‘Supposedly there’s no single author. These stories haven’t been published anywhere. They’re just being copied, scanned, emailed and faxed all over London and they’re reaching an intended audience. Mittoo Kaur has read three already, and all three have completely transformed her relations with her husband. During yoga class the other day, when the teacher asked us to lie on our backs and pull our knees to our chests, Mittoo winked at me and said, “Just like last night.” At our age! Can you imagine?’
‘No,’ Harpreet said quickly. ‘I can’t.’ She was imagining though. She was picturing herself with Mohan. ‘Did Mittoo tell you where she got the stories from?’
‘Her cousin passed them to her. Her cousin got them from a friend at the Enfield temple, who first heard about them from a Punjabi colleague who lives in East London. She lost the trail there because her cousin never asked the colleague where the stories came from but Mittoo Kaur isn’t the only person I know who has come across these stories. Kareem Singh’s wife told me she’s come across them as well. The one she told me about was very graphic. A Punjabi woman brings her car to a mechanic and they end up having sex on the bonnet. She ties his wrists to the wing mirror with her dupatta.’
‘They’re that detailed?’ Harpreet asked. ‘I’ve never come across stories like that with our people in them.’
‘Rumour has it the stories are coming from Southall.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Harpreet said with a laugh. ‘I’d believe it if you said they were from Bombay, but if they’re from England, they’re not from there.’
‘No, it’s true. Her aunt has a friend who attended a class there on how to write dirty stories.’
That made no sense. ‘There would be riots in the community if such a thing existed,’ Harpreet said.
‘That’s why it’s advertised as an English class.’
‘That’s imposs—’ Harpreet froze. Southall. English class. Harpreet swallowed and kept quiet. She reminded herself that Geeta was a gossip. Geeta exaggerated. There was no reason to think—
‘You know what else she told me? The stories are being written by older women whose husbands have died. Can you imagine? Women like us.’
‘Hanh,’ Harpreet croaked. She took a gulp of tea. ‘Women like us.’
By the time Nikki got to Southall station the next day, she was grumbling under her breath. The train had been delayed and she was running so late that there wasn’t even time for that cigarette that she badly craved. Bloody Jason and his plan for them to quit together. The bus dutifully climbed the hill and descended slowly onto the Broadway. Vegetable peels littered the ground outside the market and sequins twinkled like constellations in the sari shop windows. A couple emerged from the steps of Fast Track Visa Service clutching papers against their chests. As the bus pulled up to the temple, Nikki checked the time on her phone: class had started half an hour ago.
A humming noise was coming from the community centre building. Nikki climbed the stairs. The noise grew. Distinct voices – Arvinder’s and Sheena’s – could be heard over an ocean of excited chatter. Nikki walked into the room and gasped.There were women everywhere – sitting cross-legged on tables, nestled comfortably in chairs, leaning against the walls, perched on the teacher’s desk at the front of the room.
Nikki was speechless. She stepped back and stared at the women, unable at first to take in what she was seeing. There were many widows, distinct in their white attire, but clusters of women from other age groups had joined the classes as well. The presence of younger women was chaotic – the clink of bangles, the clouds of perfume. The voices of the middle-aged women rang out with an enviable certainty.
It was the widows who noticed her first. One by one, they pulled away from their conversation and focused on Nikki. The noise bled from the room gradually until Nikki was facing a completely quiet group of women. She felt the sudden need for air and wondered if she had been holding her breath this whole time.
‘Is that the teacher?’ one woman asked.
‘No, the classes are being run by a gori.’
‘What gori can speak Punjabi?’ another woman asked. ‘No, it must be her.’
The chatter commenced again, voices bouncing across the walls. Nikki stepped through the crowds and found Sheena.
‘When did they all show up?’ Nikki asked.
‘The first ones were standing outside the building about an hour ago. I noticed them from the langar hall and hurried over to tell them that the classes hadn’t started yet. They said, “That’s all right, we’re waiting for the others.” Then another crowd arrived,’ Sheena said.
