Erotic Stories for Punjabi Widows

by Balli Kaur Jaswal

  ‘I emailed a few times with one guy who seemed okay,’ Mindi continued.

  ‘Lovely,’ Nikki said. ‘By this time next year you’ll be washing up in his kitchen instead of this one.’

  ‘Shut up.’ After a beat Mindi added, ‘His name is Pravin. Does that sound like an all right name to you?’

  ‘It sounds like a name.’

  ‘He works in finance. We’ve chatted on the phone once.’

  ‘So I go through all the trouble to post your profile on a noticeboard and you’ve enlisted Auntie Geeta as your matchmaker anyway?’

  ‘I didn’t receive any responses from the temple profile,’ Mindi said. ‘You’re sure you put it on the Marriage Board?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Mindi studied her. ‘Liar.’

  ‘I did just as you asked,’ Nikki insisted.

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I put it on the Marriage Board. It just might not be the most prominent flyer there. There are lots of flyers and—’

  ‘Typical,’ Mindi muttered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Of course you’d put the least amount of effort into helping me with this.’

  ‘I went all the way to a temple in Southall. That’s no small effort,’ Nikki shot back.

  ‘Yet you’ve signed on for a job which means you’ll be travelling there regularly. How does that work? You’re all right with going to Southall as long as it benefits your needs.’

  ‘It’s not all about me. I’m helping women.’

  Mindi snorted. ‘Helping? Nikki, this sounds like another one of your …’ she waved as if trying to stir up the word from thin air. ‘Your causes.’

  ‘What’s wrong with having a cause?’ Nikki demanded. ‘I care about helping women tell their stories. It’s a much more worthwhile pastime than advertising for a husband.’

  ‘This is what you do,’ Mindi said. ‘You follow your so-called passions and don’t consider the consequences for other people.’

  This charge again. It would be easier to be a criminal fairly prosecuted by the law than an Indian daughter who wronged her family. A crime would be punishable by a jail sentence of definite duration rather than this uncertain length of family guilt trips.

  ‘How exactly did my leaving university have consequences for other people? It was my decision. Sure, Dad could no longer tell his family in India I was becoming a lawyer. Big deal. It wasn’t worth being unhappy just so he could have bragging rights.’

  ‘It wasn’t about bragging rights,’ Mindi said. ‘It was about duty.’

  ‘You sound like an Indian housewife already.’

  ‘You had a duty to Dad. He had been so devoted to championing you – all those school debates, all those speech contests. He included you in political conversations with his friends and he didn’t stop you from arguing with Mum if he thought you had a point. He put such faith in you.’ There was a note of hurt in Mindi’s voice. Dad and Mum had taken Mindi on a trip to India before her exams as well, taking all spiritual steps to ensure that she got into medical school. After the results indicated nursing – not medical school – as her best option, Dad’s disappointment had been obvious and, with renewed enthusiasm, he shifted his focus to Nikki.

  ‘He was proud of you too, you know,’ Nikki said. ‘He wished I were more practical like you.’ Having been measured up against his brother his whole life, Dad had been careful to avoid comparing his daughters but after Nikki dropped out of university, all fair play went out the window. ‘Look at Mindi. She works hard. She wants a stable future. Why can’t you be like that?’ he’d said.

  Nikki felt a sudden rush of irritation with Dad. ‘You know, Dad contradicted himself all the time. One minute he was saying, “follow your dreams, that’s why we came to England” and the next he was dictating what I should do for a living. He assumed that my dreams were identical to his.’

  ‘He saw a potential career for you in law. You had the chance to succeed professionally. What are you doing now?’

  ‘I’m exploring my options,’ Nikki said.

  ‘By this time, you could have been earning a salary,’ Mindi reminded her.

  ‘I’m not as concerned with money and material things as you are, Mindi. That’s really what this whole arranged marriage thing is about, isn’t it? You’re not confident that you’ll meet a professional with a fat salary in a pub but if you screen the profiles of a few Indian doctors and engineers, you can zero in right away on their earnings and filter them accordingly.’

