Erotic Stories for Punjabi Widows

by Balli Kaur Jaswal

There it was, a tea stain the size of a small leaf on the top corner of the cover. It was the very same copy that she had longed for in Delhi all those years ago. ‘That’s incredible,’ she said. She plucked her debit card from her wallet and gave it to Hannah, who waved it away.

  ‘The gentleman already paid for it,’ she explained.

  ‘Which gentleman?’

  ‘The one who ordered this book. I asked him if he’d rather have it sent to his home or yours – do away with the middle man – but he insisted that we keep it in the shop window in case you walked past. I supposed he wanted to surprise you. I couldn’t keep it in the window though because that meant it would be available for other customers to purchase, so I had it under the counter but I looked out for you and told the guys on the late afternoon shift to do the same but I think they used it as an excuse to lure every girl they fancied into the shop …’

  Hannah’s explanation faded into the distance. All Nikki could think of was the word “gentleman.” It brought to mind a faceless benefactor in a top hat for some reason even though she was certain that it was Jason who had placed the order. He would have had to call every bookshop in Connaught Place in Delhi and she felt a little breathless at the thought.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ Nikki said. She clutched the book to her chest and walked outside in a bit of a daze. She passed the cinema, deciding to forgo the French film. Trees formed a cosy canopy on the street leading to the gardens. Nikki stepped between the shadows, finding patches of early morning light for momentary warmth. The din of traffic faded once she entered the gates of Hyde Park. Here, she walked for a while and found a bench opposite Kensington Palace. The book felt solid in her hands. Nikki ran her hand over the cover and brought the book to her nose to inhale its smell. She always had a small fear that if she ever found this book, it would bring some regret at how she had argued with Dad over it. But with her eyes shut, all she thought of was Jason – the navy jumper he had worn to their first date, the way her stomach flipped when she saw him walk into O’Reilly’s. Nikki took time to examine each page – the letters, the sketchy doodles. Although the pages were smooth, these pieces felt textured and real, as if she were inside Beatrix Potter’s mind. Jason had known just how much it meant to hold this very book in her hands.

  In the park, tourists weaved purposefully between the more evenly paced joggers and dog walkers. What people wanted from London was all here – the lush green gardens, the majestic domes and church spires, the black cabs busily circling. It was regal and mysterious; she could understand anybody’s impatience to be part of it. She was reminded of the widows. They would have known little of this London before their journey to this country, and upon their arrival, they would have known even less. Britain equalled a better life and they would have clung to this knowledge even as this life confounded and remained foreign. Every day in this new country would have been an exercise in forgiveness.

  Nikki picked up her phone and searched for Jason’s number.

  ‘I’ve got two cigarettes left and then I’m quitting for good,’ she said. ‘You’re doing this with me, all right?’

  She heard a prolonged sigh as if Jason had been holding his breath waiting for her to call. ‘Save me one,’ he said. Nikki told him where she was and she waited, watching a group of elderly cyclists rolling past slowly as they breathed in the crisp spring air. She couldn’t wait to see him. She couldn’t wait for them to begin again.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Kulwinder’s new office gleamed. She sat in a chair with a headrest and wheels on its feet. A large window framed the summer sky in a perfect blue square. Kulwinder could not see the old building from here and she was surprised that she missed it. True, it had been cramped and mouldy and the building itself could use a few renovations, but at least she did not have to be next door to the men of the Association. They lingered as if her open door was an invitation to stare like she was a curious display – the woman who had rounded up all those old bibis to make demands at the Sikh Community Association meeting.

  Not demands, Kulwinder reminded herself. Reasonable requests. Funding for a proper women’s centre, one that would provide free services like legal advisers for victims of domestic violence and a dedicated fitness centre where women could exercise without being harassed. Still, Kulwinder chuckled at the memory of the men’s appalled expressions when she said, ‘Take the time you need to need to consider our proposal, but I want to be present at every discussion from now on. No more impromptu decisions made in the men’s cliques in the langar hall. Is that clear?’ When nobody protested, she nodded and said, ‘Good. We all agree, then.’

  There was a light knocking sound. ‘Come in,’ Kulwinder said. The door remained shut. There was another louder knock. This was another thing to get used to in the new office – a more solid door blocked out the outside sounds but muffled her responses. ‘Come in,’ she shouted. The door opened.

  ‘Nikki!’ Kulwinder hurriedly closed the newspaper as the girl approached her desk. Kulwinder stood to hug her and noticed that her postman bag was missing. In its place was a backpack that bulged with books. ‘You’ve been studying hard,’ she commented.

  ‘I have some catching up to do. University starts up in a few weeks and I had such a long time away.’