‘When you said that the stories had spread all over London …’ Nikki said, looking around.
‘I didn’t think there would be this many women either,’ Sheena said. ‘But we couldn’t turn them away.’
‘But what will we do when Kulwinder returns?’
‘We can make up a roster,’ Sheena said. ‘The women can sign up for sessions.’
‘Or we can start our own classes in our areas,’ a woman sitting nearby called out. ‘Anyone else here live in the Wembley area?’
A few hands shot up. Oh shit, Nikki thought. If the stories were spreading, they had probably reached Enfield as well. She did a quick scan for Mum’s friends and saw nobody that she recognized.
‘Everybody listen,’ Nikki shouted. The women were momentarily stunned into silence. Nikki rushed to maintain the pause. ‘Welcome to all of you. I want to thank you for coming tonight. I wasn’t expecting such a large turnout, and we’ll need to put a limit on class sizes in the future.’ She looked around the room. ‘I also want to emphasize the need to be discreet, although I’m not sure if it’s realistic.’ Her heartbeat quickened at the thought of the Brothers discovering them. ‘We could be in a lot of trouble if the wrong people find out about these classes.’
Quick glances darted about the room. Nikki’s heart sank. ‘They already know, don’t they?’ she asked.
From a back corner, Preetam raised her hand. ‘Dharminder here says she found out about the classes because one of the Brothers came knocking on her door asking if she knew anything about the stories.’
Dharminder, a stout widow whose low dupatta hung over her eyes, nodded. ‘Yes. If anything, they’re the ones spreading the word.’
It wouldn’t be long before they went knocking on Kulwinder’s door then. Panic tightened Nikki’s chest. They had to stop the classes – they had to, otherwise the women were in danger. She was in danger. ‘I’m not sure if this is a good idea then,’ Nikki said.
‘We can’t shut down the classes now, Nikki,’ Sheena said. ‘These women have come from all over. Let’s go on with the session tonight and then we’ll think about what to do later.’
The room was silent now. All eyes were fixed on Nikki. Sheena was right – these women had turned up to support the class. She couldn’t stand the thought of turning them away and losing all of these new voices.
‘Who has a story to share?’
Hands shot into the air and voices began to overlap. Nikki gestured for quiet. She searched the room. A bony middle-aged woman wearing a long maroon kurti stretched over black tights was waving a piece of paper.
‘My story is incomplete,’ she confessed when Nikki called on her. ‘I need some help with it. Oh, I’m Amarjhot, by the way.’ She giggled shyly. Her mannerisms reminded Nikki of her first encounters with Manjeet. ‘Why don’t you start us off, Amarjhot,’ Nikki said.
As Amarjhot approached the front of the room, the other women clapped. Amarjhot cleared her throat and began.
There was a young, beautiful woman by the name of Rani. She looked like a princess but she was not treated like this by her parents. Being the youngest daughter of a poor family, Rani had to do all the housework and she was rarely let out of the house. Many people in her village did not even know she existed.
There was an audible yawn in the back of the room. Amarjhot’s reading was very slow. She continued describing Ra
ni – her hazel brown eyes, her fair skin with cheeks you could mistake for apples, her slender waist. Then one day, a man came to ask Rani for her hand in marriage. She stopped here. She stared at her page and then turned to Nikki. ‘After this, I couldn’t find the words. They wouldn’t come. I remember what I wanted to say though.’
‘Say it then. Skip to the wedding night,’ Preetam called out. ‘What did Rani and this man do together?’ Anticipatory giggles floated through the room.
Amarjhot closed her eyes briefly and a smile flashed across her face. She began to laugh.
The more vocal women in the room were more than happy to bring the story forward. ‘He unwound her wedding outfit and laid her on the bed.’
‘He took off his clothes. Or she took off his clothes for him and touched his body.’
‘He had a big one.’
‘Massive. Like a python.’
‘He used it gently though, because she knew so little. He let her hold it first and move her hands along it.’
