Erotic Stories for Punjabi Widows

by Balli Kaur Jaswal

  Chapter Eight

  Nikki laid out the three Indian blouses and took a picture. She sent it to Mindi with a text: Which one for me? The stall owner, a small man with a snowy beard and a large pink turban, rapidly listed their merits: ‘One hundred per cent cotton! Very breathable! Colours don’t bleed in the wash – even the red dye doesn’t come off!’ His overenthusiasm gave Nikki the impression that these were likely polyester blouses that would smell like armpits after ten minutes of wear and make a crime scene of her other laundry if she so much as put them in the same basket.

  Mindi rang her back. ‘Since when did you start wearing kurti tops?’ she asked.

  ‘Since I discovered a Southall clothing bazaar that sells them much cheaper than vintage shops anywhere else in London,’ Nikki said.

  ‘The bluish-green on the far left is the best.’

  ‘Not the maroon?’

  ‘It’s not my favourite,’ Mindi said. ‘The black one is nice too, because of the silver embroidery on the collar. Could you buy me one as well?’

  ‘Are we going to dress the same like Mum forced us to in primary school?’

  Mindi groaned. ‘That was the worst, wasn’t it? Everybody asking if we were twins?’

  ‘Then when we begged her to stop, she told us we were being ungrateful. Some children don’t have clothes at all!’ The idea of naked children had sent Nikki and Mindi into hysterics.

  The tarp above the stall began to sag from the weight of rainfall. Nikki rubbed her hands together. At the hot chai stall next door, a queue was forming. ‘What else have they got in this bazaar? Anything good?’ Mindi asked.

  ‘Some produce, a couple of masala stalls, Indian sweets,’ Nikki said, looking around. ‘There’s a woman who can dye your costume jewellery stones to match the exact shade of your outfit. There’s an entire row for those jingly-dangly wedding decorations and I also spotted a guy with a parrot who picks your fortune out from a hat.’ Women roamed from stall to stall, their handbags clutched tightly under their arms. Earlier, Nikki had sidled up to a group of older ladies comparing aubergines. To her disappointment, they were only sharing a recipe.

  There was a lot of clattering in the background. ‘Are you at work?’ Nikki asked.

  ‘I’m just leaving. I’m sorting through these make-up samples that Kirti gave me for tonight. Can’t decide between two eyeliners.’

  ‘It’s more for you than the guy, isn’t it? He probably won’t notice the difference.’

  ‘I’m actually only meeting women this week,’ Mindi said.

  ‘In that case you’ll need to check if the gurdwara does lesbian weddings.’

  The clattering stopped. ‘I thought I told you about this.’

  ‘I think I’d remember.’

  ‘So, I wasn’t having much luck with the temple profile. I decided to get a trial membership with SikhMate.com. It’s more discreet than I expected and you can set up these really specific filters.’

  ‘And you’ve determined that your husband must have a vagina?’ Nikki asked, forgetting for a moment where she was. The turbaned vendor staggered as if he’d been shot. ‘Sorry,’ Nikki mouthed. Out of guilt, she pointed at all three blouses and gave him a thumbs-up. He nodded and put them into a thin crinkly blue plastic bag.

  ‘On SikhMate, there’s an option to meet the women of the families first before meeting the guys. You get a coffee with them, and if you hit it off, they introduce you to their brothers, nephews or sons.’

  That sounded like a total nightmare. ‘That’s so much more pressure though,’ Nikki said. ‘They’d be screening you.’ Not to mention the creepiness of marrying into a family where the sisters and mothers selected mates for their men.

  ‘It’s meant to be less pressure,’ Mindi said. ‘If I got married, I’d be spending a lot of time with the women of the family anyway, so I guess they want to see if we’re compatible.’

  ‘Do I get to screen guys for you then?’ Nikki asked. ‘Do I get to veto the ones I don’t like? Or does it only work one way? Honestly, Mindi, this sounds like a terrible plan. I’d almost welcome the idea of you meeting some of the less desirable temple profile guys over meeting these Sikhmate aunties first.’

  There was renewed clattering in the background. ‘I think I’ll go with the plum eyeliner,’ Mindi said. ‘It’s more subtle. Leaves a better impression.’ It was a clear signal that Nikki’s advice was not needed. ‘I’ll let you know how it goes.’

