Erotic Stories for Punjabi Widows

by Balli Kaur Jaswal

  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 a
nd 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

  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 negl
ected 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.