‘And then he kissed her,’ continued Amarjhot. ‘She eased at the touch of his lips on hers. As they kissed, he traced his fingers over her body as if he was drawing her. He circled a flat palm over her nipples. They hardened at his touch. He then put his lips to one nipple and began sucking while rolling the other gently between his fingers. Rani was in ecstasy.’
‘But she began moaning a name which wasn’t his,’ Bibi called out.
Gasps and murmurs of appreciation. ‘Whose name was she calling out?’
‘No, don’t – this Rani was a virtuous girl who was feeling love for the first time – why ruin it?’
‘Nobody’s ruining anything. We’re just adding masala,’ Tanveer said.
Their heckling faded into the background for Nikki. She carefully stepped past the women to the desk, where the enrolments list was kept. It would be a good idea to record names and details. Looking through the paperwork, she came across Tarampal’s registration form. Nikki couldn’t help another wave of panic – where was 16 Ansell Road on the Brothers’ canvassing trail?
‘Maybe they try it at first but they discover that he’s too large,’ Preetam suggested.
‘So they do it from behind,’ another woman said.
‘Eww,’ a few women squealed. There was then a small and precise lesson in what ‘behind’ meant. ‘Not in her bum,’ Tanveer said helpfully, to their relief.
‘Oh, why not though? That’s not so bad. It’s different.’
‘Have you not heard how big this guy’s garden pipe is? It’s more like a fire hose. Would you really want something that size entering your exit-zone?’
‘Where the hell is their ghee?’ somebody asked desperately.
The discussion continued. It was finally decided that Rani and her husband would turn their crisis into an exciting adventure. They would try a variety of positions.
Spot fires of conversation broke out across the classroom. Casual confessions drifted into earshot. ‘My husband and I tried that one,’ Hardayal Kaur sniffed. ‘It only works if you’re very flexible. My knees were too stiff from farm work, even at age twenty.’
‘Mine tried to put his banana between my breasts once. I don’t recommend it. It was like seeing a canoe trying to edge its way through two hillsides.’
Amarjhot glanced helplessly at the page in her hands. ‘I think I have to consider this story a bit further,’ she said. She returned to her seat.
‘My tongue will stoke your burning fire; a hot, licking flame of pure desire,’ boomed a voice from the far left corner of the room. All heads turned to Gurlal Kaur. She was a vision of peaceful meditation with her legs crossed and her eyes closed. Her words commanded silence. She continued.
‘You are the suppleness of soil, the strength of stalks. Let me lay atop you, my manhood growing like a root into your velvety soft embrace. When it rains, I feel your slick wetness against my body and I breathe in your musky scent. We will rock together in a joint rhythm, our fiery passions evoking the strongest thunder and lightning to crack onto this earth.’
All that could be heard was the breathing of women. Nikki was the first to speak. ‘Did you just make that up?’ she asked.
Gurlal shook her head. She opened her eyes. ‘There was a terrible drought in my village the year I was supposed to marry. My parents couldn’t afford a dowry but they knew I wouldn’t settle for anyone less than my dear Mukesh Singh, whom I had met once during a bridal viewing and fallen madly in love with. My parents knew I wouldn’t be happier with anybody else; they had seen the way our eyes lit up when we first saw each other. You’re the one, we both said silently.’
‘That’s beautiful,’ Preetam said. ‘The land was barren but their love grew.’ The other women shushed her.
‘Each morning and night, special prayers were said for the rain. They were being said in Mukesh’s village as well, where the situation was no better. It was from those daily prayers that he became inspired to write poetry. He sent the poems to my home. I had to be careful to collect them from the mailman before my parents got to them, although they wouldn’t have been able to read the poems anyway. They were both illiterate. That year, my father often grumbled that my schooling had given me too many choices because I was stubbornly insisting on marrying Mukesh. I took out one of the letters and pretended that it was a note from Mukesh’s relatives, praising my father for raising such an educated daughter. That appeased him. That poem is my favourite.’
‘Do you still remember it?’ asked Sheena.
