Erotic Stories for Punjabi Widows

by Balli Kaur Jaswal

‘There are ones that are too big. You wouldn’t want a sweet potato. Hai, that was my problem,’ Sheena said, shaking her head. ‘No amount of ghee could make that first entrance a pleasant one.’

  ‘A banana is ideal,’ Preetam said. ‘Nice size and shape.’

  ‘How ripe?’ Arvinder asked. ‘Too ripe and it would be like my first experience – a pile of mush.’

  ‘Why are you using vegetable and fruit names?’ Nikki interrupted. These conversations were starting to put her off going to the supermarket.

  ‘We don’t always,’ Manjeet said. ‘Sometimes we say danda.’ The Punjabi word for stick. ‘Nobody talks about these things. All of our knowledge and language was passed down from our parents. They certainly didn’t discuss what men and women did together.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Nikki said, failing to come up with the Punjabi word for penis herself. She would have to get used to these replacement words even though they sounded bizarre to her. In a previous lesson, none of the widows had batted an eye when Sheena read out, ‘She gasped and whispered, “Oh my darling, that feels so good” as he thrust his cucumber into the depths of her lady pocket.’

  ‘But we do know the English words,’ Preetam said. ‘That we learned quickly from television and our children. Like swearing – we heard the way they said it and knew it was wrong.’

  ‘Cock,’ said Arvinder.

  ‘Balls,’ Preetam chirped. ‘Tits.’

  ‘Pussy?’ whispered Manjeet. Nikki nodded. Manjeet beamed.

  ‘Tits, fucking, pussy, arses,’ Arvinder declared in a sudden fit.

  ‘All right, then,’ Nikki said. ‘We can stick to the produce names if that’s what you’re comfortable using.’

  ‘Vegetables are the best,’ declared Preetam. ‘Tell me, is there anything that gives you a better idea of how it would feel and taste than a description of it as a juicy-juicy aubergine?’

  Before class the following week, Nikki sprinted from the bus through icy rain to get to the temple. Still shivering in the langar hall, she spotted Sheena sitting alone. She lined up to fill her plate with chickpea curry, dal and roti and then asked Sheena if she could join her. ‘Of course,’ Sheena said, moving her bag.

  Nikki tore a piece of roti and used it to scoop up the dal. With a teaspoon, she dabbed on a bit of yoghurt. ‘Mmm,’ she said, chewing the roti. ‘Why is temple dal always so delicious?’

  ‘Do you want the religious answer or the real answer?’ Sheena asked.

  ‘Both.’

  ‘The dal is made with God’s love. And it’s full of ghee.’

  ‘Noted,’ Nikki said, taking a less generous scoop with her next piece of roti.

  ‘Don’t let it stop you from enjoying your meal,’ Sheena said. ‘But whenever I try on a pair of trousers and they feel too tight, I know what’s to blame.’

  ‘You don’t always eat here before class, then?’ Nikki said. Sheena was a slim woman who did not look like she had ever suffered an overdose of fatty dal.

  ‘I usually go home after work and cook dinner for my mother-in-law and myself before coming here. The traffic was so bad today because of the storm that I decided to just come here straight from work.’

  So Sheena still lived with her mother-in-law even though her husband had passed away. Nikki wondered if she did so out of a sense of duty. As she often found herself doing, she sneaked a glance at Sheena, seeking clues from her modern dress and demeanour as to how traditional she really was.

  ‘She’s got dementia, the poor thing,’ Sheena continued, interpreting the unspoken question. ‘Sometimes she asks after her son. I can’t imagine leaving her to live on her own, confused and disoriented all the time.’

  This reason made more sense. ‘She was a good mother-in-law then?’ Nikki asked. ‘All I seem to hear are the horror stories. I worry about my sister who wants a traditional marriage. Your mother-in-law obviously treats you well though.’

  ‘Oh yes. She was like a friend,’ Sheena said. ‘We kept each other entertained at home. She didn’t have any daughters, so she really enjoyed having me around. There was no question that I’d remain in the family after Arjun died. Living with them took some getting used to at first, but everything’s about adjusting. Tell your sister that. Is she having an arranged marriage?’

  ‘Sort of,’ Nikki said. ‘I posted an ad for her on the marriage board.’

  ‘Oh, some of those profiles are hopeless, aren’t they?’

