasn’t na?ve enough to be convinced that she had given Dad a heart attack, she believed he might have been saved by the follow-up visit in London, which he had postponed to take this hurried trip to India. The guilt gnawed at her insides and made it impossible for Nikki to grieve. At the funeral, she willed for tears to arrive and provide some release but they never did. Two years on, Nikki still wondered if she had made the right decision. Sometimes she secretly considered returning to her degree even though she couldn’t bear the thought of poring through more case studies or sitting through another droning series of lectures. Perhaps passion and excitement were meant to be secondary to a stable adult life. After all, if arranged marriages could work out, maybe Nikki could muster enthusiasm for something she didn’t love immediately, and then wait for that love to arrive. In the morning, Nikki emerged from her building to receive a punishing spray of rain across her face. She pulled the faux-fur-lined hood of her jacket over her head and made the grim fifteen-minute march to the train station. Her beloved satchel thumped against her hip. While she was buying a pack of cigarettes at the newsagents, her phone buzzed in her pocket; a message from Olive. Job at a children’s bookshop. Perfect for you! Saw in yesterday’s paper. Nikki was touched. Olive had been scanning the job ads ever since Nikki confided that she wasn’t sure if O’Reilly’s would stay in business much longer. The pub already seemed to be on its last legs, its old d?cor too dingy to be considered hip and its menu no competitor for the trendy caf? that had opened up next door. Sam O’Reilly spent more time than ever in his small back office, surrounded by reams of receipts and invoices. Nikki replied. I saw it too. They want min five yrs sales experience. Need a job to get experience, need experience to get a job – madness! Olive didn’t reply. A trainee secondary teacher, her weekday communication was sporadic. Nikki had considered studying to be a teacher but each time she heard Olive talk about her rowdy students, she was thankful that she only had to manage the occasional swaying drunkard at O’Reilly’s. Nikki typed another message. Will see you at the pub tonight? You wouldn’t believe where I’m off to – Southall!! She stubbed out her cigarette and joined the rush hour crowd to board the train. During the journey, Nikki watched as London fell away, brick buildings replaced by stretches of scrapyards and industrial lots as the train rushed westwards. One of the final stations on the line, Southall’s welcome sign was printed in both English and Punjabi. She was drawn to the Punjabi one first, surprised by the familiarity of those curls and twists. Those summer lessons in India had included learning to read and write Gurmukhi script, a useful party trick later in life when she wrote her English friends’ names in Punjabi on bar napkins in exchange for free drinks. Through the windows of the connecting bus to the temple, the sight of more bilingual signs on shop fronts gave Nikki a slight headache and the sensation of being split in two parts. British, Indian. There had been family day trips here in her early childhood – a wedding at the temple, or a shopping trip dedicated to finding fresh curry spices. Nikki recalled the confused conversations of these trips as Mum and Dad seemed to both love and loathe being amongst their country folk: wouldn’t it be nice to have Punjabi neighbours? But what was the point of moving to England then? As North London had taken the shape of home to her parents, there were fewer reasons to visit Southall, which faded to their pasts along with India itself. Now a bhangra bass beat throbbed from the car in the next lane. In a textile merchant’s window, a row of glittering sari-clad mannequins smiled demurely at passers-by. Vegetable markets spilled out onto the pavement and hot steam rose from a samosa vendor’s cart on the street corner. Nothing had changed. At one stop, a group of secondary school girls boarded. They giggled and spoke over each other and when the bus lurched suddenly, they flew forwards with a collective shriek. ‘Fuckin’ hell!’ one girl yelped. The other girls laughed but their noise faded quickly when they noticed the glares of two turbaned men sitting across from Nikki. The girls nudged each other to be quiet. ‘Have some respect,’ somebody hissed. Nikki turned to see an elderly woman giving the girls a withering look as they ducked past. Most passengers alighted the bus with Nikki at the gurdwara. Its golden dome glinted against the stone-grey clouds and brilliant sapphire and orange curlicues filled the stained-glass windows on the second floor. The Victorian terraces that surrounded the temple looked like toys in comparison to this majestic white building. Nikki itched for a cigarette, but there were too many eyes here. She felt them on her back as she overtook a pack of white-haired women who slowly made their way from the bus stop to the temple’s arched entrance. The ceilings in this vast building had seemed infinite when she was a child and they were still dizzyingly high. A faint echo of chanting floated from the prayer hall. Nikki took the scarf out of her bag and draped it over her head. This temple’s foyer had been renovated since her last visit years ago and the location of the noticeboards was not immediately obvious. She wandered around for a while but avoided asking for directions. She had once entered a church in Islington looking for directions and made the mistake of telling the minister that she had lost her way. The ensuing conversation about locating her inner spirituality took forty-five minutes and did nothing to point her towards the Victoria line. Finally, Nikki spotted the noticeboards near the entrance to the langar hall. There were two large boards taking up most of the wall: MARRIAGE and COMMUNITY SERVICE. Whilst the community service board was woefully scant, the marriage board overflowed with flyers. HEy thEre, HoW U DoIN’? JUST KiDDInG! I’m A PrEtTy LAid BAcK GuY bUT I CAn AsSuRE U, I AiN’t The PlAya tYpE. My GOAL IN LIFE is tO EnJoY iT, TaKE OnE DaY At A TiME and DoNT sweAT tHe SMALL StUfF. MoST ImpOrTantLY I WanT 2 FiND My PRINCESS aNd TrEAt hEr THE wAy sHe DeSeRves. Sikh boy from Jat family of good lineage seeking Sikh girl from same background. Must have compatible likes and dislikes and same family values. We are open-minded about many things but will not accept non-vegetarians or short hair. Bride for Sikh professional. Amardeep has finished his BA in Accounting and is looking for the girl of his dreams to complete him. First in his graduating class to secure a top position at a top London accounting firm. Bride must be a professional as well, with BA preferably in one of the following areas: Finance, Marketing, Business Administration or Management. We are in the textile business. My brother doesn’t know I’m posting this here but I thought I’d give it a go! He’s single, age 27, and available. He is clever (two Masters degress!!!), funny, kind and respectful. And best of all, he’s HOTTT. I know it’s a little weird to say this because I’m his sister but its true, promise! If you want to see his pic, send me an email. Name: Sandeep Singh Age: 24 Blood Type: O Positive Education: BA Mechanical Engineering Occupation: Mechanical Engineer Hobbies: Some sports and games Physical Appearance: Wheatish complexion, 5'8", easy-going smile. Also see picture. ‘No way,’ Nikki muttered, turning away from the board. Mindi might be going the traditional route but she was too good for any of these men. Nikki’s modified version of the profile advertised a compassionate and confident single woman who struck the right balance between tradition and modernity. I am just as comfortable in a sari as in a pair of jeans. My ideal mate enjoys fine dining and can laugh out loud at himself.I’m a nurse by profession because I find true pleasure in caring for others, but I also want a husband who is self-reliant because I value my independence. I like the occasional Bollywood film but usually watch romantic comedies and action films. I’ve done a bit of travelling but I’ve put off seeing more of the world until I find The One to accompany me on the most important journey: life. Nikki cringed at the last line but it was the sort of thing her sister would consider profound. She surveyed the board again. If she walked away without posting this profile, Mindi would find out and pester her until she returned to finish the job. If she posted it, Mindi might end up settling for one of these men. Longing for a cigarette, Nikki chewed on her thumbnail. Finally she tacked the profile on the marriage board but on its farthest corner where it was virtually invisible, overlapping with the scant flyers on the Community Notices board. Technically, she had carried out her task as instructed. There was the sound of throat clearing. Nikki turned to find herself facing a wispy man. He shrugged awkwardly as if responding to a question. Nikki gave a polite nod and looked away but then he spoke. ‘So you’re looking for …’ He waved bashfully in the direction of the board. ‘A husband?’ ‘No,’ Nikki said quickly. ‘Not me.’ She didn’t want to draw his attention to Mindi’s flyer. His arms were like toothpicks. ‘Oh,’ he said. He looked embarrassed. ‘I was just looking at the Community board,’ Nikki said. ‘Volunteer opportunities, that sort of thing.’ She turned her back on him and pretended for a moment to scan the board, nodding as she took in each advertisement. There were cars for sale and flat shares for rent. A few marriage notices had sneaked their way here as well, but these prospects were no better than the ones Nikki had already screened. ‘You’re into community service then,’ he ventured. ‘I really must be going,’ Nikki said. She rustled through her bag busily to avoid further conversation and turned towards the entrance. Then a flyer caught her eye. She stopped and read it quietly to herself, her eyes moving slowly over the words. Writing Classes: Register Now! Ever wanted to write? A new workshop on narrative techniques, character and voice. Tell your story! Workshops will culminate in an anthology of best work. A handwritten scrawl below the print read: Class open to women only. Instructor needed. Paid position, two days weekly. Please contact Kulwinder Kaur at the Sikh Community Association. There was no mention of qualifications or prior experience, which was an encouraging sign. Nikki pulled out her phone and typed in the phone number to save it. She noticed the man’s curious gaze but she ignored him and fell in step with a current of worshippers who had emerged from the langar hall. Could she run a writing workshop? She had contributed a piece to the UK Fem Fighters’ blog, comparing her experiences with catcalling in Delhi and London, which had enjoyed three days on the Most Read Posts list. Surely she could give writing tips to some temple women? Perhaps publish An Anthology of Best Work. Editorial credentials would sit well on her bare r?sum?. Hope flittered in her chest. This could be a job she could actually enjoy and take pride in. Light streamed into the temple through its wide windows, splashing the tiled floor with brief warmth before a patch of clouds rushed to conceal the sun. Just as Nikki was about to leave the building, she finally received a reply to her earlier message to Olive. Where’s Southall? The question surprised Nikki. Surely in their years of friendship, Nikki had mentioned Southall to Olive? Then again, she and Olive had met in secondary school, years after Nikki’s parents had deemed these Punjabi day trips too much trouble, so Olive was spared Nikki’s complaints about wasting a perfectly good Saturday on the hunt for high-quality coriander powder and mustard seeds. Nikki stopped and looked around. She was surrounded by women with their heads covered – women hurrying after their toddlers, women giving each other sideways glances, women hunched over walking frames. Each one had a story. She could see herself addressing a room full of these Punjabi women. Her senses became overwhelmed with the colour of their kameezes, the sound of fabric rustling and pencils tapping, the smell of perfume and turmeric. Her purpose came into sharp focus. ‘Some people don’t even know about this place,’ she would say. ‘Let’s change that.’ Fiery-eyed and indignant, they would pen their stories for the whole world to read. Chapter Two (#u60c3e643-d6bb-598a-a757-a8337535b59c) Twenty years ago, in her first and last attempt to be British, Kulwinder Kaur bought a bar of Yardley English Lavender Soap. It was a purchase she justified by noting that the family’s regular bar of Neem soap had shrunk to a sliver from frequent use. When Sarab reminded her that they had a cupboard stocked with necessities from India (toothpaste, soap, hair oil, Brylcreem, turban starch and several bottles of feminine wash that he had mistaken for shampoo) Kulwinder reasoned that, eventually, their toiletries from the motherland would run out. She was only preparing for the inevitable. The next morning she woke early and dressed Maya in woolly tights, a plaid skirt and a jumper. At breakfast, she anxiously reminded Maya to keep still, lest she spill food on her very first school uniform. Kulwinder’s own roti was dipped in achar, a mango pickle that stained her fingers and left a lingering smell on her hands. She offered the achar to Maya whose nose crinkled at the sourness. After eating, Kulwinder used the new soap to scrub both her and Maya’s hands – between fingers, under the nails, and especially in those fine palm lines that spelled out their futures. Scented like an English garden, the pair arrived at the primary school registration desk. A young blonde woman introduced herself as Miss Teal and crouched so her gaze could meet Maya’s. ‘Good morning,’ she said with a smile, and Maya shyly smiled back. ‘What’s your name?’ ‘Maya Kaur,’ Maya said. ‘Oh, you must be Charanpreet Kaur’s cousin. We’ve been expecting you,’ Miss Teal said. Kulwinder felt a familiar tension. This was a common misunderstanding – that all people with the surname Kaur were related – and one that she could usually explain, but today the English words escaped her. She was already overwhelmed by this new world that Maya was about to enter. ‘Tell her,’ Kulwinder urged Maya in Punjabi, ‘or she’ll think I’m responsible for all the other Punjabi kids here.’ She had a frightening image of dropping off Maya and returning home with a gaggle of new children. ‘Charanpreet’s not my cousin,’ Maya said with a small sigh for her reluctant mother. ‘In my religion, all girls are Kaurs and all boys are Singhs.’ ‘All one big family, God’s children,’ Kulwinder added. ‘Sikh religion.’ For some stupid reason, she gave a thumbs-up, like she was recommending a brand of detergent. ‘How interesting,’ Miss Teal said. ‘Maya, would you like to meet Miss Carney? She’s the other teacher here.’ Miss Carney walked over. ‘Look at those lovely eyes,’ she cooed. Kulwinder relaxed her grip on Maya’s hand. These were kind people who would take care of her daughter. In the weeks leading up to this day, she had fretted over sending Maya to school. What if the other children teased Maya about her accent? What if somebody had to call Kulwinder about an emergency and she was unable to understand? Miss Carney handed Kulwinder a folder of forms to fill out. Kulwinder drew a stack of forms from her bag. ‘The same,’ she explained. Sarab had filled them in the night before. His command of English was better than hers but it had still taken a long time. Watching him point to each word as he read, Kulwinder felt the smallness of being in this new country, learning the alphabet like children. ‘Soon Maya will be translating everything for us,’ Sarab had remarked. Kulwinder wished he hadn’t said this. Children shouldn’t know more than their parents. ‘You’re very prepared,’ Miss Teal said. Kulwinder was pleased to have impressed the teacher. Miss Teal flipped through the forms and then stopped. ‘Now, over here, you forgot to write your home telephone number. Can you just tell me what it is?’ Kulwinder had memorized the digits in English so she could recite this combination of words whenever she was called to. ‘Eight nine six …’ She paused and grimaced. There was a tightness in her stomach. She started over. ‘Eight nine six five …’ She froze. The achar from that morning was bubbling in her chest. ‘Eight nine six eight nine six five?’ Miss Teal asked. ‘No.’ Kulwinder waved as if to wipe the woman’s memory clean. ‘Again.’ Her throat felt full and hot. ‘Eight nine six eight five five five five five five five.’ There were fewer fives than this but she became a broken record as her concentration moved towards suppressing the rising burp. Miss Teal frowned. ‘There are too many numbers.’ ‘Again,’ Kulwinder squeaked. She managed the first three digits before a fierce eruption rose from her throat, blaring a trumpet note across the registration table. The air smelled fetid and – at least to Kulwinder’s exaggerated recollection – filled with warty brown bubbles. After the air filled her lungs again, Kulwinder hastily rattled off the remaining digits. The teachers’ eyes bulged with suppressed laughter (this, she did not imagine). ‘Thank you,’ Miss Teal said. She wrinkled her nose and tipped her face slightly above Kulwinder’s. ‘That will be all.’ Mortified, Kulwinder hurried away from the women. She reached for Maya’s hand but then spotted her in the distance being pushed gently on the swings by a little girl wearing her curly red hair in pigtails. A few years later, upon Kulwinder’s announcement that they would be moving to Southall, Maya protested. ‘What about all my friends?’ she wailed, meaning the red-haired girl, the blonde girl, the girl who wore overalls and cut her own hair (‘Isn’t it just awful,’ her mother said in that adoring way that made one word have two meanings). ‘You’ll make better friends in our new area,’ Kulwinder said. ‘They will be more like us.’ These days, Kulwinder limited her achar intake to control her gastric reflux condition. Her English had improved somewhat, although she did not need to use it in Southall. As the recently appointed Community Development Director of the Sikh Community Association, she had her own office space in the Recreation Centre. It was dusty and full of neglected files that she had intended to throw out but kept because they gave the room an air of officiousness, with labels such as BUILDING REGULATIONS and MEETING MINUTES – COPIES. Such appearances were important for the occasional visitor, like the President of the Sikh Community Association, Mr Gurtaj Singh, who was standing in her office now, interrogating her about her flyers. ‘Where did you post these?’ ‘On the temple noticeboard.’ ‘What sorts of classes are they?’ ‘Writing classes,’ Kulwinder replied. ‘For the women.’ She reminded herself to be patient. During their last budget meeting, Gurtaj Singh had rejected her funding requests. ‘We have nothing in the budget for that,’ he said. It wasn’t like Kulwinder to put up a fight in the presence of so many respected Sikh men but Gurtaj Singh always took a certain pleasure in dismissing her. She had to remind Gurtaj Singh that the Sikh Community Association Centre was within temple property and a lie here bore the same weight as a lie in the temple. For that matter, both their heads were covered by turban and dupatta respectively, signifying God’s hallowed presence. Gurtaj Singh had to relent. He slashed his pen across his written notes and muttered some figures and it occurred to Kulwinder that finding money for women was not so difficult in the first place. Yet here he was, asking questions as if this was the first he ever heard of it. He hadn’t expected her to go out right away and begin advertising for instructors. Kulwinder presented a flyer. Gurtaj took time putting on his bifocals and clearing his throat. Between lines, he gave Kulwinder a sideways glance that made him resemble a crook in an old Hindi movie. ‘Do you have any instructors?’ ‘I’m interviewing someone. She’ll be here soon,’ Kulwinder said. A girl named Nikki had called yesterday. She was supposed to have arrived fifteen minutes ago. If Kulwinder had other applicants she wouldn’t be worried, but after a week of the flyer being posted, this Nikki had been the only one to respond. Gurtaj assessed the flyer again. Kulwinder hoped he wouldn’t ask her what all of the words meant. She had copied this flyer from another one she saw pinned up at a recreation centre off Queen Mary Road. The flyer had looked professional so she had taken it down, added a note below, and taken it to the photocopying shop where Munna Kaur’s son worked. ‘Make me a few of these,’ she instructed the pimply boy. She thought to ask him to translate some words she didn’t understand but if he was anything like that calculating Munna, he would not do a favour for free. Besides, the point was not to be accurate; she just wanted to get the class – any class – running immediately. ‘Are there any interested students?’ Gurtaj Singh asked. ‘Yes,’ Kulwinder said. She had gone around personally, informing women of these classes, telling them that they were twice a week and free, and therefore their attendance was expected. Her main targets: elderly widows who could use a more worthwhile pastime than gossiping in the langar hall. They were the most likely to turn up and make the classes appear successful. Then there would be more initiatives to occupy Kulwinder’s time. ‘Eventually, I hope we can offer much more to the women,’ she couldn’t resist saying. Gurtaj Singh replaced the flyer on her desk. He was a short man who wore his khaki pants high on his waist as if altering their hems would be conceding to his lack of height. ‘Kulwinder, everybody feels bad about what happened to Maya,’ he said. Kulwinder felt a stab that took her breath away. She recovered quickly and fixed Gurtaj Singh with a stare. Nobody knows what really happened. Nobody will help me find out. She wondered how he would react if she said those words aloud. ‘I appreciate it,’ she said. ‘But this has nothing to do with my daughter. The women in this community want to learn – and as the only woman on the board, I should be representing them.’ She began stacking the papers on her desk. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have a very busy afternoon planned.’ Gurtaj Singh picked up the hint and left. His office, like the offices of the other men on the Board, was in the newly renovated wing of the temple. It had hardwood floors and wide windows that looked out onto the gardens of surrounding homes. Kulwinder was the only Board member who worked in this old two-storey building, and as she listened to Gurtaj Singh’s fading footsteps, she wondered why men needed all that space when their answers to everything were always ‘no’. A draught passed through the cracked window and blew Kulwinder’s papers askew. Searching her top drawer for a proper paperweight, she came across her old complimentary Barclays Bank diary. In the Notes section, she had a list of names and numbers – the local police station, the lawyers, even a private investigator that she never ended up calling. It had been nearly ten months and sometimes she still felt as breathlessly desperate as the moment she was told her daughter was dead. She shut the diary and pressed her hands to her teacup. The warmth radiated in her palms. Kulwinder maintained her grip. The burn burrowed through her layers of skin. Maya. ‘Sat sri akal. Sorry I’m late.’ Kulwinder dropped her cup on the desk. A thick stream of spilled chai ran across the table and soaked her papers. In the doorway stood a young woman. ‘You said 2 p.m.,’ Kulwinder said as she rescued the papers. ‘I meant to get here on time but there was a train delay.’ She retrieved a serviette from her bag and helped Kulwinder to blot the tea from the papers. Kulwinder stepped back and observed. Although she did not have a son, habit prompted a quick assessment of this girl for her suitability as a wife. Nikki had shoulder-length hair pulled back in a ponytail, revealing a wide forehead. Her beaky face was striking in its own way but she certainly could not afford to forgo wearing make-up like this. Her nails were bitten down, a disgusting habit, and hanging off her waist was a square bag that clearly belonged to a postal worker. Nikki caught her looking. Kulwinder cleared her throat imperiously and began shuffling and stacking the dry papers on the other end of her desk. She expected Nikki to watch her. Instead she noticed the girl throwing a disdainful look at the crowded shelves and the cracked window. ‘Do you have your CV?’ Kulwinder asked. Nikki produced a sheet from her postal worker bag. Kulwinder skimmed it. She could not afford to be fussy – at this point as long as the instructor was literate in English, she would be hired. But the sting of the girl’s look lingered and made Kulwinder feel less generous. ‘What teaching experience do you have?’ she asked in Punjabi. The girl responded in hurried English. ‘I’ll admit, I don’t have much teaching experience but I’m really interested in—’ Kulwinder held up her hand. ‘Please answer me in Punjabi,’ she said. ‘Have you ever taught?’ ‘No.’ ‘Why do you want to teach this class then?’ ‘I have a … umm … how do you say it? A passion for help the women,’ Nikki said. ‘Hmm,’ Kulwinder acknowledged coolly. On the CV, the longest list was under a header called Activism. Greenpeace Petitioner, Women’s Aid Volunteer, UK Fem Fighters Volunteer. Kulwinder did not know what all of it meant, but the last title – UK Fem Fighters – was familiar. A magnet bearing the same title had found its way into her home, courtesy of Maya. Kulwinder was vaguely aware that it had to do with the rights of women. Just my luck, she thought. It was one thing to battle for funding against the likes of Gurtaj Singh behind closed doors but these British-born Indian girls who hollered publicly about women’s rights were such a self-indulgent lot. Didn’t they realize that they were only looking for trouble with that crass and demanding attitude? She felt a flash of anger at Maya, followed by a bewildering grief that momentarily shut out her senses. When she snapped back to reality, Nikki was still talking. She spoke Punjabi with less confidence, peppering her sentences with English words. ‘… and it’s my belief that everyone has the stories to telling. It would be such a rewarding experience to help Punjabi women to crafting their stories and compile them into a book.’ Kulwinder must have been nodding the girl along because now her rambling made little sense. ‘You want to write a book?’ she asked cautiously. ‘The women’s stories will forming a collection,’ Nikki said. ‘I don’t have much experiencing in the arts but I do like to writing and I’m an avid reader. I think I’m to be able to help them cultivate their creativity. I’ll have some hand in guiding the process, of course, and then perhaps do some editing as well.’ It dawned on Kulwinder that she had advertised for something she did not understand. She took another look at the flyer. Anthology, narrative techniques. Whatever these words meant, Nikki seemed to be counting on them. Kulwinder rustled through her drawer and took out a receipt of confirmed registrations. Scanning the list of names, Kulwinder thought she should warn Nikki. She looked up. ‘The students will not be very advanced writers,’ she said. ‘Of course,’ Nikki assured. ‘That’s understandable. I’ll be there to help them.’ Her patronizing tone dissolved Kulwinder’s sympathies. This girl was a child. She smiled but her eyes had a squinting quality, as if she was sizing up Kulwinder and her importance here. But was there a chance that a more traditional woman – not this haughty girl who might as well be a gori with her jeans and her halting Punjabi – would walk in and ask for the job? It was unlikely. Never mind what Nikki expected to teach, the class had to start right away, or else Gurtaj Singh would strike it off his register and with it any future opportunity for Kulwinder to have a say in women’s matters. ‘The classes start on Thursday.’ ‘This Thursday?’ ‘Thursday evening, yes,’ Kulwinder said. ‘Sure,’ Nikki said. ‘What time do the classes starting?’ ‘Whatever time works best for you,’ Kulwinder chirped in the crispest English she could manage, and when Nikki cocked her head in surprise, Kulwinder pretended not to notice. Chapter Three (#u60c3e643-d6bb-598a-a757-a8337535b59c) The path leading to Nikki’s childhood home in Enfield smelled richly of spices. Nikki followed the scent to the door and opened it with her own key. In the living room, Minute to Win It was on while Mum and Mindi bustled around the kitchen, calling out to each other. Dad had always watched the news while dinner was being cooked. In his chair, somebody had placed a quilted blanket and the side table where he used to rest his whisky glass had been removed. These shifts in details were little and mundane but they pronounced his absence loudly. She switched the channel to BBC. Immediately, both Mum’s and Mindi’s heads poked through the kitchen entrance. ‘We were watching that,’ Mum said. ‘Sorry,’ Nikki said, but she was reluctant to change the channel back. The presenter’s voice brought a wave of nostalgia: she was eleven again and watching the news with Dad before dinner. ‘What do you think about that?’ Dad would ask. ‘Do you think it’s fair? What do you think that word means?’ Sometimes when Mum used to call her to help set the table, Dad would give Nikki a wink and reply loudly, ‘She’s busy out here.’ ‘Can I help with anything?’ Nikki asked Mum. ‘You can heat up the dal. It’s in the fridge,’ Mum said. Nikki opened the fridge to find no obvious signs of dal, just a stack of ice-cream containers with faded labels. ‘It’s in the Vanilla Pecan Delight tub,’ Mindi said. Nikki picked out the container and put it in the microwave. She then watched in horror through the window as the container’s edges melted into the dal. ‘Dal’s going to be a while,’ she said, opening the door and removing the container. The noxious smell of burning plastic permeated the kitchen. ‘Hai, you idiot,’ Mum said. ‘Why didn’t you put it in a microwaveable container first?’ ‘Why didn’t you store it in one?’ Nikki asked. ‘Ice-cream tubs are misleading.’ It was a suggestion stirred from years of crushed hopes from searching Mum’s fridge for dessert and instead discovering blocks of frozen curry. ‘The containers work just fine,’ Mum said. ‘They’re free.’ There was no rescuing the dal or the container, so Nikki disposed of both and stepped back to the edge of the kitchen. She remembered lingering here the evening after Dad’s funeral. Mum was weary – travelling back to London with Dad’s body had been a bureaucratic and logistical nightmare – but she refused Nikki’s offers to help and ordered her to the sidelines. Nikki asked Mum about Dad’s final hours. She needed to know that he hadn’t died still angry with her. ‘He didn’t say anything. He was asleep,’ Mum said. ‘But before he went to sleep?’ Perhaps his last words contained some hint at forgiveness. ‘I don’t remember,’ Mum said. Her cheeks were high with colour. ‘Mum, surely you can try—’ ‘Don’t ask me these things,’ Mum snapped. Seeing that forgiveness was a long way off, Nikki had returned to her bedroom and continued her packing. ‘You aren’t still going to leave are you?’ Mindi asked, standing in the doorway. Nikki looked at the corners of boxes jutting out from under her bed. Piles of books had been pushed into Tesco recyclable bags, and her hooded jacket had been taken off the hook behind the door and rolled up to fit her suitcase. ‘I can’t live here any more. The minute Mum finds out I’m working in a pub, I’ll never hear the end of it. It’ll be that same argument all over again. I dealt with Dad ignoring me. I’m not going to stay here while Mum gives me the cold shoulder as well.’ ‘You’re being a selfish cow.’ ‘I’m being realistic.’ Mindi sighed. ‘Think of what Mum’s going through. Sometimes it’s worthwhile to consider what’s best for everyone, not just yourself.’ On this advice, Nikki stayed for another week. But upon returning from errands one day, Mum would find Nikki’s room bare and a note on her bed. I’m sorry, Mum. I had to move out. Her new address was listed below. She trusted that Mindi would fill Mum in on everything else. Two weeks later, Nikki gathered up the nerve to call Mum and to her surprise, Mum answered. She spoke stiffly to Nikki and gave minimal responses (‘How are you, Mum?’ ‘Alive’) but that she responded at all was a positive sign. During their next phone conversation, Mum had an outburst. ‘You’re a selfish, stupid, idiot girl,’ she sobbed. ‘You have no heart.’ Each word made Nikki flinch and she wanted to defend herself but wasn’t it true? She had left them at the worst possible time. Stupid, selfish, heartless. Words that Dad had never used to describe her. Afterwards, purged of her anger, Mum began to speak to her in sentences again. The kitchen was thick with a spice-filled smog now. Dinner was ready. Nikki helped to bring out a serving dish brimming with chickpea and spinach curry. ‘So,’ Mindi said once they settled into their seats. ‘Tell us about this job.’ ‘I’ll be mentoring women to write their stories. The workshops are twice a week. At the end of the term, we’ll have a collection of stories to put together.’ ‘Mentoring. That’s the same as teaching?’ Mindi asked. Nikki shook her head. ‘It’s not so much teaching as facilitating them.’ Mum looked confused. ‘So there is another teacher there that you’re assisting?’ ‘No,’ Nikki said. The impatience crept into her voice. ‘Finding your voice isn’t something which can be taught, at least not in the traditional sense. People write and then you guide them.’ She looked up to catch a smirk passing between Mum and Mindi. ‘It’s hard work,’ she added. ‘Good, good,’ Mum murmured. She folded a roti and drove it across the plate, scooping up the chickpeas. ‘It’s a great opportunity,’ Nikki insisted. ‘I’ll have a chance to do some editing as well, which I can add to my CV.’ ‘So do you think you want to be a teacher or an editor?’ Mindi asked. Nikki shrugged. ‘They just sound like two very different things, being a teacher or working in publishing. You like writing as well. Are you going to contribute to these stories as a writer?’ ‘Why does it have to be defined?’ Nikki asked. ‘I don’t know what I want to be, but I’m getting there. Is that all right with you?’ Mindi held up her hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘It’s fine with me. I’m just trying to find out more about what you’re doing, that’s all. You don’t have to get so defensive.’ ‘I’m doing something to help empower women.’ Now Mum looked up and she and Mindi exchanged a look of worry. ‘I saw that,’ Nikki said. ‘What’s wrong?’ ‘Aren’t the majority of your students going to be temple ladies?’ Mindi said. ‘So?’ ‘So be careful,’ Mindi said. ‘It sounds like a class for beginning storytellers but if you think you’re going to change their lives by tapping into their personal experiences …’ Mindi shook her head. ‘The problem with you, Mindi—’ Nikki began. ‘That’s enough,’ Mum said. Her stern stare quieted Nikki’s protests. ‘You hardly ever come over for dinner, and then every time there’s an argument. If you’re happy with this job, then we’re happy. At least it means you don’t have to work in the disco any more.’ ‘It’s a pub,’ Nikki said and this was as far as she went towards correcting Mum. She had neglected to mention that she would still be working at O’Reilly’s. The pay for empowering women through narrative would not fully cover her living expenses. ‘Just make sure you’re travelling safely. Are these night classes? What time do they finish?’ ‘Mum, I’ll be fine. It’s Southall.’ ‘Crimes don’t happen in Southall? I must be the only one who remembers Karina Kaur. You’ve seen the ads for Britain’s Unsolved Murders, no?’ Nikki sighed. Trust Mum to bring up a murder case from fourteen years ago to prove a point. ‘They never found out who did it,’ Mum continued. ‘The killer could still be on the loose, preying on Punjabi girls walking alone at night.’ Even Mindi rolled her eyes at Mum’s theatrics. ‘You’re being a bit dramatic,’ Mindi informed her. ‘Yeah, Mum. All kinds of girls get murdered in London, not just the Punjabi ones,’ Nikki said. ‘It’s not funny,’ Mum said. ‘It’s the parents left behind who suffer with worry when the children leave.’ After dinner, Mindi and Nikki took over the washing up in the kitchen while Mum retired to the living room to watch television. They scrubbed the pots and plates in silence until Mindi spoke up. ‘So Auntie Geeta’s recommended a few eligible bachelors. She gave me the email addresses of three guys that she shortlisted.’ ‘Ugh.’ Nikki could think of no other response to Mindi’s mention of Auntie Geeta. She was a friend of Mum’s who lived up the road and often dropped in unannounced, her eyebrows wiggling with all the secrets she struggled to contain. ‘Not gossiping, just sharing,’ she always claimed before unpacking the ruins of other people’s private lives. ‘I emailed a few times with one guy who seemed okay,’ Mindi continued. ‘Lovely,’ Nikki said. ‘By this time next year you’ll be washing up in his kitchen instead of this one.’ ‘Shut up.’ After a beat Mindi added, ‘His name is Pravin. Does that sound like an all right name to you?’ ‘It sounds like a name.’ ‘He works in finance. We’ve chatted on the phone once.’ ‘So I go through all the trouble to post your profile on a noticeboard and you’ve enlisted Auntie Geeta as your matchmaker anyway?’ ‘I didn’t receive any responses from the temple profile,’ Mindi said. ‘You’re sure you put it on the Marriage Board?’ ‘Yes.’ Mindi studied her. ‘Liar.’ ‘I did just as you asked,’ Nikki insisted. ‘What did you do?’ ‘I put it on the Marriage Board. It just might not be the most prominent flyer there. There are lots of flyers and—’ ‘Typical,’ Mindi muttered. ‘What?’ ‘Of course you’d put the least amount of effort into helping me with this.’ ‘I went all the way to a temple in Southall. That’s no small effort,’ Nikki shot back. ‘Yet you’ve signed on for a job which means you’ll be travelling there regularly. How does that work? You’re all right with going to Southall as long as it benefits your needs.’ ‘It’s not all about me. I’m helping women.’ Mindi snorted. ‘Helping? Nikki, this sounds like another one of your …’ she waved as if trying to stir up the word from thin air. ‘Your causes.’ ‘What’s wrong with having a cause?’ Nikki demanded. ‘I care about helping women tell their stories. It’s a much more worthwhile pastime than advertising for a husband.’ ‘This is what you do,’ Mindi said. ‘You follow your so-called passions and don’t consider the consequences for other people.’ This charge again. It would be easier to be a criminal fairly prosecuted by the law than an Indian daughter who wronged her family. A crime would be punishable by a jail sentence of definite duration rather than this uncertain length of family guilt trips. ‘How exactly did my leaving university have consequences for other people? It was my decision. Sure, Dad could no longer tell his family in India I was becoming a lawyer. Big deal. It wasn’t worth being unhappy just so he could have bragging rights.’ ‘It wasn’t about bragging rights,’ Mindi said. ‘It was about duty.’ ‘You sound like an Indian housewife already.’ ‘You had a duty to Dad. He had been so devoted to championing you – all those school debates, all those speech contests. He included you in political conversations with his friends and he didn’t stop you from arguing with Mum if he thought you had a point. He put such faith in you.’ There was a note of hurt in Mindi’s voice. Dad and Mum had taken Mindi on a trip to India before her exams as well, taking all spiritual steps to ensure that she got into medical school. After the results indicated nursing – not medical school – as her best option, Dad’s disappointment had been obvious and, with renewed enthusiasm, he shifted his focus to Nikki. ‘He was proud of you too, you know,’ Nikki said. ‘He wished I were more practical like you.’ Having been measured up against his brother his whole life, Dad had been careful to avoid comparing his daughters but after Nikki dropped out of university, all fair play went out the window. ‘Look at Mindi. She works hard. She wants a stable future. Why can’t you be like that?’ he’d said. Nikki felt a sudden rush of irritation with Dad. ‘You know, Dad contradicted himself all the time. One minute he was saying, “follow your dreams, that’s why we came to England” and the next he was dictating what I should do for a living. He assumed that my dreams were identical to his.’ ‘He saw a potential career for you in law. You had the chance to succeed professionally. What are you doing now?’ ‘I’m exploring my options,’ Nikki said. ‘By this time, you could have been earning a salary,’ Mindi reminded her. ‘I’m not as concerned with money and material things as you are, Mindi. That’s really what this whole arranged marriage thing is about, isn’t it? You’re not confident that you’ll meet a professional with a fat salary in a pub but if you screen the profiles of a few Indian doctors and engineers, you can zero in right away on their earnings and filter them accordingly.’ Mindi turned off the tap and stared angrily at her. ‘Don’t you make me feel like a gold digger for wanting to support Mum! There are expenses to think about. You left, so you have no idea.’ ‘I moved across London. It’s hardly as if I abandoned my family. This is what young women do in Britain! We move out. We become independent. This is our culture.’ ‘You think Mum isn’t concerned about finances? You think she doesn’t want to retire early from working for the council and enjoy her life? I’m the only one contributing here. Things need to be repaired, unexpected bills arrive, and the car servicing is overdue. Think about that the next time you spout out your lines about independence.’ Nikki felt a pinch of guilt in her gut. ‘I thought Dad had savings.’ ‘He did, but some of his savings were tied up in his company’s stock options. They haven’t really recovered since the financial crisis. And he took out that loan to renovate the guest bathroom, remember? Mum had to defer payments and now the interest has nearly doubled. It means Mum has had to put off all these other home improvements she thought would be done by now. The curtains, the built-in shoe cupboard, the kitchen counters. She’s already starting to worry about losing face. She’s concerned about how our home would look to my prospective husband’s family, not to mention what they might say if she couldn’t afford a dowry or a lavish celebration.’ ‘Min, I had no idea.’ ‘I told her I wouldn’t marry someone from a superficial family and she said, “There might not be any Punjabi boys for you to marry then.” She was joking of course.’ Mindi smiled but her eyes were tight with worry. ‘I could help,’ Nikki said. ‘You’ve got your own expenses to think about.’ ‘I’ll have some extra income from this new job. I could send some money once a fortnight.’ Nikki hesitated, realizing what she had just committed to. The extra income was supposed to go into her savings so she’d have something to fall back on when O’Reilly’s went bust. She would need money to rent a place then because moving back home would be far too humiliating. ‘It won’t be much,’ Nikki added. Mindi looked pleased. ‘It’s the gesture that counts,’ she said. ‘I have to say, I didn’t expect this of you. It’s very responsible. Thank you.’ In the other room, Mum had turned up the volume of her television series and the shrill violin notes of a Hindi song poured through the house. Mindi turned the tap back on. Nikki stood by while Mindi scrubbed the dishes, her vigorous motions sending soap suds flying into the air. As they landed on the counter, Nikki wiped them off with her fingers. ‘Use a towel,’ Mindi said. ‘You’re leaving streaks.’ Nikki did as she was told. ‘So when are you meeting Pravin?’ ‘Friday,’ Mindi said. ‘Mum’s excited about it, I guess?’ Mindi shrugged. She peered at Mum through the kitchen entrance and lowered her voice. ‘She is, but I talked to him on the phone last night.’ ‘And?’ ‘He asked me if I wanted to work after marriage.’ ‘For fuck’s sake,’ Nikki said, dropping a dishtowel on the counter and turning to stare at Mindi. ‘What did you say?’ ‘I said yes. He didn’t sound thrilled about it.’ ‘You’re still meeting him?’ ‘You don’t know until you meet someone face to face, do you?’ ‘Judging from the temple profiles alone, I wouldn’t give any of those men the time of day,’ Nikki said. ‘But that’s you,’ Mindi said. ‘You and your feminism.’ With a flick of her wrist, she dismissed Nikki and everything she stood for. Rather than enter another argument, Nikki finished her share of the dishes without saying another word. As she slipped out into the back garden to sneak an after-dinner cigarette, she felt as if she could breathe again. The next day Nikki arrived at the community centre early to set up her classroom. The room was as modest as Kulwinder Kaur’s office. Two rows of desks and chairs faced a blank whiteboard. Nikki moved the seats around – according to Olive, a horseshoe shape would help promote more discussion. A thrill shot through Nikki as she pictured the classroom full of women writing the stories of their lives. For the first lesson, Nikki had prepared an introductory task. Everybody was to write a complete scene in ten simple sentences. Then, returning to each sentence, they had to add a detail – dialogue or description for example. By 7.15 p.m., Nikki had paced the classroom and wandered out twice into the deserted hallway. She stepped back inside and wiped the board for the fifth time. She stared at the empty chairs. Perhaps this was all some elaborate prank. As she began to pull the desks back to where she’d found them, Nikki heard footsteps. The loud, slow thumps made Nikki aware of her own heartbeat. She was in this rundown building all alone. She pulled a chair out in front of her, preparing to use it should she need to. There was a knock on the door. Through the window, Nikki saw a woman wearing a scarf on her head. It was just a lost granny. It did not occur to Nikki that she was one of her students until the woman entered and took a seat. ‘Are you here for the writing class?’ Nikki asked in Punjabi. ‘Yes,’ the old lady nodded. Do you speak English? Nikki thought it would be rude to ask. ‘I guess you’re my only student tonight,’ Nikki said. ‘We’ll begin.’ She turned to the board but the woman said, ‘No, the others are coming.’ The women streamed in together at twenty-five past. One by one they took their seats and made no apologies for their tardiness. Nikki cleared her throat. ‘Class begins at 7 p.m. sharp,’ she said. The women looked up in surprise. Nikki saw that they were mostly elders who weren’t used to being reprimanded by a young woman. She backtracked slightly. ‘If this time doesn’t work with the bus schedule, I’m sure we can arrange to begin at half-past instead.’ There were some nods and a general murmur of approval. ‘Let’s quickly introduce ourselves,’ Nikki said. ‘I’ll start. My name is Nikki. I like to write and I’m looking forward to teaching you all to write as well.’ She gave the first woman a nod. ‘Preetam Kaur.’ Like some of the other women, she wore a white salwaar kameez, which indicated her widow’s status. A scarf hemmed with white lace hid her hair and a walking stick printed with lavender floral patterns lay at her feet. ‘And why have you joined this class, Preetam?’ Nikki asked. Preetam winced at the sound of her name. The other women looked startled as well. ‘That’s Bibi Preetam to you, young lady,’ she said stiffly. ‘Or Auntie. Or Preetam-ji.’ ‘Of course. I’m sorry,’ Nikki said. These were her students but they were also Punjabi elders and she would have to address them appropriately. Preetam accepted her apology with a nod. ‘I want to learn writing,’ she said. ‘I’d like to be able to send letters on the internet to my grandchildren in Canada.’ Strange. She seemed to think the course would cover letter writing and emailing. Nikki nodded to the next woman. ‘Tarampal Kaur. I want to write,’ the woman said simply. She had small lips, which pinched tightly together as if she wasn’t meant to speak at all. Nikki couldn’t help her gaze lingering on Tarampal Kaur – like the older women, she was shrouded in white but there was hardly a wrinkle on her face. Nikki placed her in her early forties. The woman next to Tarampal also appeared much younger than the rest, with reddish brown streaks dyed in her hair and pink lipstick that matched her purse. The colours stood out against the plain cream of her kameez. She introduced herself in English, with just the slightest hint of an Indian accent. ‘I’m Sheena Kaur. I can read and write in Punjabi and English but I want to learn to be a better writer. And if you call me Bibi or Auntie, I’ll just die because I must only be ten or fifteen years older than you.’ Nikki smiled. ‘Very nice to meet you, Sheena,’ she said. The next elderly woman was tall and thin and had a distinct mole on her chin from which fine hairs poked out. ‘Arvinder Kaur. I want to learn to write everything. Stories, letters, everything.’ ‘Manjeet Kaur,’ said another woman without being prompted. She smiled brightly at Nikki. ‘Do you also teach us how to do some basic accounting?’ ‘No.’ ‘I’d like to write and also learn how to do the bills. There are so many.’ The other women murmured in agreement. So many bills! Nikki put her hand up to silence them. ‘I wouldn’t know the first thing about accounting. I’m here to run a creative writing workshop, to collect a collaboration of voices.’ The women stared blankly at her. She cleared her throat. ‘It’s occurring to me that some of you might not be proficient enough in English to write confidently. Who is in this category? Not confident in English?’ She raised her hand to indicate that they should do the same. All of the widows except Sheena raised their hands. ‘That’s okay,’ Nikki said. ‘In fact, if you’d prefer to write your stories in Punjabi, I can adjust to that. Some things are just lost in translation anyway.’ The women’s prolonged staring made Nikki uneasy. Finally, Arvinder raised her hand. ‘Excuse me, Nikki – how are we meant to write stories?’ ‘Good question.’ She turned to the desk and picked up her stack of loose-leaf paper. ‘Now I know we lost some time today but this is great place to start.’ She passed the papers around and explained the instructions. The women reached into their bags and took out their pens and pencils. Nikki turned to the board to write down a few essential notes for the next lesson. ‘Next class is on Tuesday, 7.30–9.00 p.m. Be punctual.’ She wrote this in Punjabi as well, thinking herself quite considerate and adaptable. When she turned back around, she expected to see the women hunched over their papers, scribbling away but they remained still. Manjeet and Preetam tapped their pens against their desks and looked at each other. Tarampal looked positively irritated. ‘What’s wrong?’ Nikki asked. Silence. ‘Why isn’t anybody writing?’ she asked. More silence and then Tarampal spoke. ‘How are we supposed to write?’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘How are we supposed to write,’ Tarampal repeated, ‘when you haven’t taught us yet?’ ‘I am trying to teach you to write, but we have to start somewhere, don’t we? I know it’s difficult, but if I’m to help you with your stories then you need to actually start writing them. Just a few sentences …’ She trailed off when she noticed Preetam. The way she clutched the pencil reminded Nikki of being in nursery school. It dawned on her then, just as Arvinder began to pack away her things. ‘You knew,’ Nikki said as soon as Kulwinder answered the phone. She didn’t bother saying sat sri akal first – she wasn’t going to pay respects to this conniving elder. ‘Knew what?’ Kulwinder asked. ‘Those women can’t write.’ ‘Of course. You’re meant to teach them.’ ‘They. Can’t. Write.’ Nikki wanted the words to burn past Kulwinder’s calm exterior. ‘You tricked me into it. I thought I’d be teaching a creative writing workshop, not an adult literacy class. They can’t even spell their own names.’ ‘You’re meant to teach them,’ Kulwinder repeated. ‘You said you wanted to teach writing.’ ‘Creative writing. Stories. Not the alphabet!’ ‘So teach them how to write and then they can write all the stories they want.’ ‘Do you have any idea how long that will take?’ ‘The classes are twice a week.’ ‘It will take more than twice-weekly classes. You know that.’ ‘These are very capable women,’ Kulwinder said. ‘You’re joking.’ ‘You weren’t born writing stories, were you? Didn’t you have to learn your ABC first? Wasn’t it the simplest thing you had to learn?’ Nikki caught the contempt in Kulwinder’s voice. ‘Look. You’re trying to prove a point – I get it. I’m modern and I think I can do anything I want. Well, I can.’ She was about to tell Kulwinder that she quit but the words got caught in her throat. She considered it, a familiar sense of anxiety seizing her stomach. Leaving this job would mean having nothing to contribute to Mum and Mindi. Worse yet, they would know that she had given up after just one class and they would be proven right – that Nikki didn’t follow through on anything, that she was just a drifter who avoided responsibilities. She thought of the crumbling pub and pictured Sam wrapped in ribbons of receipts apologetically telling her that she was being let go. ‘This job was falsely advertised. I could report you for that,’ Nikki said finally. Kulwinder responded with a snort, as if she knew the emptiness of Nikki’s threat. ‘Report me to whom?’ she challenged. She waited for a response but Nikki had none. Kulwinder’s message was clear: Nikki had stumbled into her territory and now must play by her rules. In winter, the days lost their shape early. The streets were blurry with shadows and traffic lights as Kulwinder walked home and thought about her day. She wasn’t proud of deceiving Nikki but the more she thought about their conversation, the more she remembered how Nikki had incensed her. It was that demanding attitude that got under her skin. How dare you ask me to teach these idiots, she might as well have said. Kulwinder’s two-storey brick home was on the end of Ansell Road. From her bedroom window the golden tip of gurdwara’s magnificent dome was visible on clear afternoons. The neighbours on the right were a young couple with two small children who sat in the porch and giggled together until their father came home. The neighbours on the left were a couple with a teenage son who had a big dog who howled for hours after they left each morning. Kulwinder was used to running through all of these details about her neighbours, anything to avoid thinking of that house across the street. ‘I’m home,’ she announced. She paused and waited for Sarab’s acknowledgement. It pained her on the occasions when she found him deep in silence, staring at the unturned pages of his Punjabi newspaper. ‘Sarab?’ she called from the foot of the stairs. He grunted a reply. She put down her things, and went to the kitchen to make a start on dinner. From the corner of her eye, she checked to see if Sarab had moved the living room curtains. This morning, he had suggested opening them to let in a bit of light so he could read the paper. ‘Don’t,’ Kulwinder had insisted. ‘The glare from the sun gives me a headache.’ Both of them knew it was Number 16 and not the pale English sunlight that bothered Kulwinder. Kulwinder set out the plates and the bowl of dal and took the achar out of the fridge and set the table. There was nothing more comforting in all her years in England than the simplicity of a Punjabi meal. Sarab sat down and they ate quietly, and then he turned on the television and she cleaned the dishes. Maya used to help her with this, but one day she asked, ‘Why can’t Dad pitch in with the cooking and cleaning?’ Such questions had crossed Kulwinder’s mind in her younger days, but she would have been beaten for suggesting that her father or brothers did the housework. She had taken Maya roughly by the arm and steered her into the kitchen. After completing her chores, Kulwinder went to the living room and sat next to Sarab. The television was on at a low volume. There was an English show on so it didn’t matter that they couldn’t hear it because the things the English laughed about were no laughing matter to Kulwinder. She turned to Sarab and started a conversation. ‘An odd thing happened today,’ she said. ‘A mix-up with one of my community classes.’ She paused for a moment. My community classes. It was nice hearing it aloud. ‘The girl I hired to teach it thought she was teaching women to write their memoirs, but the women who signed up can’t even write. I had advertised creative writing classes and once the women started registering, I knew they were the types who couldn’t even spell their own names, but what could I do? Turn them away? That wouldn’t be right. I’m there to help the women of our community after all.’ It was partially true. She had been vague with the women about what exactly they would learn in these classes. ‘Writing, reading, that sort of thing,’ she had told them while passing around the registration form. Sarab nodded but his eyes were blank. He was staring at the screen now. Kulwinder glanced at the clock and saw that there were many hours to kill before she felt like going to bed, like most nights. The drizzle had cleared. ‘Would you like to go for a walk?’ she asked Sarab. How unnatural it felt to ask him like this, when evening walks used to be their after-dinner routine. ‘It’s good for digestion,’ she added. She instantly felt silly trying to persuade him but today she really wanted his company. Her conflict with Nikki had reminded her of the way she and Maya used to argue. Without even looking at her, Sarab said, ‘You go ahead.’ Kulwinder walked up Ansell Road and turned onto a main road where a small strip of shops were illuminated by long fluorescent ceiling bulbs. In Shanti’s Wedding Boutique, a group of young women tried on bangles and held up their wrists, letting the sequins catch the light. The owner of the masala shop next door was patiently ushering out his customers, an English couple, looking very pleased with their bottles of red and yellow powders. Teenagers in puffy black jackets milled in the empty lots outside, stray words and laughter darting into the air. Yeah. Hah! You dickhead. Kulwinder offered a few hellos to passing Punjabi women but mostly she looked past them. Before Maya died, she used to chat to ladies, turning these walks into lengthy social outings. If their husbands were there, they’d break off into another group with Sarab. On the way home, comparing stories, she often noticed that men and women shared the same information – who was marrying whom, the rising cost of food and petrol, the occasional community scandal. Now she preferred not to stop. There was no need these days – only occasionally did people approach to offer their condolences. Most people just averted their gazes. She and Sarab were outsiders now, like the widows and divorced women and all those shamed parents they had feared becoming. At a traffic light she paused, turned the corner and found a bench to sit on. The smell of sweet fried jalebi rose from a cart nearby. Her feet were rough like sandpaper against her hands as she massaged her heels and considered Nikki. Clearly, the girl was not from here, or she wouldn’t have been so disrespectful. Her parents were probably city types – Delhi or Bombay, and they probably turned their noses up at the Punjabis who washed up in Southall. She knew what the rest of London thought of Southall – she’d heard all of their comments when she and Sarab decided to move here from Croydon. Village people who built another Punjab in London – they’re letting all types of people into this country these days. ‘Best choice we ever made,’ Sarab had declared when they unpacked their last box. Kulwinder agreed, her heart almost bursting with happiness from the comforts of their surrounds – the spice markets, the Bollywood cinema, the gurdwaras, the samosa carts on the Broadway. Maya eyed all of it with suspicion but she would adjust, they assured themselves. One day she would want to raise her children here too. Tears welled up in her eyes and blurred her vision, as a bus rolled to a slow stop in front of her and the door opened. The driver looked at Kulwinder expectantly. She shook her head and waved him along. A sob escaped her throat but the sound of the engine rumbling drowned it out. Why did she always torture herself like this? Sometimes she got carried away and imagined little moments of Maya’s life as it would be – mundane things like paying for groceries or replacing the batteries in her television remote control. The smaller the details, the harder it hit that Maya would never do these things. Her story was over. The air felt colder now that Kulwinder was still. She wiped her eyes and took a few deep breaths. When she felt strong enough again, she stood up and headed in the direction of her home. Halfway across Queen Mary Road, Kulwinder spotted a police officer. She froze. What to do? Turn around and walk back? Keep going? She stood in the middle of the road until the light turned red and cars started honking their horns, and this was worse because people began to stop and stare. The policeman began searching for the cause of the trouble until his gaze landed on her. ‘Nothing. No problem,’ she called out feebly. He rushed into the street and with a firm hand signal, ordered all the cars to stay in place. Then he beckoned her to cross the road towards him. ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked. ‘Yes,’ she replied. She kept her distance and avoided looking him in the eye. A small crowd had emerged from the shops and gathered on the pavement to watch. She felt the urge to shoo them away. Mind your own business! ‘You’re just out taking a walk?’ ‘Just walking, yes.’ ‘Good exercise.’ She nodded, still aware of the stares. She tried to do a quick scan of who was watching. Unlike Maya, Kulwinder never considered Southall a hotbed of gossip. Most people just shared harmless observations. The problem was that Kulwinder could not afford to be observed talking to the police. Somebody might casually mention this scene to friend or a spouse, and then they might tell somebody else and— ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ the policeman asked. He peered into her eyes. ‘I’m very good thank you,’ she replied. She found an English word. ‘Splendid.’ ‘Then take care when crossing the road in the future. The youngsters like to speed down the Broadway and they turn onto these main roads sometimes.’ ‘I will. Thank you.’ Kulwinder spotted a middle-aged couple approaching. She could not recognize them from this distance but they were sure to notice her chatting with the police in the middle of the street, and if they knew her, they would ask each other, ‘What trouble is she causing now?’ ‘Stay safe,’ the policeman called after her as she hurried home. Sarab was upstairs when she returned. Kulwinder quietly tidied up the shoes in the small circle of light he had left on for her in the foyer. Then she looked for other things to tidy – the couch cushions surely needed plumping and maybe Sarab had left a glass in the sink. These tasks calmed her. By the time she was finished, she realized how paranoid she had been. What were the chances of being noticed? Southall wasn’t that small, it just felt that way sometimes. There was no predicting whom she’d run into. She already avoided another major road because she had been spotted visiting a law office there (although she needn’t have bothered because everything the fast-talking lawyer had said involved fees and no guarantees). If she started changing direction every time she saw somebody she would rather not see, she might as well spend all her time in this living room, with the curtains drawn. But later that night, while Sarab snored lightly and Kulwinder’s eyes were wide open, she saw her mobile phone flashing. Unknown Number. On the other side, a voice that she recognized all too well. ‘You were seen talking to the police today. Try it again and you will be in a lot of trouble.’ Kulwinder tried to defend herself but, as always, her caller hung up before she had a chance to speak. Chapter Four (#u60c3e643-d6bb-598a-a757-a8337535b59c) ‘There are no good men left in London,’ Olive remarked. ‘None.’ She surveyed the crowd from her perch at the bar while Nikki wiped down the counter, cursing the noisy blokes who had spent the past hour singing off-key rounds of football songs and winking sloppily at her. ‘There are plenty,’ Nikki assured her. ‘Plenty of duds,’ Olive said. ‘Unless you want me to date Steve with the Racist Grandfather.’ ‘I would rather see you single for the rest of your life,’ Nikki said. Steve with the Racist Grandfather was a regular at the pub who prefaced his bigoted comments with, ‘as my grandfather would say …’ He considered this a foolproof way to absolve himself of being racist. ‘As my grandfather would say,’ he once told Nikki, ‘is your skin naturally that colour, or are you rusting? Of course, I would never say that. But my grandfather used to call khaki pants “Paki Pants” because he honestly thought the colour was named after their skin tone. He’s terrible, my grandfather.’ ‘That guy’s all right,’ Nikki said, nodding at a tall man joining a group at a corner table. He took a seat and clapped one of his mates on the shoulder. Olive craned her neck to look. ‘Not too bad,’ Olive said. ‘He looks a bit like Lars. Remember him?’ ‘You mean Laaawsh? He only told us a hundred times how to pronounce it correctly,’ Nikki said. He was a Swedish exchange student that Olive’s family had hosted when they were in Year Twelve. ‘That was the year I spent more time claiming to study at your house than ever.’ It was the only way she could get her parents’ permission to spend so many evenings at Olive’s house. ‘With my luck, that guy’s already taken,’ Olive said. ‘I’ll go do some investigative work,’ Nikki said. She made her rounds at the tables and floated towards him. ‘Can I get you anything?’ she asked. ‘Sure.’ As he gave his order she noticed the wedding ring shining on his finger. ‘Sorry,’ Nikki said when returned to Olive. She poured her friend a drink on the house and joined Olive on the other side of the bar once her shift was over. Olive sighed. ‘Maybe I should go for an arranged marriage. How was your sister’s date the other night?’ ‘Disastrous,’ Nikki said. ‘The guy talked about himself the whole time and then made a fuss because they were served water without lemon slices. I think he was trying to prove to Mindi that he was accustomed to a certain type of service.’ ‘That’s a shame.’ ‘It’s a relief, actually. I was worried that she’d settle for the first eligible Punjabi bachelor who came along but she told me she gave him a polite and firm “no, thank you” at the end of the night.’ ‘Maybe Mindi’s more influenced by you than she realizes,’ Olive said. ‘I thought so too but Auntie Geeta who suggested this fine young man gave Mum the cold shoulder at the shops the other day. Mindi felt terrible and called her up to apologize. Auntie Geeta guilted her into signing up for Punjabi Speed Dating. It’s really not Mindi’s thing but she’s going along with it.’ ‘Oh, you never know who Mindi might meet or where. The odds are in her favour at speed dating. Fifteen men in one night? Sign me up. It could be really fun. If nothing else, she comes out of it having put herself out there. That’s more than I’m doing.’ ‘It sounds like a nightmare to me. These are fifteen Punjabi men looking for a wife. When Mindi registered, she had to tell the organizers her caste, dietary preferences and rate her religiousness on a scale of one to ten.’ Olive laughed. ‘I’d be a minus three in any religion,’ she said. ‘I’d be a terrible candidate.’ ‘Me too,’ Nikki said. ‘Mindi’s about a six or seven, although I think she’d claim to be more religious if it pleased the right man. I worry that she’s only doing this for people like Auntie Geeta.’ ‘Well, she should be the least of your problems right now,’ Olive said. ‘You have to teach grannies the alphabet tomorrow.’ Nikki groaned. ‘Where do I start?’ ‘I told you I have lots of books on literacy that you could borrow.’ ‘For Year Seven students. These women are starting from scratch.’ ‘You’re telling me they can’t read road signs? They can’t read the headline scrolling by when the news is on? How have they managed living in England all this time?’ ‘I suppose they were always able to get by with their husbands’ help. For anything else, they could just speak in Punjabi.’ ‘But your mum was never so dependent on your dad.’ ‘My parents met at university in Delhi and Mum has her own livelihood. These women grew up in villages. Most couldn’t spell their own names in Punjabi, let alone English.’ ‘I can’t imagine living my whole life like that,’ Olive said, taking a swig of her pint. ‘Do you remember those writing books we used to have when we were kids? How to do capital letters and cursive?’ Nikki asked. ‘The ones where you practise writing in the lines – penmanship books?’ ‘Yes. Those would be useful.’ ‘You can find them online,’ Olive said. ‘The school textbook publishers have a good catalogue. I can look out for them for you.’ ‘I need something for tomorrow’s lesson though.’ ‘Try one of the charity shops on King Street.’ After locking up, Nikki stayed back for drinks and then she and Olive stumbled out onto the glistening road, arms linked together like schoolgirls. Nikki took her phone from her pocket and typed a message to Mindi. Hey sis! Found the man of your dreams yet? Does he starch his own turban and comb his own moustache or will that be one of your DUTIES? She giggled and pressed Send. Nikki woke in the afternoon, her head still spinning from the night before. She reached for her phone. There was a message from Mindi. Drinking on a weeknight, Nik? Obviously if sending stupid messages at that hour. Nikki wiped the blur from her eyes and wrote Mindi a reply. U have such a huge stick up your bum Mindi wrote back within seconds. And u probably just woke up. Talk about bums. Grow up Nikki. Nikki tossed the phone into her bag. It took her twice as long as usual to just get out of bed because her head felt so heavy. She winced at the squeaky sound of the shower tap and the sting of water on her skin. After getting dressed, she walked up the street to the Oxfam shop. The musty smell of ancient wool coats tickled her nose. Old school textbooks and worksheets sat on a bottom shelf, under the rows of popular novels that Nikki often browsed and bought. Here, Nikki finally woke up. The familiar comfort of books helped to dissolve her hangover. Searching the shop, Nikki found a Scrabble game as well. A few tiles were missing but it would still be useful for teaching the alphabet. She went back to the shelf to see if there was anything there for her and while browsing, a title caught her eye. Beatrix Potter: Letters. She had a copy of this book at home but its accompanying book, The Journals and Sketches of Beatrix Potter, was hard to find. She had seen it in a used bookshop in Delhi on her pre-exams trip with Dad and Mum but her wanting it had sparked an argument. She distracted herself from the memory by turning her attention to the adjacent shelf. Another title leaped out at her. Red Velvet: Pleasurable Stories for Women. She picked up the book and flipped through the pages and some of the phrases that jumped out at her were: He undressed her slowly with his eyes, and then deftly with his fingers. Delia was basking naked in the summer sun in the privacy of her own garden but somewhere, Hunter was watching. ‘I didn’t come here to see you,’ she said haughtily. She spun on her heels to leave the office and she saw his manhood bulging through his trousers. He wanted to see her. Nikki grinned and took the books to the cashier. Leaving the shop, she thought of the inscription she would pen in the Red Velvet book. Dear Mindi, I might not be as grown-up as you but I do know a bit more about certain adult rituals. Here’s a guide for you and your Dream Husband. Nikki hauled the bag of books to the classroom and heaved them onto the desk. A sheet of paper had been taped onto it: Nikki do not move desks and chairs in this room – Kulwinder. The desks had all been rearranged into their original neat rows. A low growl in Nikki’s stomach reminded her that she hadn’t yet eaten, but before she left for the langar hall, she shifted the desks into a circle again. The smell of dal and sweet jalebis mixed in the air with the clatter of utensils and voices. She took her tray through the line and was served roti, rice, dal and yoghurt. Finding an open space on the floor near a row of older women, Nikki recalled being about thirteen and attending prayers with her parents at the smaller Enfield gurdwara. She had needed something from the car and approached Dad – who was sitting with some men – to ask for the keys. People had turned and stared as she crossed the invisible divide that segregated the sexes even though there were no such rules in the langar hall. What did Mindi see in this world that she didn’t? All of the women seemed to end up the same – weary and shuffling their feet. Nikki watched as they trailed into the hall, adjusting their scarves, pausing every few moments to give an obligatory greeting to another community member. The group of ladies sitting next to her chattered away about each woman who walked in. They knew entire histories: ‘Chacko’s wife – she’s just had an operation, poor thing. She won’t be walking for a while. Her eldest son is taking care of her. You know the one I mean? She has two sons. This is the one who bought the electronics shop from his uncle. Doing very well. I saw him pushing her around the park in a wheelchair the other day.’ ‘That woman over there is Nishu’s youngest sister isn’t it? They all have that same high forehead. I heard they had a terrible case of flooding in their house last year. They had to re-carpet the place and throw out a lot of furniture. Such a waste! They’d bought a new lounge set only six weeks before.’ ‘Is that Dalvinder? I thought she was in Bristol visiting her cousin.’ Nikki’s eyes followed each woman as the commentary ran. She could barely keep up with this rapid stream of information and details. Then a woman that she recognized strode into the hall. Kulwinder. She noticed a drawing of breath from the little group next to her and their voices lowered to a hush. ‘Look at that one, marching in here like she’s a big boss. She’s been so stuck-up lately,’ said a middle-aged woman whose stiff green dupatta was pulled so low that it nearly concealed her face. ‘Lately? She’s always been Miss High and Mighty. I don’t know what gives her the right to be like that now.’ It didn’t surprise Nikki that they didn’t like Kulwinder. She listened closely. ‘Oh, don’t,’ a wrinkly older woman said. She pushed her wire-rimmed frames further up the bridge of her nose. ‘She’s had a rough time. We should be sympathetic.’ ‘I tried that approach but she didn’t want my sympathy. She was downright rude to me,’ said Green Dupatta. ‘Buppy Kaur went through the same problems, but at least she still acknowledges us when we say “We’re sorry for your loss”. Kulwinder’s different. I saw her walking around the neighbourhood the other day. I waved at her and she just looked in the other direction and kept walking. How am I supposed to be kind to somebody like that?’ ‘Buppy Kaur’s problems were similar, not the same,’ the woman with the glasses said. ‘Her daughter ran away with that boy from Trinidad. She’s still living; Kulwinder’s girl is dead.’ Nikki looked up in surprise. The women noticed her abrupt movement but they kept on talking. ‘Death is death,’ somebody else agreed. ‘It’s far worse.’ ‘Nonsense,’ Green Dupatta scoffed. ‘Death is better than life if a girl doesn’t have her honour. Sometimes the younger generation needs this reminder.’ Somehow, Nikki felt that these words were directed at her. She looked up at the woman who said it and met an even, challenging gaze. The other women murmured their acknowledgement. Nikki found her food harder to swallow. She took a gulp of water and kept her head down. The woman with the wire-rimmed glasses made eye contact with Nikki. ‘Hai, they’re not all terrible. There are plenty of respectable girls in Southall. It depends on how they’re raised, doesn’t it?’ she said. She gave Nikki an almost imperceptible nod. ‘This generation is selfish. If Maya had just considered what she was doing to her family, none of this would have happened,’ Green Dupatta continued. ‘And don’t forget about the damage she did to Tarampal’s property as well. She could have destroyed the whole place.’ The other women looked uncomfortable now. Like Nikki, they lowered their heads and focused on their dinners. In the sudden silence, Nikki could hear her own heart beating faster. Tarampal? Nikki wondered if they were referring to the same Tarampal from her writing classes. Nikki silently urged Green Dupatta to say more but without an attentive audience, she grew quiet as well. Entering the community centre building afterwards, Nikki was lost in thought. The woman in the langar hall had appeared so certain when she spoke of death and honour. Nikki couldn’t imagine any offspring of Kulwinder’s getting caught up in some act of dangerous resistance as the women had implied. Then again, Kulwinder was so unyielding that perhaps her daughter had rebelled. Laughter rang down the corridor, breaking her thoughts. Strange, she thought. There were no other classes on at the same time. As she made her way to the room, the noise became louder and she could hear a voice clearly speaking. ‘He puts his hand on her thigh as she’s driving the car and, as she’s driving, he moves his hand closer between her legs. She can’t concentrate on driving, so she tells him, “let me just get to a small side street”. He tells her – why do we have to wait?’ Nikki froze outside the door. It was Sheena’s voice. Another woman called out. ‘Chee, why is he so impatient? Can’t keep it in his pants until they get to a side street? She should punish him by driving him around the car park until his little balloon deflates.’ Another wave of laughter. Nikki threw open the door. Sheena was sitting on the front desk with the book open in her hands and all the women were crowded around her. When they saw Nikki, they scurried back to their seats. The colour drained from Sheena’s face. ‘So sorry,’ she said to Nikki. ‘We saw that you had brought us books. I was just translating a story …’ She slid off the desk and went to join the ladies at their seats. ‘That book is mine. It’s private. It’s obviously not for any of you,’ Nikki said when she felt that she could speak. She reached into the bag and pulled out the workbooks. ‘These are for you.’ She tossed them onto the desk and put her head in her hands. The women were silent. ‘Why were you all here so early?’ ‘You said seven o’clock,’ said Arvinder. ‘I said seven thirty, since that was the time you all preferred,’ Nikki said. The women turned to look accusingly at Manjeet. ‘I remember her saying seven o’clock last week,’ Manjeet insisted. ‘I remember it.’ ‘Turn up your hearing aid next time,’ Arvinder said. ‘I don’t need to,’ Manjeet said. She tucked her scarf behind her ear to reveal the hearing aid to the class. ‘This has never had a battery in it.’ ‘Why would you wear a hearing aid if you didn’t need one?’ Nikki asked. Manjeet dropped her head in embarrassment. ‘Completes the whole widow look,’ Sheena explained. ‘Oh,’ Nikki said. She waited for a further explanation from Manjeet but she simply nodded and stared at her hands. Preetam raised her hand. ‘Excuse me, Nikki. Can we change the start time back to 7 p.m.?’ Nikki sighed. ‘I thought 7.30 worked better with your bus schedule.’ ‘It does, but if we finish earlier, it means we can get home at a decent hour.’ ‘Thirty minutes doesn’t make that much difference does it?’ Sheena asked. ‘It does for Anya and Kapil,’ Preetam said. ‘And what about Rajiv and Priyaani?’ Nikki guessed these were her grandchildren but then the other women let out a collective groan. ‘Those bloody idiots. One day they’re in love, the next day she is confiding to the servants that she wants to marry someone else,’ Sheena said. ‘Don’t change the time, Nikki. Preetam’s just wasting her time following a television series.’ ‘I am not,’ Preetam said. ‘Then you’re wasting electricity,’ Arvinder chided. ‘Do you know how much our bill was last month?’ Preetam shrugged. ‘Of course you don’t,’ Arvinder muttered. ‘You waste everything because you’ve always had everything.’ ‘Do you two share a home?’ Nikki asked. She noticed a resemblance. Both women were light-skinned, with the same thin lips and striking greyish brown eyes. ‘Sisters?’ ‘Mother and daughter,’ Arvinder said, pointing to herself and then Preetam. ‘Seventeen years apart, but thank you for thinking that I’m that young.’ ‘Or that Preetam’s that old,’ Sheena teased. ‘Have you always lived together?’ Nikki asked. She could not imagine a world where she would live with Mum into her senior citizen years and retain her sanity. ‘Only since my husband died,’ Preetam said. ‘How long has it been – hai!’ she suddenly cried out. ‘Three months.’ She took the edge of her dupatta and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. ‘Oh, enough with the theatrics,’ Arvinder said. ‘It’s been three years.’ ‘But it’s still so fresh,’ Preetam moaned. ‘Has it really been that long?’ ‘You know very well it has been,’ Arvinder said sternly. ‘I don’t know where you got this idea that widows have to cry and beat their chests every time their husbands are mentioned but it’s unnecessary.’ ‘She got it from the evening dramas,’ Sheena said. ‘There. Another reason to cut back on the television,’ Arvinder said. ‘I think it’s very sweet,’ Manjeet said. ‘I want to be sad like that too. Did you faint at his funeral?’ ‘Twice,’ Preetam said proudly. ‘And I begged them not to cremate him.’ ‘I remember that,’ Sheena said. ‘You made a huge fuss before passing out and then you woke up and started all over again.’ She rolled her eyes at Nikki. ‘You have to do these things, see, otherwise people accuse you of being unfeeling.’ ‘I know,’ Nikki said. After Dad died, Auntie Geeta had come over to visit, black rivulets of mascara running down her cheeks. She wanted to mourn with Mum and was surprised that Mum remained dry-eyed, having done her crying in private. When she noticed a bubbling pot of curry on the stove, she became indignant. ‘You’re eating? I had nothing after my husband died. My sons had to force it into my mouth.’ Feeling pressured, Mum refrained from eating the curry and then wolfed it down after Auntie Geeta left. ‘You are all lucky to be able to grieve like that,’ Manjeet said. ‘Women like me don’t get a funeral or any sort of ceremony.’ ‘Now, now, Manjeet, don’t go putting it on yourself. There are no women like you. Just men like him,’ Arvinder said. ‘I don’t understand—’ Nikki said. ‘Are we going to do any work or is this another class of introductions?’ Tarampal interrupted. She shot Nikki a disapproving look. ‘We have less than an hour now,’ Nikki said. She handed the books out to the women. ‘There are some alphabet exercises in here. She gave Sheena a letter-writing worksheet she had printed off the internet. The remainder of the lesson passed slowly and silently, with the women scrunching up their faces in concentration. Some looked tired after a few tries and put their pencils down. Nikki wanted to find out more about the widows but Tarampal’s presence kept her nervously on task. As soon as the clock struck 8.30, she told them they were dismissed and they filed out quietly, putting their books back on the desk. Sheena ducked past her and said nothing, clutching her letter in her hand. The next lesson was on Thursday. All the women were promptly seated when Nikki arrived with an alphabet chart that she had found in another charity shop. ‘A is for apple,’ she said. They repeated ‘Apple’ after her. ‘B is for boy.’ ‘C is for cat.’ By the time they got to M, the chorus had faded. Nikki sighed and put down the chart. ‘I can’t teach you to write in any other way,’ she said. ‘We have to go through the basics.’ ‘My grandchildren use these books and charts,’ sniffed Preetam. ‘It’s insulting.’ ‘I don’t know what else to do,’ Nikki said. ‘You’re the teacher – don’t you know how to teach writing to adults?’ ‘I thought we’d be writing stories. Not this,’ Nikki said. She picked up the chart and went back to the letters, and by the time they got to Z for zebra, the chorus was loud. There was a glimmer of hope – they were trying, at least. ‘Right. Now there are a few writing exercises so we can learn about how to form words,’ Nikki said. She flipped through the workbook and copied a few words on the board. As she turned, she heard urgent whispers but the women stopped talking when she was facing them again. ‘The best way to learn to spell words is to sound them out first. We’ll start with the word “cat.” Who wants to repeat after me? “Cat”.’ Preetam’s hand shot up. ‘Yes, go ahead, Bibi Preetam.’ ‘What sorts of stories would you have us writing?’ Nikki sighed. ‘It’s going to be a long time before we can start writing stories, ladies. It’s really difficult unless you have a sense of how the words are spelled and how the grammar works.’ ‘But Sheena can read and write in English.’ ‘And I’m sure it took her a lot of practice, right, Sheena? When did you learn?’ ‘I learned in school,’ Sheena said. ‘My family came to Britain when I was fourteen years old.’ ‘That’s not what I mean,’ Preetam said. ‘I’m saying that if we tell Sheena our stories, she can put them in writing.’ Sheena looked pleased. ‘I could do that,’ she said to Nikki. ‘And then we could give each other advice on how to improve the stories.’ ‘But how will you ever learn to write?’ Nikki asked. ‘Isn’t that why you signed up for these classes?’ The women shared a look. ‘We signed up for these classes because we wanted to fill our time,’ Manjeet said. ‘Whether it’s learning to write, or telling stories, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that we’re keeping busy.’ Nikki noticed she looked particularly sad when she said this. When she caught Nikki looking at her, she quickly smiled and dropped her gaze. ‘I’d rather be telling stories,’ said Arvinder. ‘I’ve survived all this time without reading and writing; what do I need it for now?’ There was resounding agreement. Nikki was torn. If the tedium of learning to write was discouraging these women, she should motivate them to keep going. But storytelling was so much more fun. In the back, Tarampal called out, ‘I don’t like this idea. I am here to learn to write.’ She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘You do your ABC colouring books then,’ Arvinder muttered. Only Nikki heard her. ‘Here’s what we can do,’ Nikki said. ‘We’ll do a bit of writing and reading practice for every lesson, and then if you want to do some storytelling sessions, Sheena and I can transcribe your stories and we can share them with the class. One new story each lesson.’ ‘Can we start today?’ Preetam asked. Nikki looked at the clock. ‘We’ll go through vowels first, and then, yes, we can do some stories.’ Some women already knew A E I O U but others like Tarampal struggled with them. Everybody grumbled at her for holding back the rest of the class when Nikki quizzed them. ‘The A and the E are pronounced the same,’ Tarampal kept insisting. Nikki instructed Sheena to start transcribing in the back of the classroom while she worked with Tarampal. ‘English is such a stupid language,’ Tarampal said. ‘Nothing makes sense.’ ‘You’re getting frustrated because it’s new. It will get easier,’ Nikki assured. ‘New? I’ve been in London for over twenty years.’ It still came as a mild shock to Nikki that these women knew so little after living here for longer than she had been alive. Tarampal caught her expression and nodded. ‘Tell me, why haven’t I picked up English? Because of the English.’ She said this triumphantly. ‘They haven’t made their country or their customs friendly to me. Now their language is just as unfriendly with these Ahh-Oooh sounds.’ In the back of the room, there was a rise of giggles and a squeal. Sheena was hunched over her paper, scribbling quickly while Arvinder whispered in her ear. Nikki turned her attention back to Tarampal and carefully said different words with vowels until Tarampal admitted to hearing the slightest difference between them. By the time they were finished, so was the lesson, but the women in the back of the room were still crowded around the desk and whispering urgently. Sheena continued writing, pausing every now and then to think of a correct word, or to rest her wrists. It was nine o’clock. ‘Class is dismissed,’ Nikki called out to the back. The women didn’t appear to have heard her. They continued chatting and Sheena dutifully transcribed. Tarampal crossed the room to pack up her bag. She tossed the women a look of contempt and muttered, ‘Bye,’ to Nikki. Nikki felt her spirits lifted by the women and their renewed sense of focus. They wouldn’t learn to write this way but they were obviously so much keener on telling stories. As she made their way towards them, the women fell silent. Their faces were flushed. Some were hiding smiles. Sheena turned around. ‘It’s a surprise, Nikki,’ she said. ‘You can’t see. We’re not done yet, anyway.’ ‘It’s time to lock up,’ Nikki said. ‘You’ll miss your bus.’ Reluctantly, the women rose from their seats and picked up their bags. They left the room in a buzz of whispers. In the empty classroom, Nikki put the tables back in their usual place, just as she’d been told to do by Kulwinder. The light in the classroom in the community centre was still on. Kulwinder could see the window glowing as she walked out of the temple. She slowed down and considered what to do. Nikki had probably left the light on and if Kulwinder didn’t go up there to turn it off, Gurtaj Singh might decide that electricity was being wasted on classes for women. But she would not be safe entering that empty building. The phone call from the other night invaded her mind whenever she found herself alone. Before that, there had been two other warnings – one call which came only hours after she returned from her first intentional visit to the station and another one after her last visit. Both times, the police had offered little help, but her caller still felt the need to keep her in line. She decided not to bother with the light. Walking briskly towards the bus stop she saw the women from the writing class in a huddle. Kulwinder did a silent roll call. There was Arvinder Kaur – so tall that she had to stoop like a giraffe to listen to the others. Her daughter Preetam was perpetually adjusting the lacy white dupatta on her head. So precious and vain compared to her mother. On the edge of the group, Manjeet Kaur spoke in furtive nods and smiles. Sheena Kaur was nowhere to be seen but she had probably sped home in her little red car. Tarampal Kaur had registered as well but she wasn’t part of the group. Her absence was a relief. The women noticed Kulwinder approaching and they acknowledged her with quick smiles. Maybe they could explain why the light was still on. Perhaps Nikki was in there entertaining a lover? It wasn’t unheard of for youngsters in the neighbourhood to use these vacant rooms for their filthy interactions. In that case the lights would be off though wouldn’t they – but then again, who knew what this new generation found pleasurable? ‘Sat sri akal,’ she said, putting her hands together for all of them. They returned the gesture. ‘Sat sri akal,’ they murmured. In the glow of the streetlamp, they looked sheepish, as if caught stealing. ‘How are you, ladies?’ ‘Very good, thanks,’ said Preetam Kaur. ‘Enjoying your writing classes?’ ‘Yes.’ They were a rehearsed chorus. Kulwinder eyed them suspiciously. ‘Learning a lot?’ she asked. A sly look passed between the women, just a flash, before Arvinder said, ‘Oh yes. We did a lot of learning today.’ The women beamed. Kulwinder considered asking them more. Perhaps they needed a reminder that their learning was the result of her clever initiative. I do everything for you, she used to tell Maya, sometimes with pride and at other times, with frustration. The women looked desperate to get back to their conversation. Kulwinder was reminded of Maya and her friends huddled together, their hushed conversation often punctuated with giggles. ‘What was so funny?’ Kulwinder would ask later, knowing the question was enough to make Maya dissolve into giggles again, and then Kulwinder couldn’t help laughing along. The memory was accompanied by a stabbing pain in her gut. What she would give to see her daughter’s smile again. She bade the women farewell and continued her journey. She had never been close to these women and she knew they had signed up for her classes for lack of anything else to do. She had loss in common with them, but losing a child was different. Nobody knew the ache of rage, guilt and profound sadness that Kulwinder carried with her every day. This main road had some shadowy patches where walls of hedges and parked cars could easily hide a crouching assailant. She reached for her phone, wanting to ask Sarab to come and pick her up but standing still seemed just as risky. She set her sights on the junction of Queen Mary Road and marched onward, aware that her heart had started pounding. After the caller had hung up last night, she had sat up in bed, alert to every creak and shift in the house. She had drifted to sleep eventually but this morning, exhausted and alone, she found herself inexplicably furious, this time at Maya for putting her through all of this. Laughter broke like fireworks into the air. Kulwinder whipped around. It was the women again. Manjeet waved but she pretended not to see. Kulwinder craned her neck as if she was checking something on the building. From this distance, the glow in the window reminded her of flames. She turned her back on the building and walked so briskly she nearly broke into a run. Chapter Five (#u60c3e643-d6bb-598a-a757-a8337535b59c) Around the corner from the car park, Nikki had discovered a spot where she could hide and have a cigarette before class. Here the temple was completely cut off from her view. She shook a cigarette from its pack and lit it. Her shift at O’Reilly’s last night had felt longer than usual and she found herself looking forward to tonight’s lesson. Nikki finished her cigarette and entered the community centre building, running straight into Kulwinder Kaur on the stairwell. ‘Oh hello,’ she said. Kulwinder’s nose crinkled. ‘You’ve been smoking. I can smell it on you.’ ‘I was standing near some smokers, and …’ ‘Maybe these excuses work on your mother, but I know better.’ ‘I don’t think my smoking should be your concern,’ Nikki said, straightening her shoulders. There was heat in Kulwinder’s stare. ‘The behaviour of an instructor is my concern. The women look to you for guidance. I don’t know how they’re supposed to respect any instructions that come from the mouth of a smoker.’ ‘I’m doing everything that’s expected of me in the classroom,’ Nikki said. She made a mental note to cut short the storytelling session in favour of a grammar lesson in case Kulwinder did a spot check. ‘Let’s hope so,’ Kulwinder said. Nikki wedged past her uncomfortably on the stairs and found that all the women had arrived promptly. Tarampal had chosen a seat a noticeable distance from the others. ‘Nikki!’ Sheena called. ‘I’ve written a story. It’s a combined effort from all of us.’ ‘Wonderful,’ Nikki said. ‘Can you read it aloud to the class?’ Preetam asked. ‘I think Nikki should read it,’ Sheena said. ‘In a minute,’ Nikki said. ‘I’ll just set some work for Bibi Tarampal here.’ ‘Don’t bother with me,’ Tarampal sniffed. ‘I’ll just be working on my A-B-C book.’ ‘For what?’ Arvinder asked. ‘Don’t be such a spoilsport.’ ‘I’ll learn to write soon and you’ll still be illiterate,’ Tarampal shot back. Nikki pulled up a chair next to Tarampal and searched for the page on linking vowels and consonants. There were pictures representing each simple three-letter word. CAT. DOG. POT. ‘I don’t know all of these letters,’ Tarampal complained. ‘You haven’t taught them all to me.’ ‘Do the ones you know,’ Nikki said gently. ‘We’ll work on the others together.’ Nikki was aware that the women were watching her very closely as she began to read their story. Her Punjabi was rustier than she expected and Sheena’s rushed handwriting was unlike the careful print in the books she had learned from. ‘I’m not sure if I can read this, Sheena,’ Nikki said, squinting at the page. Sheena shot up from her seat. ‘I’ll do it then.’ She took the papers from Nikki. The other women sat up in their seats, their faces wide with anticipation. Watching them, Nikki had the dreadful sense that somebody was out to play a joke on her. Sheena began to read. ‘This is the story about a man and a woman taking a drive in a car. The man was tall and handsome and the woman was his wife. They didn’t have any children and had lots of free time.’ Sheena paused for effect and glanced at Nikki before continuing. ‘One day they were driving along a lonely road and they were running out of petrol. It was dark outside and they were scared. It was also cold, so the man stopped the car and hugged the woman so she would stop shivering. She was actually pretending to shiver. She wanted to feel the man’s body. Although she had felt his body many times before, she wanted to be with him in this dark car. ‘He began to feel quite like a hero because he was protecting his wife. He moved his hands down her back to her bottom and gave it a squeeze. She leaned closer to him and gave him a kiss. With her hands, she also moved down—’ ‘Okay that’s enough,’ Nikki said. She took the story from Sheena and told her to have a seat. All of the women in the class were giggling except Tarampal, whose face was buried in her book. Nikki scanned the page. A sentence caught her eye: His throbbing organ was the colour and size of an aubergine, and as she gripped it with her hands and guided it towards her mouth, he became so excited that his knees began to shake. Nikki gasped and dropped the pages on the desk. The women were laughing loudly now, and their voices had begun to echo down the corridor. They reached the doorway of Kulwinder Kaur, who turned to listen but the sounds just as quickly settled down. ‘What’s the matter?’ Sheena asked. ‘This is not the type of story I had in mind,’ Nikki said. ‘You can’t be too surprised. You read stories like this yourself,’ Manjeet said. ‘You bought us an entire book of them.’ ‘I bought the book as a joke for my sister!’ That said, Red Velvet had graduated from the charity shop bag to Nikki’s bedside table, from where she had no intentions of removing it. ‘I don’t get the joke. Were you supposed to buy her a different book?’ Preetam wondered. ‘She’s a bit reserved,’ Nikki said. ‘I thought the stories would remind her that she needed to lighten up, that’s all.’ Were the widows smirking? They appeared to be challenging her. She cleared her throat. ‘I think we’re done with stories for now.’ The women groaned when Nikki presented the alphabet chart. ‘Today we’ll review consonants.’ ‘Oh, not that bloody thing,’ Arvinder said. ‘A for apple, B for boy? Don’t treat me like a child, Nikki.’ ‘Actually “A” is a vowel. Remember? What are some other vowels?’ Arvinder scowled and said nothing. The other widows stared back blankly as well. ‘Come on, ladies. These are important.’ ‘Last time you said we could do storytelling during these lessons,’ Preetam protested. ‘Right. I probably shouldn’t have said that. The fact is, I was hired to teach you all to write. I need to honour that promise.’ She glanced once more at the pages on the desk. If Kulwinder knew about this story, she’d accuse her of deliberately setting the women on the wrong path. ‘Why don’t you like Sheena’s story?’ Preetam asked. ‘I thought modern girls prided themselves on being open-minded.’ ‘She doesn’t like it because she’s just like everybody else,’ Arvinder said. ‘All those people who say, “Take no notice of those widows. Without their husbands, they’re irrelevant.”’ ‘That’s not what I think of you,’ Nikki protested, although Arvinder’s observation was not far off the mark. She had certainly expected these widows to be more impressionable than they turned out to be. ‘We’d be invisible in India,’ Arvinder said. ‘I suppose it makes no difference that we’re in England. You must think it’s wrong of us to discuss these things because we shouldn’t be thinking of them.’ ‘I’m not saying your story was wrong. It was just unexpected.’ ‘Why?’ Sheena challenged. ‘Because our husbands are gone? Let me tell you, Nikki, we have plenty of experience with desire.’ ‘We talk about it all the time too,’ Manjeet said. ‘People see us and assume that we’re just filling our empty evenings with gossip but how much of that can one do? It’s far more fun to discuss the things we miss.’ ‘Or what we were never given in the first place,’ Arvinder said dryly. Laughter rippled through the classroom. This time the noise pierced Kulwinder’s concentration just as she was about to solve a row in her sudoku puzzle. ‘Keep your voices down,’ Nikki pleaded. ‘Come on, Nikki,’ Preetam urged. ‘This will be fun. I’ve got a story brewing in my mind. A more satisfying series finale to my favourite television drama.’ ‘Do Kapil and Anya finally get together?’ Manjeet asked. ‘Oh, and how,’ Preetam said. ‘There are stories about men and women that I tell myself when I’m lying awake at night,’ Manjeet said. ‘It’s better than counting sheep or taking Rescue Remedy. It helps me to relax.’ ‘I’m sure it does,’ Sheena said, raising an eyebrow. The women burst out laughing again. ‘Even Tarampal has some stories, I’m sure,’ said Arvinder. ‘You leave me out of this,’ Tarampal warned. Suddenly, the door of the classroom swung open. Kulwinder Kaur stood with her arms crossed over her chest. ‘What is going on here?’ she demanded. ‘I can hear the commotion all the way from my office.’ The women were silent with shock for a moment and then Preetam Kaur said, ‘Sorry. We were laughing because I couldn’t pronounce a word.’ ‘Yes,’ Arvinder said. ‘Nikki said this word in English which means “aubergine” but we couldn’t say it.’ The women tittered again. Nikki nodded and smiled at Kulwinder as if to say, ‘What can you do?’ She placed her palm flat on the story on her desk. It was fortunate that Tarampal was sitting so close to the door. Her workbook was wide open and looked very legitimate. Nikki just hoped she wouldn’t say anything. She still looked gravely unhappy with the women. ‘I need to talk to you outside for a moment,’ Kulwinder said to Nikki. ‘Sure,’ Nikki said. ‘Sheena, can you please write the alphabet on the board? I’ll test you all when I come back.’ She shot Sheena a stern look and followed Kulwinder outside. Kulwinder fixed Nikki with a stare. ‘I hired you to teach these women, not stand around telling jokes,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what they’re doing but it doesn’t look like learning.’ Through the window, Nikki could see the women staring at the board and Sheena dutifully writing the letters. Tarampal was hunched over her desk, working her pencil hard into the paper. She looked up to check the roundness of her D against Sheena’s on the board. ‘Nobody said learning couldn’t be fun,’ Nikki said. ‘This job requires a degree of respect and professionalism. Your respect is clearly questionable because you’ll smoke on temple grounds. I have high doubts about your professional standards.’ ‘I’m handling the job just fine,’ Nikki said. ‘I’m doing exactly what you asked of me.’ ‘If you were, then I wouldn’t have to remind you to keep the noise down. You realize, don’t you, that any small misstep means that these classes could be shut down? As it is, we have very few participants.’ ‘Look, Kulwinder, I get that you want these classes to go well but I didn’t realize I’d be under constant surveillance. The women are learning. You need to back off and let me do my job.’ A storm cloud seemed to take over Kulwinder’s expression. Her lips became menacingly thin. ‘I think you’re forgetting something very important,’ she said, her voice suddenly low and steady. ‘I am your boss. I hired you. You should thank me for taking you on even though your only skills were pouring drinks. You should thank me for coming here to remind you to remain focused. You should thank me for letting you off with a warning. I didn’t come here for a discussion. I came here to remind you of your responsibilities, something you are clearly lacking. Understand?’ Nikki swallowed, hard. ‘I understand.’ Kulwinder looked at her expectantly. ‘And thank you,’ Nikki whispered. Tears of humiliation burned in her eyes. She waited for a few moments before re-entering the classroom. The women’s eyes were wide in anticipation. Even Tarampal was looking up from her book. ‘We have to get back to work,’ Nikki said, blinking furiously. Thankfully, there were no arguments. Arvinder, Tarampal, Preetam and Manjeet accepted an exercise on consonants. Sheena practised writing a persuasive speech. While the women worked, Nikki couldn’t help replaying the humiliating confrontation in her mind. She told herself that Kulwinder probably chastised everybody but her harsh words had hit a raw nerve. Your only skills were pouring drinks. Lacking responsibility. Here Nikki had been trying to steer the women back towards literacy to avoid getting into trouble but did Kulwinder recognize her efforts? It didn’t matter if Nikki did the right thing. It was still wrong. The time passed quickly while Nikki was lost in her thoughts. Even her fights with Mum didn’t leave her feeling so helpless. If Kulwinder was like this as a boss, imagine what she had been like as a parent to her rebellious daughter. Nikki glanced at the clock. ‘Is everybody finished?’ she asked. The women nodded. Nikki took up the consonants worksheets. Arvinder’s wobbly handwriting made her H’s look like M’s but she had persisted until Z, slashed across the lines like a lightning bolt. Preetam’s handwriting was more precise but she only reached J before time was up. Manjeet had ignored the consonants entirely, choosing instead to write A E I O U at the top of the page as if revising what she had learned before. What was there to do besides feeding more worksheets to the women, more rote practices? This reproduced string of alphabets looked as uninspired as any other monotonous task that filled these widows’ days. If they continued on this path, the women would stop showing up. Nikki could already sense their restlessness. As she scanned the worksheets, a debate clamoured in her mind. She’d been hired to teach English, yes, but hadn’t she only signed up because she thought she’d be empowering women? If the widows wanted to share erotic stories, who was she to censor them? ‘You’ve all worked very hard today,’ Nikki said. ‘These practices are good.’ She handed the worksheets back to the women. Then she smiled. ‘But I think your stories would be better.’ The women looked at each other and grinned. Only Tarampal scowled and crossed her arms over her chest. ‘I promise to continue to teach you how to read and write,’ Nikki said to her. ‘But the rest of you are welcome to bring in your stories. We must make sure to be very quiet from now on though.’ ‘See you on Tuesday,’ Sheena said on her way out the door. ‘See you all then,’ Nikki said. ‘Oh, and if you see Bibi Kulwinder, remember to say thank you.’ And fuck you, she thought. The following Tuesday Nikki made sure to leave time for the quick odour-neutralizing routine she had practised to perfection as a teenager. Pre-cigarette, it involved pulling her hair back into a bun and taking off her jacket to avoid clinging smoke smells and then, after, a dose of extra-strong mints and a spray of extra-strong perfume. Nikki was in the middle of her perfume bath when a face appeared and then flitted out of her view. ‘Sorry,’ the man belonging to the face said. She only caught a glimpse but she noticed that he was cute. A moment later, she stepped out of the corner and saw him leaning against the wall. ‘It’s all yours,’ she said. ‘Thanks,’ he said, ducking in. ‘I just needed to make a phone call.’ ‘Sure,’ Nikki said. ‘Me too.’ ‘No, you were clearly smoking. It’s not very good for you,’ he said as he lit his own cigarette. ‘You really shouldn’t.’ ‘Neither should you.’ ‘True,’ he said. ‘Is it just me or do they taste even better in hiding?’ ‘Much better,’ Nikki agreed. As a teenager, she used to smoke in the park behind her house, her adrenaline surging each time she saw Mum or Dad’s silhouette crossing the window. ‘Especially when your parents are within sight.’ ‘Ever got caught?’ ‘No. You?’ ‘Oh yeah. It was bad.’ Nikki watched as he took a long drag of his cigarette and stared into the distance. His attempt at being mysterious came off as cheesy but surprisingly, she liked it. ‘I’m Nikki,’ she said. ‘Jason.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that an American name for a Punjabi boy?’ ‘Who says I’m American?’ ‘Canadian?’ Nikki asked. She definitely detected an accent. ‘American,’ Jason said. ‘And Punjabi. And Sikh, obviously.’ He gestured at the temple. ‘And yourself?’ ‘British and Punjabi and Sikh,’ Nikki said. It had been a long time since she identified herself in all of those terms at once. She wondered if this was what the widows thought of her, and in which proportions. ‘So what’s your real name?’ she asked Jason. ‘Jason Singh Bhamra.’ Jason squinted at her. ‘You look surprised.’ ‘I was sure it was an anglicized version of something else.’ ‘My parents gave me a name that Americans could pronounce as well. They were forward-thinkers in that regard. Like yours, I’m assuming.’ ‘Oh no,’ Nikki said. ‘I just don’t tell people my full name. It’s only on my birth certificate. Nobody uses it.’ ‘Does it start with an N?’ ‘You’re not going to guess it.’ ‘Navinder.’ ‘No.’ Nikki was already regretting lying about her name. It just seemed more interesting than the truth: “Nikki” meant little and she was a younger sibling so her parents had decided it was apt. ‘Najpal.’ ‘Actually—’ ‘Naginder, Navdeep, Narinder, Neelam, Naushil, Navjhot.’ ‘None of the above,’ Nikki said. ‘I was kidding. My real name is Nikki.’ Jason smiled at her and took another drag of his cigarette. ‘That was a missed opportunity. I was going to say “if I guess it, will you give me your number?”’ Oh dear, Nikki thought. More cheesiness. ‘Well, I don’t think anyone can pull off trying to pick up girls in dodgy alleyways.’ Jason tipped his cigarette packet towards Nikki. ‘Another one?’ ‘No thanks,’ she said. ‘Your phone number?’ Nikki shook her head. It was instinctive. She didn’t know this Jason Bhamra. She snuck another glance at him, noticing the slight cleft in his chin. He was cute. ‘It’s the principle of the thing,’ she explained, hoping he would ask again. ‘We’re at the temple.’ ‘Damn,’ Jason said. ‘You have principles.’ ‘I’ve got several. I’m thinking of adding “no smoking” to my list but it’s hard.’ ‘It’s nearly impossible,’ Jason agreed. ‘A few years ago I tried quitting smoking, and then I settled for quitting drinking instead. I thought I’d get points for eliminating one vice.’ ‘You don’t drink?’ ‘I lasted a week.’ This made Nikki laugh. Then she saw her chance. ‘Have you ever been to O’Reilly’s pub in Shepherd’s Bush?’ ‘Nope. I’ve been to the pub on the Southall Broadway though. Did you know you can pay in rupees there?’ ‘That’s not very useful if your salary is in pounds.’ ‘True. This O’Reilly’s pub then …’ ‘No rupees required. I’m there most evenings. For work, not because I’m an alcoholic.’ Jason’s grin was rewarding. ‘So you’re there this week?’ ‘Most evenings,’ Nikki said. As she walked away, she felt his gaze on her back. ‘Nikki,’ he called. She turned around. ‘Is it short for Nicole?’ ‘It really is just Nikki,’ she said. She held back her smile until she was out of his view. Their encounter left her skin tingling, as if she was walking through a light mist. ‘I’ve got a story by Manjeet,’ Sheena said as soon as Nikki entered the classroom. ‘The one she tells herself before going to bed.’ Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/balli-jaswal-kaur/erotic-stories-for-punjabi-widows-a-hilarious-and-heartw/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.