‘Of course.’ She drew a breath and closed her eyes again. ‘My beloved. Your body is an entire galaxy; your moles and dimples a sprinkling of stars. I am just a weary desert traveller, my lips parched and searching for refreshment. Each time I am ready to give up, I look up, and there you lay in the stretch of midnight skies. Your hair billows around you and your hands fall away from your chest, revealing your pale, round breasts. At their tips, your nipples point to greet my puckered lips. I kiss them tenderly and feel the shudder of sensation rock through your body, your world. Between your legs, a flower is moistening itself, its lips plump with anticipation. Your body is an entire galaxy of its own accord. I explore you with my lips, grateful for my thirst to be quenched and when I reach your forbidden garden, my thirst becomes your hunger. Your long legs are draped around my neck, your hips thrusting against my mouth. My lips become wet with your dew. I press them inside you and feel the throb of your blood pulsing into your most intimate places. How grateful I am to have my lips against yours in this way, to connect these blushing parts of ourselves together.’
A serene smile gave Gurlal’s face an ethereal quality. She dipped her body forward into a modest bow.
‘Tell us what it was like when you two finally got together. Just as good?’ Preetam asked.
‘Oh, I bet it was. If his hands could spell out such beautiful poetry, imagine what they could do in the bedroom,’ said Sheena.
‘It was very good,’ Gurlal said. ‘He wrote a poem for every single night that we were together. I can recite every single one.’
The impossibility of this claim bothered none of the ladies. The room was filled with a hallowed silence.
‘Go on then. Tell us another one,’ Arvinder urged. Gurlal opened her eyes and was about to respond when suddenly a visible jolt shot through her. The room filled with a quick rustling. Nikki looked up and felt a stab in her gut from the sight.
Kulwinder Kaur was standing in the doorway, her mouth agape.
Nikki crossed to the front of the room with a smile plastered on her face. She could not know how much Kulwinder had heard but excuses were already forming in her mind. Maybe she could convince Kulwinder that the women had been discussing alternate endings to an Indian drama.
‘I want to see you outside now,’ Kulwinder hissed. Nikki followed her into the corridor.
‘You’ve just dropped in at an unfortunate time,’ Nikki began. Kulwinder held up her hand to silence Nikki.
‘How long has this b
een going on?’ Kulwinder asked.
Nikki looked at her feet. She was about to mumble a reply when Kulwinder spoke again. ‘To think that I trusted you to lead these women into literacy. All this time you were filling their heads with filth.’
Nikki’s head jerked up and she stared Kulwinder straight in the eyes. ‘The women wanted this.’
‘Rubbish,’ Kulwinder retorted. ‘You’ve been corrupting this community right under my nose this whole time.’
‘I haven’t! Look – many of these women’s husbands don’t know they’re here. Please don’t tell them.’
‘I have better things to do with my time than go around poking my nose into other people’s lives,’ Kulwinder said. She looked past Nikki into the room full of women. ‘How did you get all of these new women to sign up? What did you tell them?’
‘I didn’t have to tell them anything,’ Nikki replied. ‘Word spreads quickly in this community, as you well know. The women wanted a place to express themselves.’
‘Express themselves?’ Kulwinder retorted, showing Nikki just what she thought of her response. She pushed her way into the room, her palms open in a silent but clear instruction: give them to me. The few women who had written stories reluctantly handed them over. The majority could give her nothing. The eldest women reacted admirably. They stared at Kulwinder, their lips tightly pressed together as if to protect their stories from being stolen right from their minds. As Kulwinder’s raid continued, women scooted out of the way to create a path for her. She reached the desk.
‘Where are the rest?’ she asked.
‘In my bag,’ Nikki croaked. Her satchel was closed. She could not imagine any other circumstance where she would allow somebody to open her bag and search it as Kulwinder was doing now, her thick fingers extracting the binder like it was a diseased organ. Kulwinder strode out the door and down the hallway, the binder held tightly against her chest. Nikki went after her.
‘Bibi Kulwinder, please. Just let us explain.’
Kulwinder stopped walking. ‘There’s nothing to explain,’ she said.
Erotic Stories for Punjabi Widows Page 23