  ‘I like the one that mentioned the guy’s blood type,’ Nikki said. ‘Wifely duties probably involve donating a kidney in that family.’

  Sheena laughed. ‘When my parents were arranging my marriage, I was mortified that they kept touting my “wheatish” complexion like it was my most important asset.’

  ‘Yes!’ Nikki said. ‘As if it attracts any more candidates if you compare your skin to barley.’

  ‘Unfortunately, it works,’ Sheena said. ‘The whole Fair and Lovely thing. Arjun’s whole family was darker than mine and when we couldn’t have children, someone had the nerve to say, “Well, now you don’t have to worry about them taking after his side.”’

  ‘That’s messed up,’ Nikki said, yet she remembered having a go at Mindi for buying face lightening cream in India, and Mindi replying, ‘It’s easy for you to judge, you’re at least three shades lighter than me.’

  ‘Are you next then?’ Sheena asked. ‘After your sister?’

  ‘Oh goodness, no,’ Nikki said. ‘I can’t imagine having my marriage arranged.’

  Sheena shrugged. ‘It’s not that bad. Takes the effort out of it on your part. I don’t think I would’ve been very good at dating.’

  ‘But doesn’t it all feel very … set-up?’

  ‘Not if you play your cards right,’ Sheena said. ‘See, when my parents were looking for a boy for me, I did a bit of looking myself. I’d seen Arjun at a wedding, and when my parents asked about my preferences, I basically described him without mentioning his name. They went out and fetched him within the week. Luckily he’d noticed me at the wedding as well. Everyone was very pleased with themselves.’

  ‘That’s actually quite romantic,’ Nikki admitted. She could only hope for Mindi to have such luck in her search.

  ‘If you want something, always make your parents or in-laws think it’s their idea,’ Sheena said, pointing her finger at Nikki. ‘Take this old lady’s advice.’

  Nikki laughed. ‘All right, Bibi Sheena. How old are you anyway?’

  ‘I’ve been turning twenty-nine for the past six years,’ Sheena said. ‘You?’

  ‘If you ask my mum, I’m still an infant and I will never earn the right to think independently. But seriously, I’m twenty-two.’

  ‘Do you live on your own?’

  Nikki nodded. ‘In a flat above a pub. Don’t think I could spin that one to make it seem like it was my parents’ idea.’

  Suddenly, Sheena’s face lit up. With a discreet flutter of her fingers, she waved at somebody. ‘No, Nikki, don’t turn around,’ she said quickly when Nikki swivelled in her seat.

  ‘Who’s over there?’

  ‘Nobody,’ Sheena said.

  ‘What’s Nobody’s name?’

  ‘You’re very nosey.’

  ‘Nobody Singh?’

  ‘Will you stop looking, Nikki? Okay, his name is Rahul. Rahul Sharma. He does sewa at the temple three days a week because when he was laid off from his previous job, he ate all his meals here. It saved him. Now he volunteers in the kitchen to pay it back.’

  ‘You sure know a lot about him. Do you guys talk, or just make lovey-dovey faces in the langar hall?’

  ‘There’s nothing going on between us,’ Sheena said. ‘Nothing official. We work at the Bank of Baroda together. I was in charge of showing him the ropes when he started a few weeks ago.’

  ‘You’re blushing.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You’re in love.’

  Sheena leaned towards Nikki. ‘Sometimes he stays back after work to chat with me. We mak
e sure to have our conversations in the car park behind the bank so nobody on the main road can see us. But that’s it.’

  ‘Have you gone out on a date? Get into your little red car and drive out of Southall so nobody will see you if that’s what you’re worried about. Or pick a meeting point somewhere.’

  ‘It’s not that easy,’ Sheena said. ‘One date leads to another and next thing you know, we’re in a relationship.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I’m still very much a part of my late husband’s family. It could get complicated. Plus, Rahul’s Hindu. People will talk.’

  People will talk. How Nikki hated that cautionary adage. Mum had used it on several occasions to try to talk her out of working at O’Reilly’s.

  ‘Who would talk about you and Rahul? The widows?’

  ‘I don’t know what the widows would think. I think there may be a limit to what they can tolerate, especially if we carried on in public. Widows aren’t supposed to remarry, remember, let alone go on dates.’

  ‘I’ve often wondered why you’re friends with them,’ Nikki blurted out.

