Finally, it happened. A bursting release that spread through Sunita’s body and shook her every muscle loose. She moaned, clutching the Professor’s hair. He looked up at her and for the first time, she felt shy. She turned her cheek so it was obscured by night shadows. Seconds or hours passed – she could not be sure because time was an illusion in these farmlands after dark.
Eventually, she turned around. The Professor was gone. She sat up, confused. Her salwar was tied tightly around her waist and she was wearing her tunic. Had it all been a fantasy? It couldn’t be. Those feelings of pleasure were too vivid. She leaned over the roof and looked into the neighbour’s home. The Professor’s bedroom window was shut and the curtains drawn.
Sunita didn’t want to grieve. Perhaps the powers of her imagination were so strong that she had willed this dream to become a brief reality but that only meant that it could happen again. Climbing off the roof, she thought about the men she had refused that afternoon, sitting with their families and plotting their next bridal viewing. She touched her hands to her mole. Her sweat had worn away the concealing powder. All along, everybody was wrong, Sunita decided. There was nothing unlucky about being able to see the world the way she did.
The women were captivated. They leaned towards Manjeet, sliding to the edges of their chairs to hear more. Manjeet maintained her straight posture throughout, her eyes shut as she drifted into Sunita’s world. She opened her eyes and shot Nikki a furtive look. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I get carried away.’
‘Don’t apologize. That was beautiful. Your story has such great details,’ Nikki said.
‘It all comes from Sunita’s imagination, not mine,’ Manjeet said.
‘Sunita is not you?’ Preetam asked. ‘You’ve got a mole as well.’
‘Ah, Sunita’s mole is a mark of beauty,’ Manjeet said. ‘Mine is just …’ She shrugged. Nikki noticed that she kept her hand cupped around her chin to cover her mole.
‘It’s beautiful, Bibi Manjeet,’ Nikki said. ‘Just like Sunita’s.’
Manjeet grimaced. Her face cheeks flushed with embarrassment. ‘Please, there’s no need to say such things. My mother was very concerned about my mole. She said it was bad luck and I’d never find anyone.’
‘Your mother had a lot to worry about if all you could think about was bedding men,’ Tarampal retorted.
‘Nobody’s saying you have to listen,’ Arvinder shot back. ‘If you’re so focused on your learning, you wouldn’t be paying any attention to us.’
Tarampal’s face reddened. It was hard to know if she was embarrassed or infuriated.
‘Obviously, your mother was wrong,’ Nikki said. ‘You found your husband.’
‘Yes, but I didn’t keep him, did I?’
The other widows exchanged looks. ‘Now, Manjeet,’ Arvinder said firmly. ‘I’ve told you, you mustn’t go down that path.’
‘Why not?’ Manjeet asked. Her eyes filled with tears.
‘Whatever happened, I’m sure you can’t be blamed for your husband’s death,’ Nikki said.
Manjeet let out a short laugh. ‘He’s not dead. He’s still very much alive. He ran away with the nurse who took care of him after his heart attack.’
‘Oh,’ Nikki said. Poor Manjeet. It made more sense now – the “widow look” that Sheena had mentioned. Manjeet dressed like a widow because it was more acceptable than being separated from her husband. ‘I’m very sorry,’ she said.
‘That’s all everyone ever says,’ Manjeet said. ‘They just apologize. But they didn’t do anything wrong. He did.’
‘That’s right. He did. He and that trampy little nurse,’ Arvinder said. ‘Not you.’
Manjeet shook her head and wiped her nose. ‘If I could live my life again, I’d be more like Sunita,’ she said. ‘She knows what she wants. That nurse, too. She knew what she wanted and she took it.’
‘Hai,’ Preetam said, dabbing the corners of her eyes with her dupatta. ‘It’s very tragic.’
‘You’re not helping,’ Sheena hissed. ‘Nikki, say something.’