  ‘Good luck,’ Nikki muttered. They said their goodbyes and hung up. Nikki paid the vendor. She joined the chai queue, watching people scatter under cover as the downpour got heavier. She held the bag of blouses close to her chest. Mindi probably didn’t know this, but Nikki had enjoyed dressing alike. She had been secretly sad when they won the war against Mum to let them be individuals.

  Arvinder and Preetam were not speaking. They arrived at the class ten minutes apart and sat at opposite ends of the room. Between them, Sheena’s bag, mobile phone and notebook sat on a desk but Sheena was nowhere to be seen. Manjeet was also missing.

  ‘We’ll just wait for the others,’ Nikki said. She gave Arvinder a smile. Arvinder’s gaze darted away. Preetam fiddled with the lace edge of her dupatta, folding it into tight corners. The silence reminded Nikki of her first moments with these widows. She glanced at the seat where Tarampal had sat, dutifully tracing dotted letters in her workbook.

  ‘I’m here, I’m here,’ Sheena said breathlessly, entering the room with three women. ‘This is Tanveer Kaur, Gaganjeet Kaur and the late Jasjeet Singh’s wife. We just call her Bibi. They’d like to join our class.’

  Nikki surveyed the women. Tanveer and Gaganjeet appeared to be in their late sixties but Bibi was closer to Arvinder’s age. They were all dressed in white. ‘You are all friends of Sheena’s?’ Nikki asked. The women nodded. ‘Oh good,’ she said. ‘So you know what we discuss in these classes.’ The last thing she needed was another earnest English-learner like Tarampal.

  ‘I still tell most people I come to these classes to improve my English,’ Sheena said. ‘Unless I really trust them.’ She smiled at the new widows.

  From her corner, Arvinder spoke up. ‘You can’t rely on everyone’s friends to be trustworthy though. The people you tell might spread the word to others who can’t keep a secret.’

  Bibi was indignant. ‘I can keep a secret.’

  ‘She’s just saying we should be cautious,’ Sheena assured Bibi.

  ‘You all are very welcome here. We just have to make sure we’re not found out by the wrong people,’ Nikki said. While crossing the Southall Broadway after her market trip, she had caught sight of three young Punjabi men patrolling the bus stop and bullishly reminding schoolgirls to go straight home.

  Preetam scanned the bead-lined hem of Nikki’s new blouse, prepared to engage now that it wasn’t just her and Arvinder. ‘I like what you’re wearing,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks,’ Nikki replied. ‘No bra straps visible.’

  ‘Yes. Very nice,’ Gaganjeet said. Suddenly her face distorted – eyes bulging, lips drawn back to reveal her dentures. She let out a deafening shriek. In its aftermath, Nikki looked around to see that only she was rattled.

  ‘Waheguru,’ Arvinder said to bless her.

  ‘That was a sneeze?’ Nikki asked.

  ‘Hanh, I’m recovering from a cold. All weekend I’ve been sneezing and coughing,’ Gaganjeet said.

  ‘It’s going around,’ Preetam said. ‘I saw Manjeet at the temple early this morning and she said she wouldn’t be attending class tonight. I suppose she’s unwell too. She looked a bit pale. You should take something for that cold, Gaganjeet.’

  ‘I had some chai,’ Gaganjeet said. ‘I put extra fennel in it.’

  ‘I mean take some medicine. Isn’t Boobie Singh’s pharmacy near your place?’

  ‘It’s Bobby,’ Sheena corrected.

  ‘He charges too much, that Boobie,’ Gaganjeet complained.

  ‘Do any of our new members have a story
to share?’ Nikki asked, lest the discussion digress any further. This was the other risk of adding more members. In the warm-up to telling stories, the women often traded gossip: what colour lengha a friend’s granddaughter wore to her wedding reception; what time the bus to the market arrived on Sunday when there were disruptions; who had recently misplaced her sandals at the temple and allegedly taken another pair, starting a chain of thefts by people who had to replace their footwear.

  ‘Nikki, wait a while, nah? We are just getting to know our new friends,’ Arvinder said. ‘I heard that Kulwinder is away in India. This means we can stay in the building longer.’

  ‘And make more noise,’ Sheena said.