  Sheena raised an eyebrow. ‘Excuse me?’

  Immediately, Nikki felt embarrassed at what she had said. ‘Sorry, that came out wrong.’ A moment passed. She avoided Sheena’s eyes, scanning the hall instead for a distraction. Then she noticed a clique of women sitting in the centre. Their shimmering outfits and impeccable make-up gave them the same air of glamour as the women in Preetam’s favourite Indian dramas.

  ‘I just see you as being more suited to be friends with those women over there. In terms of age and values.’

  ‘I can’t keep up with that lot,’ Sheena said. Nikki observed that Sheena didn’t even turn to look at them. ‘I tried. I went to school with some of them. But Arjun was diagnosed with cancer shortly after we got married – that was strike one. People are sympathetic at first but when the illness drags on, they start avoiding you, like your bad luck is contagious. Then, because of the chemotherapy, having children was out of the question. That was strike two. They were all having babies and forming mothers’ groups and they couldn’t relate to me. Then after being in remission for seven years, Arjun relapsed and died. I became a widow.’

  ‘Strike three,’ Nikki said. ‘I see.’

  ‘It’s no huge loss to me. The widows are more down-to-earth. They understand loss. Those women over there married wealthy men who own family businesses. They don’t work and they’ve got standing appointments at Chandani’s.’

  ‘Who’s Chandani?’

  ‘Priciest beauty salon in Southall,’ Sheena said. ‘It’s one of those places where you take yourself for a rare treat but otherwise you make do with a cheaper manicure from one of those smaller salons off the Broadway.’ Sheena flashed her glittery fingernails at Nikki and grinned. ‘I’ve been doing them myself for years. Hot pink base with gold glitter – that’s my standard one.’

  ‘It looks great,’ Nikki said. She inspected her own nails. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever had a manicure.’

  ‘I couldn’t live without them,’ Sheena said. ‘Shame I didn’t marry a rich man. I’d be spending my whole days at Chandani’s, talking about everyone. It’s a cesspool of gossip. Worse than the langar hall. Those women can’t be trusted.’

  Tarampal’s warning about the widows flashed into Nikki’s mind. But Sheena seemed trustworthy. Nikki felt at ease speaking with her. ‘Hey, can I ask you something?’

  Sheena nodded.

  ‘Tarampal was really concerned that we’d be found out. Is she that scared of Kulwinder?’

  ‘She was talking about the Brothers,’ Sheena said.

  ‘Whose brothers?’

  ‘No, the Brothers. A group of young, unemployed men who consider themselves Southall’s morality police. A lot of them were working at the scrap metal factory before it closed down. Now they patrol the temple grounds and remind people to cover their heads.’ As Sheena said this, her hand travelled to her neck. She played with a thin gold chain that rested on her collarbone.

  ‘That happened to me,’ Nikki said, astonished. The memory of the man’s sneer brought back a prickling sensation of anger. ‘I just thought he was very religious.’

  ‘There’s nothing religious in their thinking. They’re bored and frustrated. The more zealous ones station themselves on the Broadway, doing spot checks in children’s bags for cigarettes, questioning girls about their whereabouts and activities to make sure they’re keeping the community’s honour intact. I’ve heard they offer services to families as well.’

  ‘What kind of services?’

  ‘Bounty hunting, mostly. A girl runs away from home with her Muslim boyfriend and the Brothers send the word out through their network of taxi drivers and shop owners to spot her and bring her home.’

  ‘And people haven’t said anything? Nobody’s complained about being terrorized like this?’

  ‘Sure, there’s some grumbling but nobody would dare to speak up against them. Plus, people are afraid of them but also find them useful for keeping their daughters in line. You don’t want to complain too loudly because you don’t know who feels obligated to them.’

  ‘Is that guy one of them?’ Nikki asked. A young, muscular man had just strode into the langar hall. He looked formidable enough to scare a schoolgirl into obeying her parents.

  Sheena nodded. ‘They’re not hard to spot. They walk around like cowboys so everyone knows they’re here.’ Bitterness laced her voice. Nikki noticed once again that she was playing with her necklace but now she had tugged it out from under her collar. A locket in the shape of a letter G was visible. When Sheena noticed her looking, she tucked the locket away. ‘Just a gift from my husband,’ Sheena explained. ‘For a pet name he used to have for me.’