  ‘I’m sure it will all come back to you.’

  ‘I’ve got a few new things to learn. The course is slightly different.’

  Nikki was so excited when she was offered one of the remaining spots in this programme, a law degree with an emphasis on social justice. ‘I want to help prevent what happened to girls like Maya,’ she had said when she rang Kulwinder to tell her the news, which made Kulwinder’s heart swell with pride. And then, in Nikki fashion, she had rattled on about women’s rights, except this time Kulwinder paid attention. ‘And there might be more unsolved cases like Gulshan’s and Karina’s killings. So few people questioned those girls’ deaths that it made it okay to continue the violence. Who knows – we might have grounds to open investigations for Gulshan and to open up Karina’s case again. I’m looking into ways to encourage conversations about honour crimes in communities like ours.’ Ours. Kulwinder’s throat tightened with emotion.

  Nikki nodded at the newspaper. ‘Anything new?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Kulwinder sighed.

  ‘It’ll take time,’ Nikki said. ‘I know it’s hard to wait though.’

  Jaggi was awaiting trial and that was all the information they had. She checked the paper habitually for updates, but with the passing of each day, she grappled with her disappointment. A part of her had hoped that he would be thrown straight into jail once Nikki had found the registration form among her belongings. Why did they need to ask him any more questions when the handwriting clearly matched? But the lawyers had explained something about due process of law and following procedures, which Kulwinder had to accept. At least she and Sarab had lawyers now – Gupta and Co., Solicitors, had come forward with an offer to fight Maya’s case for free. They assured Kulwinder that they had a good case, and they were confident about defeating Jaggi’s defence team when the time came. Kulwinder was full of gratitude but she kept thinking there was a catch to this whole no fee agreement even though Mr Gupta himself explained it was an act of community service. Nevertheless, once a week, she walked to his office on the Broadway and delivered a box of ladoos to the receptionist.

  Nikki pulled up a chair. ‘This is a lovely office. Much bigger than the old one.’

  Kulwinder looked around. ‘Thank you,’ she said with pride. She ran her fingers lightly over the smooth surface of her desk.

  ‘I came here with some exciting news,’ Nikki said.

  ‘Your sister is engaged,’ Kulwinder said.

  ‘No, not yet,’ Nikki said. ‘She’s seeing someone though.’

  ‘Oh. A nice boy?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Nikki said. ‘He’s quite nice. She’s happy around him.’

  ‘Good,’ Kulwinder said. She was mildly disap
pointed. It had been a long time since she’d attended a wedding in London. It would be nice to wear gold again. ‘What was your news then?’

  Nikki took in a breath. ‘We’re being published.’

  Kulwinder stared at her and said nothing. Nikki had to be joking. ‘The stories? Those ones?’ She pointed at the photocopied collection on her desk with its flimsy spiral binding that had begun to uncoil from use. There were other copies floating around Southall and beyond, but this was the original.

  ‘Those very ones – and possibly more. A company called Gemini Books wants to publish Erotic Stories for Punjabi Widows!’ Nikki unzipped her bag and pulled out a thick stack of pages that she handed to Kulwinder. It was a publishing contract full of jargon and complicated sentences that Kulwinder did not understand but she made a show of arranging her glasses on her face and pointing to specific clauses as if she appreciated their inclusion.

  ‘What language will they be published in?’ Kulwinder asked.

  ‘They’re bilingual publishers and they’re willing to have both Gurmukhi and English script. I told them that there are plenty more stories being written and they’ve offered us the opportunity to keep on publishing with them in a series.’

  ‘This is wonderful news,’ Kulwinder said. ‘Will we be able to keep some copies here for people to borrow?’

  ‘I’m sure we can. They can also buy the books. The profits could go into funding the women’s centre.’

  ‘Oh, Nikki,’ Kulwinder said. ‘This is even better news than an engagement.’

  Nikki laughed. ‘Glad to know it.’

  ‘Speaking of the women’s centre, have you given any more thought to my offer?’ A week ago, Kulwinder had called Nikki to ask her if she would teach a few classes. Nikki had seemed hesitant. Her shifting body language told Kulwinder that she was probably going to say no.

  ‘It’s a great opportunity,’ Nikki said. ‘But I’m afraid that with all of my study commitments this year and living so far away, I won’t be able to.’

  ‘Where are you living?’

  ‘Enfield,’ Nikki said.

  ‘With your mum?’

  ‘Temporarily,’ Nikki said. ‘I’ll probably share a flat with my friend Olive next year.’

  ‘You’ll need a job then,’ Kulwinder reminded her. ‘Rentals are expensive.’ Nikki probably thought she was desperate but nowadays there was no shortage of people wanting to teach in the women’s centre. Word had spread in the community and potential tutors called every day to inquire about vacancies.

