Erotic Stories for Punjabi Widows

by Balli Kaur Jaswal

  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 i
n 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

  ‘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 he
r 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.