  The locket looked similar to something Nikki’s grandmother had sent from India when she and Mindi were born, cartoonish initials moulded from gold. It was a child’s necklace – the chain was delicate and short. Sheena’s hurried explanation struck Nikki as strange but she was distracted by a bigger question: What would the Brothers do if they found out what went on in her writing class? Goose bumps prickled her skin as she realized she already knew the answer.

  Chapter Seven

  The wheel on the screen had been spinning for nearly a minute. Nikki pressed the CONFIRM button again and received a stern warning: Pressing CONFIRM again will re-submit your order. Do you want to re-submit? ‘No,’ she muttered. ‘I wanted it to work the first bloody time.’ Her arms ached from holding the laptop in its usually prime wifi connectivity position over the sink and she felt woeful for failing at her simple mission to make an Amazon purchase. During the last class, Sheena had asked if she could take a break from transcribing because of the strain on her wrist and Nikki had agreed to buy a recording device. She peered out the window – some clouds, but not a terrible day for a walk. There were some electronics shops in the area that she could try.

  It began spitting with rain halfway through Nikki’s journey to King Street. She broke into a jog and took refuge in the Oxfam shop. When she entered, she was breathless, stray hairs plastered to her forehead. The cashier smiled sympathetically at her.

  ‘Took a ghastly turn out there, didn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘Just terrible,’ Nikki said.

  On the electronics shelf, next to a box of second-hand hairdryers and adapter plugs, Nikki spotted a tape recorder with a glossy red finish. This could work. It would probably be easier than teaching the widows to use a digital recorder with all its bells and whistles anyhow. She took it to the cashier. ‘Have you got any blank cassette tapes by any chance?’

  ‘I’ve got a boxful somewhere,’ the cashier replied. ‘I’m also dying to get rid of our story cassettes. The library donated a whole Enid Blyton Famous Five series years ago but I haven’t had the heart to throw them out. We have to clear out some storage room in the back now and if I don’t find them a home …’

  ‘I could take some,’ Nikki said. She couldn’t
bear the thought of those tapes being thrown out either. Mum used to borrow them from the library when she was too little to read so she could follow along with Mindi.

  The cashier disappeared into the back room. While she was away, Nikki browsed the shelves. She came across the Beatrix Potter book again and flipped through it. ‘You don’t happen to have more books about Beatrix Potter, do you?’ Nikki called.

  ‘Everything we’ve got is on the shelves,’ the cashier said, emerging into view again. ‘Which book are you looking for?’

  ‘It’s not one of her stories, exactly. It’s a collection of her early sketches and journal entries. It’s very hard to find because it’s a collection of glossy pictures of the actual extracts rather than typed-up pages. I saw it a few years ago in a bookshop but didn’t buy it.’

  ‘I hate it when that happens. Book regret. You come across something and think, I don’t want that, and later, you’re obsessed with getting it and it’s no longer available.’

  Nikki’s regret was bigger than that. ‘Beti, what is this? A picture book?’ Dad had asked when he noticed her browsing it in a bookshop in Delhi. ‘It’s your exam year. These are cartoons.’ With no rupees of her own, Nikki was unable to purchase it herself. ‘It’s not a picture book,’ she’d said in frustration. ‘They’re Beatrix Potter’s journals.’ This meant little to Dad. Nikki had been sullen and resentful for the rest of the trip.

  The cashier looked up curiously at Nikki. ‘Any particular reason you’re buying a tape recorder in the twenty-first century?’

  ‘I’m teaching English to some older women,’ Nikki replied. ‘I don’t have much of a budget for learning aids and we’re recording conversations and improving accents.’ This was the line she had practised in case Kulwinder asked about it. She planned on staging a few recorded conversations with the students as a decoy.

  The cashier handed her a box filled with Famous Five story tapes. ‘Pick whichever you want.’ She smiled. ‘This one’s my favourite.’

  It was the story of a secret passageway. Only a few sentences, but Nikki was instantly transported to her childhood when Mum would play these tapes at night, rarely saying anything as Mindi followed the words on the page with her finger and Nikki sat captivated by the ebb and flow of the narrator’s voice. Despite her elite education in India, Mum must have lost confidence in her pronunciation once she arrived in England. Nikki thought of Tarampal Kaur with a rush of guilt. The woman just wanted to learn English and Nikki had all but ignored her yesterday when she stormed out in a rage.