  ‘The widows want you back,’ Kulwinder explained gently.

  ‘I miss them,’ Nikki said. ‘I’m keeping in touch with them. I saw Arvinder, Manjeet and Preetam in the langar hall just now. And Sheena and I are having coffee later.’

  ‘You could see them all the time. Sheena is going to teach the internet class. The others have enrolled.’

  ‘I need to focus on my studies for now,’ Nikki said. ‘Honestly, I’d love to otherwise.’

  Kulwinder understood. All of those books in Nikki’s bag needed to be read and who knew how long that would take? Still, there were ways of reminding young people of their duties. Kulwinder winced and clutched at the fabric of her blouse in the middle of her chest.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Nikki asked.

  ‘Oh me? Nothing,’ Kulwinder said. She kept her features stretched with pain for a moment before relaxing. It was working. Nikki looked worried.

  ‘Should I take you to a hospital?’ Nikki asked.

  ‘No, no,’ Kulwinder said. ‘It’s just my acid reflux condition. I get these pains. They get worse as I get older.’ Actually, the doctor had given her samples of a new medication that let her eat as much achar as she wanted – no consequent bloating or burping.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Nikki said.

  ‘There are days when I just need to be at home,’ Kulwinder said. ‘Not worrying about how to staff my classes.’

  ‘Have you got a class on Sundays?’ Nikki asked.

  ‘No, no, don’t trouble yourself. You are very busy with your studies.’

  ‘I could travel here on Sundays.’

  Kulwinder knew the timetable by heart. No classes were allocated to Sundays because that day was usually dedicated to weddings and special prayer programmes at the temple. ‘We can’t pay you to run a Sunday class.’

  ‘So don’t. I’ll volunteer,’ Nikki said. ‘I’ll come in on Sundays to run an English writing class or a conversation workshop. People can drop in if they want.’

  ‘I couldn’t ask you to do that,’ Kulwinder said.

  ‘I’ll find the time,’ Nikki said. ‘I should be part of this place. You should be taking care of yourself.’

  ‘It’s just my stomach,’ Kulwinder said.

  ‘Yes, like my mother’s migraines,’ Nikki said wryly. ‘Triggered during arguments and then mysteriously cured when she wins.’

  Kulwinder gave Nikki a weak smile and a final wince for good measure.

  After Nikki left, Kulwinder stood by the window. From up here, life in Southall shrank to miniatures – people and cars and trees she could collect in the palm of her hand. No wonder the men always seemed so high and mighty during meetings. They watched the world from this vantage point and it looked insignificant. Just look at that cluster of widows weaving through the parked cars like ghosts. They could be scrunched-up pieces of paper. Kulwinder cast a weary glance over her office and made a decision. She would do the official paperwork here but she would make it a point to spend most of her time on the ground with the women. She should start now.

  As she moved away from the window to pick up her bag, she saw Nikki’s tiny figure crossing the lot. A young man was waiting for her. It had to be Jason Bhamra. Kulwinder had heard from the widows that they were an item now. She saw them meeting, their limbs bumping in playful greeting. Nikki tossed her head back and let out a laugh as Jason whispered into her ear.

  Kulwinder turned toward the temple and uttered a quick prayer in gratitude of pleasure. The sensation of contact, the anticipation of a kiss or brush of Sarab’s hand across her bare thigh – such moments were miniuscule but they amounted to a lifetime of happiness.

  Acknowledgements

  Gratitude, love and admiration for the following:

  Anna Power, the first person to read this story and see its potential. From mentor to literary agent and friend, your dedication and enthusiasm keep me going.

  The entire HarperCollins team for welcoming me so warmly and with such excitement. Martha Ashby and Rachel Kahan, your feedback and insights made editing a discovery rather than just a process. Kimberley Young, Hannah Gamon and Felicity Denham, I’m very lucky to have such passionate champions for this book.

  Jaskiran Badh-Sidhu and her wonderful parents and grandmother, whose love and generosity made England feel like a second home. Without you, this book would not exist.

  Prithi Rao, your comments on this manuscript were invaluable and your friendship even more so.

  Paul, you are absolutely everything good, inspiring and true in this world. It would be a very unfunny life without you. I love you to bits.

  About the Author

  Balli Kaur Jaswal was inspired to write Erotic Stories for Punjabi Widows after spending time in Southall while writer in residence at the University of East Anglia. Born in Singapore, she has lived all around the world, including Australia, Japan, Russia, the Philippines, Turkey, the US and the UK. She now lives in Singapore.

  Also by Balli Kaur Jaswal

  Inheritance

  Sugarbread

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