‘So much work has gone into those stories,’ Nikki said. ‘You have no idea. Please give them back to us.’ She had thought of scanning the pages into a back-up copy but she hadn’t got around to it. ‘You weren’t even supposed to be back yet,’ she accused.
‘And you thought that as long as I was away, you’d make a mockery of my English classes? Thank goodness I had the sense to check up on you. You’ve never taken this job seriously.’
‘You advertised for an instructor for a storytelling class. That’s what I wanted to do, and that’s what the women wanted out of these sessions as well.’
‘Don’t you dare blame me for this,’ Kulwinder said, pointing her finger inches away from Nikki’s face. ‘I should have known you were going around recruiting women to sabotage my classes and turn them into something corrupt.’
‘The women came on their own,’ Nikki said.
‘You were knocking on doors on my street just before I left for India. I saw you.’
‘I only visited Tarampal because I wanted to—’
‘You went to Mrs Shah’s house before that. I saw you from my window.’
‘I got the address wrong,’ Nikki said. ‘Honestly. I wasn’t going around—’
‘That’s enough. You are lying to my face now.’
‘Well, it’s true. You can ask Mrs Shah if you want. The form said 18 Ansell Road but Tarampal lived on 16 Ansell Road. She had written 16 but the ink was smudged and it looked like 18 …’ Nikki paused. It didn’t sound like the truth. Tarampal did not know how to write her own address.
‘I don’t want to hear any more excuses. You’ve gambled with my reputation. Do you know what people will say once this gets out? Do you realize how hard it was to ask the men of the Board to fund these classes?’ Kulwinder asked.
Nikki nodded absent-mindedly. Her mind was still on the form. She recalled Jason’s story about his mother scrubbing the ink stains from his left hand.
‘And with so many women joining the classes, did you really think you could hide this from me? How long were you going to—?’
‘Bibi Kulwinder,’ Nikki said.
‘Don’t interrupt me.’
‘Bibi Kulwinder, this is important,’ Nikki said. The urgency in her voice must have struck Kulwinder. For a moment, she looked concerned.
‘What is it?’ she asked irritably.
‘Your son-in-law, Jaggi. Was he left-handed?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘More importantly, was Maya right-handed? Because … because …’
‘What on earth are you—?’
‘Just, please, I know this sounds crazy.’ Nikki rushed back into the classroom and returned with Tarampal’s registration form. ‘This is Jaggi’s handwriting. You could show this to the police and they could compare it to the note. The note was smudged too, wasn’t it? Those weren’t tears – his hand just brushed against the ink and—’
Kulwinder snatched the form from Nikki’s hands. She didn’t even look at it. Her anger made her chest heave up and down. ‘Who the hell are you to bring my daughter into this?’ she asked, her voice suddenly low and frightening.
‘I know that you’re afraid to investigate it but there might be something here,’ Nikki said. She pointed at the registration form. ‘Just consider it, please. I could go to the police with you. There’s evidence.’
‘What happened to Maya has nothing to do with you,’ Kulwinder said. ‘You have no right—’
‘I have every right if I think an innocent woman was killed and the culprit could be caught.’
‘You’re trying to change the subject to distract me,’ Kulwinder said. ‘I won’t have you using my classes or the women of this community to carry out your agenda – whatever it may be.’
‘I don’t have an—’ Nikki attempted to argue, but Kulwinder’s silencing palm had shot up again like a wall. She stared her down. ‘I want you to go back into that room and clear them out. These classes are suspended. You are fired.’
Chapter Twelve
Kulwinder marched home against the brisk winds, clutching the folder to her chest. Her rage was in danger of spilling out onto the streets. She wanted to scream and for a strange moment, she invited thoughts of running into Jaggi now. One fiery look would send him scuttling away.
She arrived home with wild hair and flushed cheeks. Sarab was in the living room as always, the television lights flickering through the windows. She marched in and commanded his attention with a wave of the folder. ‘Did you know about this?’
He looked up, the remote control poised as if to pause her. ‘Know about what?’
‘The English classes. The other day, you said the classes have become very popular. Did you know what was going on?’
