Erotic Stories for Punjabi Widows: A hilarious and heartwarming novel. Balli Jaswal Kaur
she said this. When she caught Nikki looking at her, she quickly smiled and dropped her gaze.
‘I’d rather be telling stories,’ said Arvinder. ‘I’ve survived all this time without reading and writing; what do I need it for now?’
There was resounding agreement. Nikki was torn. If the tedium of learning to write was discouraging these women, she should motivate them to keep going. But storytelling was so much more fun.
In the back, Tarampal called out, ‘I don’t like this idea. I am here to learn to write.’ She crossed her arms over her chest.
‘You do your ABC colouring books then,’ Arvinder muttered. Only Nikki heard her.
‘Here’s what we can do,’ Nikki said. ‘We’ll do a bit of writing and reading practice for every lesson, and then if you want to do some storytelling sessions, Sheena and I can transcribe your stories and we can share them with the class. One new story each lesson.’
‘Can we start today?’ Preetam asked.
Nikki looked at the clock. ‘We’ll go through vowels first, and then, yes, we can do some stories.’
Some women already knew A E I O U but others like Tarampal struggled with them. Everybody grumbled at her for holding back the rest of the class when Nikki quizzed them. ‘The A and the E are pronounced the same,’ Tarampal kept insisting. Nikki instructed Sheena to start transcribing in the back of the classroom while she worked with Tarampal.
‘English is such a stupid language,’ Tarampal said. ‘Nothing makes sense.’
‘You’re getting frustrated because it’s new. It will get easier,’ Nikki assured.
‘New? I’ve been in London for over twenty years.’
It still came as a mild shock to Nikki that these women knew so little after living here for longer than she had been alive. Tarampal caught her expression and nodded. ‘Tell me, why haven’t I picked up English? Because of the English.’ She said this triumphantly. ‘They haven’t made their country or their customs friendly to me. Now their language is just as unfriendly with these Ahh-Oooh sounds.’
In the back of the room, there was a rise of giggles and a squeal. Sheena was hunched over her paper, scribbling quickly while Arvinder whispered in her ear. Nikki turned her attention back to Tarampal and carefully said different words with vowels until Tarampal admitted to hearing the slightest difference between them. By the time they were finished, so was the lesson, but the women in the back of the room were still crowded around the desk and whispering urgently. Sheena continued writing, pausing every now and then to think of a correct word, or to rest her wrists. It was nine o’clock.
‘Class is dismissed,’ Nikki called out to the back. The women didn’t appear to have heard her. They continued chatting and Sheena dutifully transcribed. Tarampal crossed the room to pack up her bag. She tossed the women a look of contempt and muttered, ‘Bye,’ to Nikki.
Nikki felt her spirits lifted by the women and their renewed sense of focus. They wouldn’t learn to write this way but they were obviously so much keener on telling stories. As she made their way towards them, the women fell silent. Their faces were flushed. Some were hiding smiles. Sheena turned around.
‘It’s a surprise, Nikki,’ she said. ‘You can’t see. We’re not done yet, anyway.’
‘It’s time to lock up,’ Nikki said. ‘You’ll miss your bus.’
Reluctantly, the women rose from their seats and picked up their bags. They left the room in a buzz of whispers. In the empty classroom, Nikki put the tables back in their usual place, just as she’d been told to do by Kulwinder.
The light in the classroom in the community centre was still on. Kulwinder could see the window glowing as she walked out of the temple. She slowed down and considered what to do. Nikki had probably left the light on and if Kulwinder didn’t go up there to turn it off, Gurtaj Singh might decide that electricity was being wasted on classes for women. But she would not be safe entering that empty building. The phone call from the other night invaded her mind whenever she found herself alone. Before that, there had been two other warnings – one call which came only hours after she returned from her first intentional visit to the station and another one after her last visit. Both times, the police had offered little help, but her caller still felt the need to keep her in line.
She decided not to bother with the light. Walking briskly towards the bus stop she saw the women from the writing class in a huddle. Kulwinder did a silent roll call. There was Arvinder Kaur – so tall that she had to stoop like a giraffe to listen to the others. Her daughter Preetam was perpetually adjusting the lacy white dupatta on her head. So precious and vain compared to her mother. On the edge of the group, Manjeet Kaur spoke in furtive nods and smiles. Sheena Kaur was nowhere to be seen but she had probably sped home in her little red car. Tarampal Kaur had registered as well but she wasn’t part of the group. Her absence was a relief.
The women noticed Kulwinder approaching and they acknowledged her with quick smiles. Maybe they could explain why the light was still on. Perhaps Nikki was in there entertaining a lover? It wasn’t unheard of for youngsters in the neighbourhood to use these vacant rooms for their filthy interactions. In that case the lights would be off though wouldn’t they – but then again, who knew what this new generation found pleasurable?
‘Sat sri akal,’ she said, putting her hands together for all of them. They returned the gesture. ‘Sat sri akal,’ they murmured. In the glow of the streetlamp, they looked sheepish, as if caught stealing.
‘How are you, ladies?’
‘Very good, thanks,’ said Preetam Kaur.
‘Enjoying your writing classes?’
‘Yes.’ They were a rehearsed chorus. Kulwinder eyed them suspiciously.
‘Learning a lot?’ she asked.
A sly look passed between the women, just a flash, before Arvinder said, ‘Oh yes. We did a lot of learning today.’
The women beamed. Kulwinder considered asking them more. Perhaps they needed a reminder that their learning was the result of her clever initiative. I do everything for you, she used to tell Maya, sometimes with pride and at other times, with frustration. The women looked desperate to get back to their conversation. Kulwinder was reminded of Maya and her friends huddled together, their hushed conversation often punctuated with giggles. ‘What was so funny?’ Kulwinder would ask later, knowing the question was enough to make Maya dissolve into giggles again, and then Kulwinder couldn’t help laughing along. The memory was accompanied by a stabbing pain in her gut. What she would give to see her daughter’s smile again. She bade the women farewell and continued her journey. She had never been close to these women and she knew they had signed up for her classes for lack of anything else to do. She had loss in common with them, but losing a child was different. Nobody knew the ache of rage, guilt and profound sadness that Kulwinder carried with her every day.
This main road had some shadowy patches where walls of hedges and parked cars could easily hide a crouching assailant. She reached for her phone, wanting to ask Sarab to come and pick her up but standing still seemed just as risky. She set her sights on the junction of Queen Mary Road and marched onward, aware that her heart had started pounding. After the caller had hung up last night, she had sat up in bed, alert to every creak and shift in the house. She had drifted to sleep eventually but this morning, exhausted and alone, she found herself inexplicably furious, this time at Maya for putting her through all of this.
Laughter broke like fireworks into the air. Kulwinder whipped around. It was the women again. Manjeet waved but she pretended not to see. Kulwinder craned her neck as if she was checking something on the building. From this distance, the glow in the window reminded her of flames. She turned her back on the building and walked so briskly she nearly broke into a run.