Nikki didn’t know what to do. The women stared at her expectantly. She thought back to the details of Manjeet’s story and imagined Sunita lying on the roof, anticipating the rest of her life. ‘I think what Bibi Manjeet’s story has highlighted is that there’s a difference between being courageous and being malicious,’ she said. Sheena quickly gave the women a Punjabi translation of the word. ‘I think Sunita’s courage is admirable but to take somebody’s husband is greedy and hurtful.’
‘You have courage too, Manjeet,’ Sheena said. ‘You wouldn’t have told that story if you didn’t.’
‘I’m too afraid to tell people what he did,’ Manjeet said. ‘That’s cowardly, isn’t it? I’ve been pretending that he died on a trip to India so nobody would ask any questions. I even went to stay with my oldest son in Canada for a while so people would think I was doing my husband’s last rites.’
‘When did it happen?’ Nikki asked.
‘Last summer.’
‘It’s still very new, then,’ Nikki said.
‘Tell that to them. They’ve bought a home together,’ Manjeet said. ‘This nurse came to England from a village in India as well but she’s from a different generation, Nikki. Those girls know how to do everything men want before they’re married.’
‘In my time, you just relied on what your married sisters and cousins told you,’ Arvinder said.
Nikki could picture it – a young and blushing Arvinder surrounded by giggly sari-clad relatives, taking turns to offer words of wisdom. There was something enviable about the scene. She couldn’t imagine having such a moment before Mindi’s wedding. ‘That sounds nice,’ she said. ‘You looked out for each other.’
‘It was useful,’ Preetam said. ‘Like when my cousin Diljeet said “Use ghee to grease things up down there.”’
‘I was the one who told you that,’ Arvinder said. ‘Oldest trick in the book.’
Sheena burst out laughing. ‘Look at Nikki’s face!’ she cried. So, Nikki was obviously unsuccessful at hiding her mortification then. She had a mental image of Mum in the kitchen spreading a lump of ghee across the surface of a heating tava where it melted instantly. Now ghee had an entirely different association.
‘That’s right,’ Preetam recalled. ‘It was Diljeet who warned me to be discreet, and to always try to sneak some ghee into a small container during cooking without my mother-in-law noticing. Otherwise it was challenging to get big drums of ghee into the bedroom without the rest of the family seeing.’
‘Don’t you have those little tubs for the kitchen?’ Nikki asked.
‘Costco sells them in bulk,’ Preetam said. ‘Why are you wasting money buying small-small tubs?’
‘I was given a useful tip to please my husband if he wanted it during my time of the month,’ Manjeet said. ‘Let him put it in your armpit, then do this.’ Manjeet cranked her arm up and down.
‘You didn’t!’ Sheena exclaimed.
‘I did,’ Manjeet said. ‘He liked it. He said it had the same feeling as my private parts – hairy and warm.’
Nikki had never struggled so hard to keep a straight face. She made eye contact with Sheena, who had her hands cupped over her mouth. Laughter rippled through Sheena’s sleeves.
‘Many women didn’t even know what was expected of them until their wedding night,’ Preetam said. ‘Not me, thankfully, but can you imagine the surprise?’
‘You’re very welcome,’ Arvinder said. ‘I told you everything you had to know.’
‘Really?’ Nikki asked. ‘That’s very progressive of you.’ Arvinder appeared to be well into her eighties. Nikki couldn’t even imagine somebody in Mum’s generation discussing the birds and the bees. Once again, she had underestimated Arvinder, and Manjeet as well, with her creative alternative methods of pleasuring her husband.
‘Hanh, well, I thought it was important,’ Arvinder said. ‘God knows, I didn’t know what real satisfaction felt like until somebody b
ought me one of those electric shoulder massagers. I tell you what, they’re good for releasing tension in many places.’
The women laughed. Nikki wanted to remind them to keep the noise down but a glimpse at Manjeet’s face stopped her: the traces of sadness around her eyes were replaced by deep laugh lines. She looked gratefully at the widows, her stark white dupatta slipping off onto her shoulders where she let it rest.