  Mindi turned off the tap and stared angrily at her. ‘Don’t you make me feel like a gold digger for wanting to support Mum! There are expenses to think about. You left, so you have no idea.’

  ‘I moved across London. It’s hardly as if I abandoned my family. This is what young women do in Britain! We move out. We become independent. This is our culture.’

  ‘You think Mum isn’t concerned about finances? You think she doesn’t want to retire early from working for the council and enjoy her life? I’m the only one contributing here. Things need to be repaired, unexpected bills arrive, and the car servicing is overdue. Think about that the next time you spout out your lines about independence.’

  Nikki felt a pinch of guilt in her gut. ‘I thought Dad had savings.’

  ‘He did, but some of his savings were tied up in his company’s stock options. They haven’t really recovered since the financial crisis. And he took out that loan to renovate the guest bathroom, remember? Mum had to defer payments and now the interest has nearly doubled. It means Mum has had to put off all these other home improvements she thought would be done by now. The curtains, the built-in shoe cupboard, the kitchen counters. She’s already starting to worry about losing face. She’s concerned about how our home would look to my prospective husband’s family, not to mention what they might say if she couldn’t afford a dowry or a lavish celebration.’

  ‘Min, I had no idea.’

  ‘I told her I wouldn’t marry someone from a superficial family and she said, “There might not be any Punjabi boys for you to marry then.” She was joking of course.’ Mindi smiled but her eyes were tight with worry.

  ‘I could help,’ Nikki said.

  ‘You’ve got your own expenses to think about.’

  ‘I’ll have some extra income from this new job. I could send some money once a fortnight.’ Nikki hesitated, realizing what she had just committed to. The extra income was supposed to go into her savings so she’d have something to fall back on when O’Reilly’s went bust. She would need money to rent a place then because moving back home would be far too humiliating. ‘It won’t be much,’ Nikki added.

  Mindi looked pleased. ‘It’s the gesture that counts,’ she said. ‘I have to say, I didn’t expect this of you. It’s very responsible. Thank you.’

  In the other room, Mum had turned up the volume of her television series and the shrill violin notes of a Hindi song poured through the house. Mindi turned the tap back on. Nikki stood by while Mindi scrubbed the dishes, her vigorous motions sending soap suds flying into the air. As they landed on the counter, Nikki wiped them off with her fingers.

  ‘Use a towel,’ Mindi said. ‘You’re leaving streaks.’ Nikki did as she was told.

  ‘So when are you meeting Pravin?’

  ‘Friday,’ Mindi said.

  ‘Mum’s excited about it, I guess?’

  Mindi shrugged. She peered at Mum through the kitchen entrance and lowered her voice. ‘She is, but I talked to him on the phone last night.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He asked me if I wanted to work after marriage.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ Nikki said, dropping a dishtowel on the counter and turning to stare at Mindi. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said yes. He didn’t sound thrilled about it.’

  ‘You’re still meeting him?’

  ‘You don’t know until you meet someone face to face, do you?’

  ‘Judging from the temple profiles alone, I wouldn’t give
any of those men the time of day,’ Nikki said.

  ‘But that’s you,’ Mindi said. ‘You and your feminism.’ With a flick of her wrist, she dismissed Nikki and everything she stood for.

  Rather than enter another argument, Nikki finished her share of the dishes without saying another word. As she slipped out into the back garden to sneak an after-dinner cigarette, she felt as if she could breathe again.

  The next day Nikki arrived at the community centre early to set up her classroom. The room was as modest as Kulwinder Kaur’s office. Two rows of desks and chairs faced a blank whiteboard. Nikki moved the seats around – according to Olive, a horseshoe shape would help promote more discussion. A thrill shot through Nikki as she pictured the classroom full of women writing the stories of their lives.

  For the first lesson, Nikki had prepared an introductory task. Everybody was to write a complete scene in ten simple sentences. Then, returning to each sentence, they had to add a detail – dialogue or description for example.

  By 7.15 p.m., Nikki had paced the classroom and wandered out twice into the deserted hallway. She stepped back inside and wiped the board for the fifth time. She stared at the empty chairs. Perhaps this was all some elaborate prank.