He shrugged and looked down. A movie heroine raced across the screen, her faithful dupatta trailing behind her like a red banner. ‘There has been some talk, sure. The English classes are not what they seem.’
‘What are people saying exactly? What are the men saying?’
‘You know I don’t listen much to idle conversation. There were just a few comments that some wives were becoming more outspoken. They had an entirely new vocabulary to describe …’ He shrugged and watched the heroine, who was inexplicably wearing a completely different outfit now. Kulwinder took the remote from him and turned off the television.
‘Describe what?’ she demanded.
‘Their desires.’ His face flushed. ‘In the bedroom.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me this?’ she asked.
‘Kulwinder,’ he said calmly. Her heart missed a beat. It had been very long since he said her name. ‘When have I been able to tell you anything you don’t want to hear?’
She stared at him in disbelief. ‘Those women’s conversations aren’t just about their bedroom lives. They told Nikki about Maya. For all I know, they’ve been discussing it openly for weeks and putting our lives at risk.’ She hadn’t recognized half the women in that room – what versions of the story had they spun and how would she control it?
‘Do they know something?’ Sarab asked. The hope in his voice broke Kulwinder’s heart.
‘Nikki thinks she has some proof but it’s nothing, Sarab. We shouldn’t get our hopes up.’
As Kulwinder relayed Nikki’s discovery about Jaggi’s handwriting, she remembered the police telling her about the note and its contents. The constable had to brace her fall as she staggered onto a chair. What had the note said? Something about being sorry, something about being ashamed. ‘They’re not my daughter’s words,’ Kulwinder had managed to say. ‘My daughter was not concerned about izzat.’ When had Maya ever used Punjabi words when an English one would suffice? The writer of the note had been careless and hasty in this imitation of her daughter.
Sarab stared and stared. He looked at Kulwinder as if she had materialized suddenly out of thin air. ‘Jaggi’s left-handed.’
‘So what?’ Kulwinder asked. ‘It doesn’t mean—’
‘There’s something we can do.’
‘Will they accept it?’ Kulwinder asked. ‘Or will they just repeat what they’ve always said: that Maya was distressed, that it’s natural to look for somebody to blame? Then what if the police won’t help us and Jaggi finds out we’ve gone to them again?’ The first time Jaggi called in the middle of the night, there were no threats. He simply told her that he and his friends knew what time Sarab left work on his late shifts. ‘The important thing is to stay safe now,’ she reminded Sarab.
‘Is it?’ Sarab asked angrily. ‘Are we meant to live our whole lives in fear?’ He crossed the room and pulled open the living room curtains, exposing the view of Tarampal’s house across the road.
‘Please,’ Kulwinder said, turning her back on the window. ‘Close the curtains.’ Sarab did as she asked. They sat in the shadows, listening to the low hum of the house lights. ‘Sarab, if something happened to you—’ She couldn’t complete her sentence. She was aware of Sarab’s heaving breaths from acro
ss the room. ‘I lost Maya. I can’t lose you as well.’
Sarab’s lip trembled. Say it to me now, Kulwinder urged silently but he looked past her. She wondered if he had been lonely when she was away or relieved not to avoid speaking to her. She could see them drifting further apart, sleeping in separate rooms, politely waiting for each other to vacate the living room before settling in front of the television. Just the thought made her feel terribly lonely, as if it was already happening.
‘How about Nikki?’ Sarab asked.
Kulwinder narrowed her eyes. The last thing she wanted to do was talk about Nikki. ‘What about her?’ she asked impatiently.
‘Where does she live?’
‘Somewhere in West London.’
‘Tell her she needs to be careful.’
Kulwinder thought back to her heated confrontation with Nikki. Not once had she mentioned to Nikki that she might be in danger. Did Jaggi know about Nikki’s questions? And what if the Brothers found out that she was the ringleader of these classes? Kulwinder shook her head to dismiss the thought. Nikki lived outside Southall. There was no need to panic about her safety. ‘I don’t know where she might be now,’ Kulwinder said.