Chapter Six
Kulwinder squinted at the forms, trying to concentrate. A moment ago, the women’s voices had risen again, disrupting her thoughts. She had been tempted to storm into the room but they had settled down before she could get up from her chair. Now her inability to focus could be blamed on the silence. Without distraction, she could not hide from these new English words. The visitor visa forms to India for her annual trip had changed recently, with an added layer of perplexing questions and declarations about national security. The reasons an Indian needed a visa to enter India were baffling enough, let alone this complicated vocabulary. She had raised both questions with the Lucky Star Travel Agents who had reminded her patiently that she was a British citizen, and had been for over two decades. ‘Officially, you’re not Indian,’ the agent said. To Kulwinder, this explained nothing.
Her eyes were tired. She had left her trusted pair of bifocals at home and she decided she would need them to finish these forms. She’d already missed the last bus home, so she left the building and cut across the car park. Behind her, there were a few people from the temple but once she went off this main road it would just be herself and the houses with their shuttered windows. She marched quickly, her eyes trained on the distant lights.
As Kulwinder turned on to her road, she became aware of the sound of shuffling feet behind her. Training her eyes on her house in the distance, she picked up her pace. The person following sped up as well. Their close presence made the tiny hairs on her neck stand on end. It was only a matter of seconds before they caught up with her. She spun around, ‘When are you going to leave me alone?’ she cried.
The follower took a step back. Kulwinder’s heart galloped in her chest. It did not slow down when she realized it was Tarampal Kaur.
‘I need to speak with you,’ Tarampal said.
‘About what?’ Kulwinder asked.
‘A conflict I’m having.’ Tarampal lowered her gaze. ‘I’m just not sure how you’ll react.’
Kulwinder stiffened. She noticed that Tarampal looked shifty. She was clasping and unclasping her hands as if there was something she was meant to be holding. Kulwinder’s heart began to race again. She was not prepared to have this conversation with Tarampal in the middle of the street. ‘Is this about—’ She couldn’t continue. She spent so much time trying not to dwell on the connection between Maya and Tarampal that she couldn’t even say one’s name in front of the other.
‘The writing class,’ Tarampal said. ‘The other women aren’t doing very much work.’
‘Oh.’ The sharp exhalation was involuntary, as if Kulwinder had been punched. Overlapping feelings of relief and disappointment shredded her voice to a whisper. ‘The class.’ Of course Tarampal wasn’t going to talk about Maya. What had she expected? Tears sprang to Kulwinder’s eyes. She was suddenly grateful to be standing in the shadows.
‘I’ve been keeping up with the writing and reading exercises,’ Tarampal said. ‘But the other women are just there to …’ she hesitated. ‘Fool around.’
So the women were giggling and being friendly with each other and Tarampal felt excluded. Why was Tarampal coming to her with petty complaints rather than dealing with it herself? ‘You need to speak to them. Or to the teacher,’ Kulwinder said.
Tarampal crossed her arms over her chest. ‘I could complain about the classes, you know. I could tell Gurtaj Singh that they’re not very productive. I don’t complain because I don’t want to create any trouble for you.’
‘It’s far too late for that.’ The words shot out before Kulwinder had time to think.
Tarampal looked hurt. She lowered her gaze. ‘I really hope that you and I can be friends again.’
Never, Kulwinder thought but she was careful not to react this time. Tarampal wasn’t interested in friendship. She only wanted to keep a closer eye on Kulwinder. Kulwinder wouldn’t be surprised if this were why she had signed up for the classes.
The silence only lasted a moment but it seemed to expand, as time always did whenever Kulwinder encountered Tarampal. She knew it would be easier to tell Tarampal the truth: I’ve given up. I can’t prove anything – the police and the lawyers told me as much. Now I can’t even go for walks without receiving a threatening phone call afterwards. But Kulwinder couldn’t allow it. Every now and then she opened her Barclays diary, relived the details, allowing the hope to build that she had simply missed something, some way yet to recover the past.