  As she began to pull the desks back to where she’d found them, Nikki heard footsteps. The loud, slow thumps made Nikki aware of her own heartbeat. She was in this rundown building all alone. She pulled a chair out in front of her, preparing to use it should she need to.

  There was a knock on the door. Through the window, Nikki saw a woman wearing a scarf on her head. It was just a lost granny. It did not occur to Nikki that she was one of her students until the woman entered and took a seat.

  ‘Are you here for the writing class?’ Nikki asked in Punjabi.

  ‘Yes,’ the old lady nodded.

  Do you speak English? Nikki thought it would be rude to ask.

  ‘I guess you’re my only student tonight,’ Nikki said. ‘We’ll begin.’ She turned to the board but the woman said, ‘No, the others are coming.’

  The women streamed in together at twenty-five past. One by one they took their seats and made no apologies for their tardiness. Nikki cleared her throat. ‘Class begins at 7 p.m. sharp,’ she said. The women looked up in surprise. Nikki saw that they were mostly elders who weren’t used to being reprimanded by a young woman. She backtracked slightly. ‘If this time doesn’t work with the bus schedule, I’m sure we can arrange to begin at half-past instead.’ There were some nods and a general murmur of approval.

  ‘Let’s quickly introduce ourselves,’ Nikki said. ‘I’ll start. My name is Nikki. I like to write and I’m looking forward to teaching you all to write as well.’ She gave the first woman a nod.

  ‘Preetam Kaur.’ Like some of the other women, she wore a white salwaar kameez, which indicated her widow’s status. A scarf hemmed with white lace hid her hair and a walking stick printed with lavender floral patterns lay at her feet.

  ‘And why have you joined this class, Preetam?’ Nikki asked.

  Preetam winced at the sound of her name. The other women looked startled as well. ‘That’s Bibi Preetam to you, young lady,’ she said stiffly. ‘Or Auntie. Or Preetam-ji.’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry,’ Nikki said. These were her students but they were also Punjabi elders and she would have to address them appropriately.

  Preetam accepted her apology with a nod. ‘I want to learn writing,’ she said. ‘I’d like to be able to send letters on the internet to my grandchildren in Canada.’

  Strange. She seemed to think the course would cover letter writing and emailing. Nikki nodded to the next woman.

  ‘Tarampal Kaur. I want to write,’ the woman said simply. She had small lips, which pinched tightly together as if she wasn’t meant to speak at all. Nikki couldn’t help her gaze lingering on Tarampal Kaur – like the older women, she was shrouded in white but there was hardly a wrinkle on her face. Nikki placed her in her early forties.

  The woman next to Tarampal also appeared much younger than the rest, with reddish brown streaks dyed in her hair and pink lipstick that matched her purse. The colours stood out against the plain cream of her kameez. She introduced herself in English, with just the slightest hint of an Indian accent. ‘I’m Sheena Kaur. I can read and write in Punjabi and English but I want to learn to be a better writer. And if you call me Bibi or Auntie, I’ll just die because I must only be ten or fifteen years older than you.’

  Nikki smiled. ‘Very nice to meet you, Sheena,’ she said.

  The next elderly woman was tall and thin and had a distinct mole on her chin from which fine hairs poked out. ‘Arvinder Kaur. I want to learn to write everything. Stories, letters, everything.’

  ‘Manjeet Kaur,’ said another woman without being prompted. She smiled brightly at Nikki. ‘Do you also teach us how to do some basic accounting?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’d like to write and also learn how to do the bills. There are so many.’ The other women murmured in agreement. So many bills!

  Nikki put her hand up to silence them. ‘I wouldn’t know the first thing about accounting. I’m here to run a creative writing workshop, to collect a collaboration of voices.’ The women stared blankly at her. She cleared her throat. ‘It’s occurring to me that some of you might not be proficient enough in English to write confidently. Who is in this category? Not confident in English?’ She raised her hand to indicate that they should do the same. All of the widows except Sheena raised their hands.