‘Go to the next class and—’
‘I’ve suspended the classes,’ Kulwinder said. ‘I fired Nikki.’
Sarab looked up sharply. ‘Kulwinder, think about the girl,’ he said. He drew himself away from her. She felt the emptiness of the room as he vacated it but her indignation remained. It was Nikki who had put them in this situation. If she had just done her job, none of this would have happened. Kulwinder opened the folder. Weeks and weeks of deception were written in these pages. Picking through the folder, she saw that one of the illiterate widows had put her artistic talents to use and filled a page with illustrations. A man hovering over a woman’s breast, his mouth slightly open to capture her nipple. A woman straddling a man, the crease down her spine to her buttock defined to show the slight arching of her back. Filth.
Kulwinder tossed the papers back into the folder and went to the kitchen to make some tea. She poured the water into the pot. While waiting for it to heat up, she could not help thinking about the angles of the man’s body as he crouched over the woman. She shook her head and focused on the pot. Tiny bubbles were beginning to surface on the water. She crossed to the spice cabinet and took out the fennel and cardamom seeds and there, again, she paused and shut her eyes. Spots of light danced around as her vision adjusted to the darkness. Then, instead of disappearing, the spots took shape. A man. A woman. Fingers skilfully gliding across bare skin. Red lips pressing into glistening flesh. Her eyes flew open. She went to the stove and took the pot off. She glanced at the folder. She supposed there was no harm in reading one story, just to review the information. After all, if she were to be questioned by the council over this, she needed to have all the details.
Kulwinder picked out the first story.
The Tailor
Centuries ago, on the fringes of a palace city, there was a talented but modest tailor named Ram. Ram’s customers were women who wanted to look like the royals who lived within the palace walls. These women travelled for miles to see Ram, carrying with them a list of seemingly impossible demands. It was said that Ram had a gift for putting together the most regal and fashionable creations out of nothing. He could spin a simple yellow thread into gold and turn an ordinary pale green into the rich emerald shade of a rare jewel.
Many of Ram’s customers were enamoured with him. They noticed the way he handled his modest sewing machine, his fingers deftly moving between layers of cloth and they drew conclusions about what a talented man he must be between the sheets. During fittings, some women purposely loosened their top garments and leaned forward to give him a sneak peek at their cleavage. Some left a gap in the curtain of the changing space to give Ram a chance to peek. Ram paid no attention. While working, he preferred not to be distracted by temptations. One day he would have time for a lover but for now there were too many orders. Word had spread all over India that Ram was the best tailor. The popular rhyme went:
The tailor Ram is the best in town
You’ll feel like a royal in a fancy gown
His prices are good, his prices are fair
You’ll be a queen with a crown in her hair
But for every piece of praise Ram received, there was also a curse. Jealous tailors all over India were furious with him for luring their clients away with his magical skills. Ordinary men cursed him for catering to the demands of their wives, who, when wearing such fine saris, expected royal treatment.
One afternoon a woman came to Ram asking for his help. Her hazel eyes made Ram’s heart skip. ‘For once, I would like to look like a rich woman,’ she told him in a voice that he wanted to hear whispering in his ear. She handed him an old shawl. ‘I can’t afford to buy something new but can you stitch a border onto this?’
‘Of course,’ Ram said. For you, I would do anything, he thought. ‘Your husband must have bought this for you.’
The woman smiled and tucked a stray hair behind her ear. ‘I have no husband,’ she said to Ram’s delight.
This beautiful woman was fit to look like a queen. Ram decided that he would not accept any payment from her when the shawl was completed – all he wanted was a chance at another conversation so he could find out her name. Ram’s passion for the woman ignited his creativity. He blended dyes to create threads of the most brilliant colours to impress her. The border of the shawl would be lined with a parade of turquoise and magenta peacocks. In the centre of the border, Ram would embroider a replica of the palace with a minuscule image of the woman standing in one of its windows. He would point it out to her, this secret, so she would know that she was his queen.
A scene with this level of detail required Ram’s fullest concentration. He was so focused that he dismissed the voices of the children playing outside. It was only when he heard his name that he stopped working and paid attention.
