Erotic Stories for Punjabi Widows: A hilarious and heartwarming novel. Balli Jaswal Kaur
pay you for your time,’ Mindi said.
‘I’m not taking money from you,’ Nikki said reflexively.
‘Hang on. Mum wants to say something.’ There were muffled instructions in the background. ‘She says “remember to lock your windows”. There was something on the news last night about break-ins.’
‘Tell Mum that I’ve got nothing valuable to steal,’ Nikki said.
‘She’ll say you have your decency to protect.’
‘Too late. Already taken. Andrew Forrest’s party after the year eleven prom.’ Mindi said nothing in response but her disapproval crackled like static over the line.
Getting ready for work afterwards, Nikki considered Mindi’s offer to pay her. A charitable gesture, but Nikki’s burdens were not financial. Her flat was above the pub and the rental rate was subsidized by her availability to work extra shifts at the last minute. But bartending was meant to be temporary – she was supposed to be doing something with her life by now. Each day brought a new reminder that she was sitting still while her peers moved forward. On a train platform last week, she had spotted a former classmate. How busy and purposeful she looked as she marched toward the station exit, briefcase in one hand and coffee cup in the other. Nikki had begun to dread the daytime, the hours when she was most aware of London outside, ticking and clicking into place.
The year before Nikki took her GCSEs, she had accompanied her parents on a trip to India where they made a point of visiting temples and consulting pundits to bestow upon Nikki the necessary guidance to excel. One pundit had asked her to visualize herself in the career she wanted while he chanted prayers to make her visions a reality. Her mind had gone blank, and this canvas of nothingness was the image sent up to the gods. As with all trips to the motherland, she had been given strict guidelines about what not to say in front of Dad’s older brother who hosted them: no swearing; no mention of male friends; no talking back; speak Punjabi to show gratitude for all those summer lessons here that we hoped would nurture your cultural roots. Over dinner, when her uncle asked about the pundit visits, Nikki bit her tongue to keep from replying, ‘Fraudulent bastards. I’d be better off asking my mates Mitch and Bazza to read my palm.’
Dad spoke up for her. ‘Nikki will probably get into law.’
Her future was sealed then. Dad dismissed her uncertainties with reminders that she would enter a secure and respectable profession. These were only temporary assurances. The fluttering anxiety of sitting in the wrong lecture on her first day of university only multiplied throughout the year. After nearly failing a class in her second year, Nikki was summoned by a tutor who remarked, ‘Perhaps this isn’t for you.’ He was referring to his subject, but she saw how the comment applied to everything: the tedium of lectures and tutorials, the exams and group projects and deadlines. They just weren’t for her. She withdrew from university that afternoon.
Unable to tell her parents that she had dropped out, Nikki still left home each morning with her Camden Market vintage leather satchel. She walked through London, which provided the perfect backdrop to her misery with its soot-filled skies and ancient towers. Quitting university provided some relief but Nikki became plagued with anxieties about what she should be doing instead. After a week of aimless wandering, Nikki began filling her afternoons by attending protests with her best friend Olive, who volunteered for an organization called UK Fem Fighters. There was much to be indignant about. Topless models were still appearing on Page Three of the Sun. Government funding to women’s crisis centres was being halved as part of new austerity measures. Female journalists were in danger of being harassed and assaulted while reporting in war zones overseas. Whales were being senselessly slaughtered in Japan (this was not a women’s issue but Nikki felt sorry for the whales nonetheless and accosted strangers to sign her Greenpeace petition).
It was after Dad’s friend tried to offer Nikki an internship that she had to admit that she had withdrawn from university. Yelling had never been Dad’s style. Distance was his method of expressing disappointment. In the long argument that followed her confession, he and Nikki were rooted to separate rooms, territories that they had unwittingly staked out, while Mum and Mindi orbited in between. The closest they came to a shouting match was after Dad made a list of Nikki’s suitable attributes for a law career. ‘All of that potential, all of those opportunities, and you’re wasting it on what? You were nearly halfway through. What’s your plan now?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘I’m just not that passionate about law.’
‘Not that passionate?’
‘You’re not even trying to understand. You’re just repeating everything I say.’
‘REPEATING EVERYTHING YOU SAY?’
‘Dad,’ Mindi said. ‘Calm down. Please.’
‘I will not—’
‘Mohan, your heart,’ Mum warned.
‘What’s wrong with his heart?’ Nikki asked. She looked at Dad with concern but he wouldn’t meet her eyes.
‘Dad’s been having some irregularities. Nothing serious, his EKGs are fine but the blood pressure reading was 140 over 90, which is a little alarming. Then again, there’s a family history of DVT so there are concerns …’ Mindi prattled on. One year into her nursing career and the novelty of using medical jargon at home still hadn’t worn off.
‘What does it mean?’ Nikki asked impatiently.
‘Nothing conclusive. He needs to go in for more tests next week,’ Mindi said.
‘Dad!’ Nikki rushed towards him but he held up his hand, stopping her mid-step.
‘You are ruining everything,’ he said. They were the last words Dad spoke to her. Days later, he and Mum had booked a trip to India even though they had visited only months before. Dad wanted to be with his family, Mum explained.
Gone were the days when Nikki’s parents threatened to send her back to India when she misbehaved; now they exiled themselves. ‘By the time we return, maybe you will have come to your senses,’ Mum said. The comment stung but Nikki was determined not to pick another fight. Her own bags were being discreetly packed. A pub near Olive’s flat in Shepherd’s Bush was looking for a bartender. By the time her parents returned, Nikki would be gone.
Then Dad died in India. The heart condition had been worse than anything the doctors had detected. In traditional Indian morality tales, wayward children were the primary cause of heart conditions, cancerous lumps, hair loss and other ailments in their aggrieved parents. While Nikki wasn’t naïve enough to be convinced that she had given Dad a heart attack, she believed he might have been saved by the follow-up visit in London, which he had postponed to take this hurried trip to India. The guilt gnawed at her insides and made it impossible for Nikki to grieve. At the funeral, she willed for tears to arrive and provide some release but they never did.
Two years on, Nikki still wondered if she had made the right decision. Sometimes she secretly considered returning to her degree even though she couldn’t bear the thought of poring through more case studies or sitting through another droning series of lectures. Perhaps passion and excitement were meant to be secondary to a stable adult life. After all, if arranged marriages could work out, maybe Nikki could muster enthusiasm for something she didn’t love immediately, and then wait for that love to arrive.
In the morning, Nikki emerged from her building to receive a punishing spray of rain across her face. She pulled the faux-fur-lined hood of her jacket over her head and made the grim fifteen-minute march to the train station. Her beloved satchel thumped against her hip. While she was buying a pack of cigarettes at the newsagents, her phone buzzed in her pocket; a message from Olive.
Job at a children’s bookshop. Perfect for you! Saw in yesterday’s paper.
Nikki was touched. Olive had been scanning the job ads ever since Nikki confided that she wasn’t