  ‘I don’t think we should take Kulwinder’s absence as a reason to relax,’ Nikki said, although she felt much less tense knowing that the office down the hall was empty for the next four weeks. ‘I’d rather not stay till late. I have to catch the train home.’

  ‘You take the train home at night by yourself? Where do you live?’ Bibi asked.

  ‘Shepherd’s Bush,’ Nikki said.

  ‘Where’s your house? Near the market or far from it?’

  ‘It’s not in Southall. I live in West London,’ Nikki said.

  ‘It’s safe to walk around here at night,’ Bibi said. ‘I do it all the time.’

  ‘You can do it because you’re an old lady,’ Tanveer said. ‘What would a man hiding in the bushes want from you?’

  ‘I happen to have a lot of pension money,’ said Bibi with a huff.

  ‘Tanveer means that you wouldn’t be assaulted,’ Sheena said. ‘Younger women have to worry about that.’

  ‘Is that what happened to Karina Kaur?’ Tanveer asked. ‘I saw the advertisement for the new television programme about the anniversary of her murder. It happened a few years before we moved here from India. Honestly, if I’d known that this could happen to one of our girls in London, we might not have come here at all.’

  At the mention of Karina’s name, a noticeable hush fell over the room. A moment passed in which everybody seemed to be thinking and Nikki sensed her outsider status more acutely than usual. She cast her gaze over the group and noticed a visible tension on Sheena’s face.

  ‘I remember that. People said she was walking around alone in the park. Meeting her boyfriend,’ Arvinder said.

  ‘And that’s punishable by murder is it?’ Sheena snapped.

  Arvinder looked taken aback. ‘Sheena, you know I didn’t mean it like that.’

  ‘I know,’ Sheena said quietly. She blinked and then gave Arvinder a small nod. ‘Sorry.’

  Nikki had never thought Sheena could become so unnerved. She did a quick calculation. From what she could remember of the case (not that her mother would let her forget it), Karina and Sheena would probably have been around the same age when it happened. She wondered if they had known each other.

  ‘Don’t be scared by these stories, Nikki. Southall is very safe,’ Gaganjeet said brightly. ‘Why don’t you live here? It’s full of our people.’

  ‘Nikki’s a proper modern girl,’ Arvinder informed the others. ‘You just can’t tell because she’s dressed like a good Punjabi girl today. Nikki, you should wear some bangles.’

  Nikki kept an eye on Sheena, who appeared lost in thought. Her fingers fluttered at her collarbone where she touched her necklace as if making sure it was still there. Nikki took a step toward her and was about to ask if she was okay when Gaganjeet called her name.

  ‘Nikki, are you looking for a husband? I might have someone for you.’

  ‘Nope,’ Nikki said.

  ‘Why not? I haven’t even told you about him yet.’ Gaganjeet looked hurt. She blew her nose into a crumpled tissue. ‘He has property,’ she added.

  ‘Does anyone have a story?’ Nikki asked, stepping back to the front of the room. ‘We’re running out of time.’

  ‘Okay, okay, no need to be impatient,’ Arvinder said. ‘She’s still very bossy,’ she muttered to the others.

  ‘I’ve come with a story,’ Tanveer said. She hesitated. ‘It’s a bit unusual though.’

  ‘Believe me, every story told in this class is unusual,’ Preetam said.

  ‘I mean, this story has an element of something quite different,’ Tanveer said. ‘Quite shocking.’

  ‘Well, I could not possibly be more shocked than I was last lesson,’ Preetam said. She threw a dirty look at Arvinder.

  ‘Tell us your story, Tanveer,’ Nikki said before there was a quarrel.

  ‘All right,’ Tanveer said.

  Meera and Rita

  Everything had a designated place in Meera’s home because she liked order. She and her husband even had a schedule for their nighttime intimacies. They did it on Tuesdays and Fridays, right before going to bed. The routine never changed. She would take off her clothes and lie down on the bed, staring up and counting the tiny pockmarks on the ceiling while her husband thrust into her, one hand gripping her right breast. There were no surprises, although Meera always made sure to say, ‘Oh! Oh!’ as if opening a present she didn’t really like. After his final grunt, her husband would roll off her and instantly fall asleep. It was this part of their ritual that filled Meera with mixed emotions – relief that it was over and disgust that he did not clean himself afterwards. Wednesdays and Saturdays were for washing the sheets.