The tailor Ram is the best in town
You’ll look like a princess in a fancy gown
His prices are good, his prices are fair
But he’ll never be a part of a loving pair
This was the worst curse in existence because it banished its victim to a lifetime of loneliness. Ram ran outside. ‘Where did you hear that?’ Ram asked. The children scattered. Ram chased them up the street before he realized that he was still holding the shawl. It was ripped and covered in mud from being dragged along the ground. ‘Oh no!’ Ram cried out. He returned to his shop and tried his best to repair the shawl but it was ruined. That evening, when the woman returned to check on his progress, Ram hung his head in shame and said that he had lost the shawl. The woman was outraged. Gone was the warmth from her hazel eyes. ‘How could you do this?’ she screamed. ‘You’re the worst tailor in the world!’
Ram closed his shop the next day. He wept at his workstation, seeing the curse darkening his future like a storm cloud. He had never wished for anything before but now he wished for a chance at intimacy. Why didn’t I bed a woman when I had the chance? he asked himself. He went to sleep dreaming of the milky thighs of the customers who had bared their bodies to him. In his dreams, he was bold enough to bury his face in their bosoms and breathe in their sweet scent. In another dream, Ram saw himself bent over a woman, kissing her plump lips as she stroked his manhood with one hand and tickled her own private parts with the other …
Suddenly, Ram woke to a rustling noise. A burglar! Ram leapt out of bed and rushed to his storage room first. Nobody was there. The rustling noise started again. Ram shone his lamp in the direction of the noise and noticed that his fabric was moving. He picked it up and noticed that it was heavier than usual, almost solid. He brought it to his workstation to see it in a better light. The fabric twisted away from his grip and fell to the floor. Its shape shifted in waves until a woman fully emerged. Ram staggered back against the wall, staring at this ghostly thing in his home.
‘W-
what are you?’ he stammered.
She had the sorts of eyelids that swept as dramatically as butterfly wings each time she blinked. Her skin had a golden hue and her shimmering hair let off the sweet scent of jasmine. The curves of her body were very arousing. She followed his gaze across her chest and reached for him. Her touch was soft. Her fingers, now fully formed, ran along her body to show him that she was real. She drew attention to parts of the body that Ram had never had to consider as a tailor – the bone jutting from her collar, the sharp edge of her elbow. Her toenails were curved and white like half-moons. Her belly button was a dark crater in the golden desert of her body. Ram reached out to clutch a handful of flesh above her hip. It was as real as his own.
‘Call me Laila,’ she said.
She put her lips to his earlobe and sucked it gently. Shivers of delight ran through Ram like an electric current. He ran his hands down her back and grabbed her buttocks, drawing their hips together as they fell back against the bed of fabric. She unwound the loose cloth that covered the top of her body and exposed her breasts to Ram. Ram flicked his tongue against a dark nipple. Laila gasped with pleasure, grinding herself against him. Ram switched to the other breast. She tasted salty and musky, the way he could never have imagined. Daringly, he brought his fingers to her mouth. She licked and sucked on them. Ram’s manhood throbbed with anticipation of what Laila’s sweet, silky mouth might do for him. His fingers were slick with saliva when he pulled them away from Laila’s lips and into the silky crevice between her legs.
‘You’re so real,’ Ram uttered.
Laila spread her legs wider and allowed Ram to stroke her. The fabric beneath her darkened with shadows of sweat. With both thumbs, Ram gently parted the folds of her womanhood and used the tip of his tongue to tickle her protruding button. Laila’s giggle turned him on even more. She rolled over him, pulling off his pants fiercely. His manhood was stiff. Laila teased him. She brushed her wetness against the tip of his manhood and watched his face contort with pleasure. ‘How does that feel?’ she breathed into his ear. Her breasts dangled over his lips. He replied with a groan. ‘That’s not a proper answer,’ Laila said sternly. With a scowl, she lowered herself onto him and began riding vigorously on his hard, thick stick.
Erotic Stories for Punjabi Widows Page 24