  ‘That’s okay,’ Nikki said. ‘In fact, if you’d prefer to write your stories in Punjabi, I can adjust to that. Some things are just lost in translation anyway.’ The women’s prolonged staring made Nikki uneasy. Finally, Arvinder raised her hand.

  ‘Excuse me, Nikki – how are we meant to write stories?’

  ‘Good question.’ She turned to the desk and picked up her stack of loose-leaf paper. ‘Now I know we lost some time today but this is great place to start.’ She passed the papers around and explained the instructions. The women reached into their bags and took out their pens and pencils.

  Nikki turned to the board to write down a few essential notes for the next lesson. ‘Next class is on Tuesday, 7.30–9.00 p.m. Be punctual.’ She wrote this in Punjabi as well, thinking herself quite considerate and adaptable. When she turned back around, she expected to see the women hunched over their papers, scribbling away but they remained still. Manjeet and Preetam tapped their pens against their desks and looked at each other. Tarampal looked positively irritated.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Nikki asked.

  Silence.

  ‘Why isn’t anybody writing?’ she asked.

  More silence and then Tarampal spoke. ‘How are we supposed to write?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘How are we supposed to write,’ Tarampal repeated, ‘when you haven’t taught us yet?’

  ‘I am trying to teach you to write, but we have to start somewhere, don’t we? I know it’s difficult, but if I’m to help you with your stories then you need to actually start writing them. Just a few sentences …’ She trailed off when she noticed Preetam. The way she clutched the pencil reminded Nikki of being in nursery school. It dawned on her then, just as Arvinder began to pack away her things.

  ‘You knew,’ Nikki said as soon as Kulwinder answered the phone. She didn’t bother saying sat sri akal first – she wasn’t going to pay respects to this conniving elder.

  ‘Knew what?’ Kulwinder asked.

  ‘Those women can’t write.’

  ‘Of course. You’re meant to teach them.’

  ‘They. Can’t. Write.’ Nikki wanted the words to burn past Kulwinder’s calm exterior. ‘You tricked me into it. I thought I’d be teaching a creative writing workshop, not an adult literacy class. They can’t even spell their own names.’

  ‘You’re meant to teach them,’ Kulwinder repeated. ‘You said you wanted to teach writing.’

  ‘Creative writing. Stories.
Not the alphabet!’

  ‘So teach them how to write and then they can write all the stories they want.’

  ‘Do you have any idea how long that will take?’

  ‘The classes are twice a week.’

  ‘It will take more than twice-weekly classes. You know that.’

  ‘These are very capable women,’ Kulwinder said.

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘You weren’t born writing stories, were you? Didn’t you have to learn your ABC first? Wasn’t it the simplest thing you had to learn?’

  Nikki caught the contempt in Kulwinder’s voice. ‘Look. You’re trying to prove a point – I get it. I’m modern and I think I can do anything I want. Well, I can.’

  She was about to tell Kulwinder that she quit but the words got caught in her throat. She considered it, a familiar sense of anxiety seizing her stomach. Leaving this job would mean having nothing to contribute to Mum and Mindi. Worse yet, they would know that she had given up after just one class and they would be proven right – that Nikki didn’t follow through on anything, that she was just a drifter who avoided responsibilities. She thought of the crumbling pub and pictured Sam wrapped in ribbons of receipts apologetically telling her that she was being let go.

  ‘This job was falsely advertised. I could report you for that,’ Nikki said finally.

  Kulwinder responded with a snort, as if she knew the emptiness of Nikki’s threat. ‘Report me to whom?’ she challenged. She waited for a response but Nikki had none. Kulwinder’s message was clear: Nikki had stumbled into her territory and now must play by her rules.

  In winter, the days lost their shape early. The streets were blurry with shadows and traffic lights as Kulwinder walked home and thought about her day. She wasn’t proud of deceiving Nikki but the more she thought about their conversation, the more she remembered how Nikki had incensed her. It was that demanding attitude that got under her skin. How dare you ask me to teach these idiots, she might as well have said.