She still refused to believe what the police had told her. It couldn’t be so simple. This was her Maya! Just one week before she died, Maya had been promoted at work. She had bought tickets to a concert. She had probably reserved books at the library, made plans with friends, found a recipe she was keen to try. The last time Kulwinder saw her, Maya had been playing with the neighbour’s dog that had wandered over to her driveway. He nearly toppled her when he tried to lick her face and Kulwinder had shouted in fright but Maya thought it was hilarious and buried her face in the dog’s fur, telling him what a good boy he was. How could anybody believe she would do such a ghastly thing? And why was Kulwinder getting these threats if Maya’s death had been so straightforward? But the police had said no foul play; they had testimonials confirming that Maya had been very upset and guilty and it’s understandable to want more answers when you’re grieving, the lawyer had said before warning her it would take many billable hours to build a case. As the inevitable doubts and frustrations crept into her mind, Kulwinder remembered this: God had witnessed it all. Sarab always said that this was what mattered in the end.
‘Thank you, Tarampal, but these days I prefer the company of my husband,’ Kulwinder said. ‘Have a good night.’ God sees everything, she thought. It gave her enough strength to walk away from Tarampal. Then, when she got home, she buried her face in a couch cushion and sobbed into it while Sarab watched, the colour draining from his cheeks.
The pipe gurgled so loudly it sounded like a motor. Before leaving for her shift, Nikki added it to a growing list of repair requests, which included a mysterious damp bulge in the ceiling and a wireless internet connection so weak that it only worked if she held her laptop over the sink. The most recent items were squeezed at the bottom of the page in minuscule handwriting. Nikki had promised herself to tell Sam O’Reilly about these problems once she ran out of space, but after their awkward encounter last year, she avoided requesting anything of him.
It had started innocently enough, with Nikki requesting some overtime hours. Sam asked if she was saving up for a holiday. ‘Mary Poppins musical tickets,’ Nikki had said. Mary Poppins had been her favourite childhood movie, and, aged seven, she had once followed a woman out of the shops because she was carrying a large umbrella and wearing a full skirt. ‘I was convinced she would sail into the air and land in one of the chimneys. I wanted to give her directions to our house.’
Sam’s eyes had sparkled with amusement. His face, normally lined with weariness, made him look a decade younger when he smiled. Nikki teasingly told him so. Garry, one of the Russian kitchen workers had been passing by. His eyes darted back and forth between Sam and Nikki and, later, there were snickers between him and the other kitchen hand, Viktor. The next day, when Nikki arrived at work, Sam presented her with two tickets to Mary Poppins. ‘If you’d like to go with me on Friday,’ he said.
Nikki stared at the tickets, blushing furiously. Had he and the other men thought she was flirting? Asking for overtime and mentioning the musical hadn’t been intended hints but Sam had obviously taken them as such. ‘I can’t accept these,’ she managed to say. ‘I don’t think it wo
uld be appropriate.’
Sam had understood right away. His lips, pulled to a near grimace from the strain of his gesture, broke into a big grin. ‘Oh, of course,’ he said, hiding his embarrassment in a sudden flurry of activity. He ran his hands through his hair and began sorting out the glasses behind the counter. Garry and Viktor began making remarks in Russian every time Nikki was around. Sanja, a fellow barmaid, confirmed the remarks were about Nikki offering sexual favours in exchange for training and quick promotion. How depressing, Nikki thought – if she was to be accused of sleeping her way up a professional ladder, she would have hoped that bartending at a crumbling Shepherd’s Bush pub was not its highest rung.
Nikki folded up her list and put it away. After travelling to Southall twice a week, she was grateful for the thirty-second commute down the stairs from her flat to O’Reilly’s. Besides, they always had a good turnout for Trivia Night so she knew it would be a busy and tiring shift. In the pub, Nikki slipped past a group of men crowded near the television and waved at a few regulars. Sanja was vigorously wiping down a table in her usual punishing way. Another barmaid, Grace, often asked after Nikki’s mum as if they were old friends. Grace was easily moved by contestants’ backstories on Britain’s Got Talent and had once arrived to work puffy-faced and sleep-deprived because the little boy magician who had been bullied didn’t win.
Erotic Stories for Punjabi Widows Page 9