  The detergent Meera used for this specific task was a special floral-scented powder. She kept it on the top shelf, above the regular detergent that was used for washing the clothes of her husband, their sons and her husband’s younger brother, who also lived in this house. When the younger brother announced that he had fallen in love with a girl named Rita, and that he was going to marry her, Meera’s first thought was, ‘Where will Rita’s place be?’ Everything would have to be rearranged to fit this new bride into their lives. She shared this concern with her husband, who reminded her that she was the elder. ‘You’re allowed to give orders to her.’ He said this generously, as if, after years of bossing her around, he was finally giving her the privilege of doing the same to somebody else.

  It occurred to Meera to be kind to the new girl – to share with her rather than intimidate her. Meera had always wanted a daughter instead of the two noisy sons who trailed dirt all over her freshly vacuumed carpet and wrestled like baboons over everything. But at the wedding, jealousy overtook Meera. Rita was young and vibrant. The cropped blouse of her wedding lengha showed off the tight, honey-smooth skin of her midriff. In Meera’s day, such outfits were considered scandalous. Meera felt a twinge of jealousy observing the way Rita’s husband watched her during the wedding reception. His eyes roamed over her body, hungrily taking her in. ‘Wait till they’ve been married a few years,’ Meera told herself. ‘His wonderment will wear off.’ These thoughts were satisfying, yet Meera was aware that her husband had never looked at her like that, even in the early days.

  After the newlyweds returned from their honeymoon, Meera gave Rita a tour of the house, making sure to point out where everything was – from the spare sofa covers to the winter jackets. Rita appeared to be paying attention but that night, after washing the dishes, she stacked the plates haphazardly and wedged the cutlery into every available space. Fuming, Meera plucked all of the dishes from the drainer and started over. It took her some time to finish the chores for the evening because Rita ignored her system of wiping down the tables and thoroughly sweeping beneath the counters to get rid of stray rice grains. When she finally finished, Meera was glad that it wasn’t a Tuesday or a Friday – she was too tired and irate to put up with her husband’s routine thrusts.

  As she settled into bed, her husband already snoring soundly, Meera heard noises from the adjacent room. A giggle followed by a ‘Shhh!’ Then the unmistakable laughter of her brother-in-law. Meera pressed her ear against the wall. Rita’s voice was commanding. ‘Good,’ she was saying. ‘Keep going. Do it harder.’ Meera recoiled from the wall. No wonder Rita didn’t take instructions from her. She was too busy being the bo
ss in her marriage. This won’t do, Meera thought. There could be only one ruler of this household and it was going to be her. She decided to be extra stern with Rita the next day. She would insist on taking Rita through another tour of the house and she would quiz her afterwards. ‘Where does the Windex go? What about the spare plastic bags from the grocery store?’

  Through the walls, she could hear Rita’s moans escalating now and the bed creaking to a frantic rhythm. Didn’t the girl realize that there were other people living in this house? Meera purposefully opened her room door and shut it loudly to remind the newlyweds of the way sound travelled in this home. The noise ceased for a few moments, but eventually it resumed, with Rita’s moans swelling through the house like notes in an opera song. Meera burned with envy. She tiptoed out of the room and noticed with disappointment that Rita’s bedroom door was shut. If it were just slightly ajar, she would be able to see what was going on. For some reason, she could not picture it. All she could see when she shut her eyes was Rita’s smooth, flat tummy. Her mind’s eye roved higher and she could picture the girl’s firm, round breasts, her nipples flushed pink and alert. She pictured a pair of lips closing around those nipples and she was horrified to realize that those lips belonged to her. She chased the image out of her mind and blamed her tiredness for making her imagination run wild.

  Meera sprang out of bed the next morning, ready to start and finish her chores. She passed Rita’s room and noticed that the door was still shut. While Meera made tea, the sound of giggling drifted into the kitchen. Meera’s sons tipped their heads up towards the ceiling and then they exchanged curious glances. ‘Finish your breakfast,’ Meera ordered. Above her, Rita could be heard making demands again. ‘Use your tongue,’ she was saying. ‘Yes, just like that.’ Meera reddened. Again, she felt a strong tingling, a sensation that she was experiencing what Rita was asking for.