Читать книгу Erotic Stories for Punjabi Widows - Balli Kaur Jaswal, Balli Kaur Jaswal - Страница 8

The path leading to Nikki’s childhood home in Enfield smelled richly of spices. Nikki followed the scent to the door and opened it with her own key. In the living room, Minute to Win It was on while Mum and Mindi bustled around the kitchen, calling out to each other. Dad had always watched the news while dinner was being cooked. In his chair, somebody had placed a quilted blanket and the side table where he used to rest his whisky glass had been removed. These shifts in details were little and mundane but they pronounced his absence loudly. She switched the channel to BBC. Immediately, both Mum’s and Mindi’s heads poked through the kitchen entrance.

‘We were watching that,’ Mum said.

‘Sorry,’ Nikki said, but she was reluctant to change the channel back. The presenter’s voice brought a wave of nostalgia: she was eleven again and watching the news with Dad before dinner. ‘What do you think about that?’ Dad would ask. ‘Do you think it’s fair? What do you think that word means?’ Sometimes when Mum used to call her to help set the table, Dad would give Nikki a wink and reply loudly, ‘She’s busy out here.’

‘Can I help with anything?’ Nikki asked Mum.

‘You can heat up the dal. It’s in the fridge,’ Mum said. Nikki opened the fridge to find no obvious signs of dal, just a stack of ice-cream containers with faded labels.

‘It’s in the Vanilla Pecan Delight tub,’ Mindi said.

Nikki picked out the container and put it in the microwave. She then watched in horror through the window as the container’s edges melted into the dal. ‘Dal’s going to be a while,’ she said, opening the door and removing the container. The noxious smell of burning plastic permeated the kitchen.

‘Hai, you idiot,’ Mum said. ‘Why didn’t you put it in a microwaveable container first?’

‘Why didn’t you store it in one?’ Nikki asked. ‘Ice-cream tubs are misleading.’ It was a suggestion stirred from years of crushed hopes from searching Mum’s fridge for dessert and instead discovering blocks of frozen curry.

‘The containers work just fine,’ Mum said. ‘They’re free.’

There was no rescuing the dal or the container, so Nikki disposed of both and stepped back to the edge of the kitchen. She remembered lingering here the evening after Dad’s funeral. Mum was weary – travelling back to London with Dad’s body had been a bureaucratic and logistical nightmare – but she refused Nikki’s offers to help and ordered her to the sidelines. Nikki asked Mum about Dad’s final hours. She needed to know that he hadn’t died still angry with her.

‘He didn’t say anything. He was asleep,’ Mum said.

‘But before he went to sleep?’ Perhaps his last words contained some hint at forgiveness.

‘I don’t remember,’ Mum said. Her cheeks were high with colour.

‘Mum, surely you can try—’

‘Don’t ask me these things,’ Mum snapped.

Seeing that forgiveness was a long way off, Nikki had returned to her bedroom and continued her packing. ‘You aren’t still going to leave are you?’ Mindi asked, standing in the doorway.

Nikki looked at the corners of boxes jutting out from under her bed. Piles of books had been pushed into Tesco recyclable bags, and her hooded jacket had been taken off the hook behind the door and rolled up to fit her suitcase.

‘I can’t live here any more. The minute Mum finds out I’m working in a pub, I’ll never hear the end of it. It’ll be that same argument all over again. I dealt with Dad ignoring me. I’m not going to stay here while Mum gives me the cold shoulder as well.’

‘You’re being a selfish cow.’

‘I’m being realistic.’

Mindi sighed. ‘Think of what Mum’s going through. Sometimes it’s worthwhile to consider what’s best for everyone, not just yourself.’

On this advice, Nikki stayed for another week. But upon returning from errands one day, Mum would find Nikki’s room bare and a note on her bed. I’m sorry, Mum. I had to move out. Her new address was listed below. She trusted that Mindi would fill Mum in on everything else. Two weeks later, Nikki gathered up the nerve to call Mum and to her surprise, Mum answered. She spoke stiffly to Nikki and gave minimal responses (‘How are you, Mum?’ ‘Alive’) but that she responded at all was a positive sign. During their next phone conversation, Mum had an outburst. ‘You’re a selfish, stupid, idiot girl,’ she sobbed. ‘You have no heart.’ Each word made Nikki flinch and she wanted to defend herself but wasn’t it true? She had left them at the worst possible time. Stupid, selfish, heartless. Words that Dad had never used to describe her. Afterwards, purged of her anger, Mum began to speak to her in sentences again.

The kitchen was thick with a spice-filled smog now. Dinner was ready. Nikki helped to bring out a serving dish brimming with chickpea and spinach curry. ‘So,’ Mindi said once they settled into their seats. ‘Tell us about this job.’

‘I’ll be mentoring women to write their stories. The workshops are twice a week. At the end of the term, we’ll have a collection of stories to put together.’

‘Mentoring. That’s the same as teaching?’ Mindi asked.

Nikki shook her head. ‘It’s not so much teaching as facilitating them.’

Mum looked confused. ‘So there is another teacher there that you’re assisting?’

‘No,’ Nikki said. The impatience crept into her voice. ‘Finding your voice isn’t something which can be taught, at least not in the traditional sense. People write and then you guide them.’ She looked up to catch a smirk passing between Mum and Mindi. ‘It’s hard work,’ she added.

‘Good, good,’ Mum murmured. She folded a roti and drove it across the plate, scooping up the chickpeas.

‘It’s a great opportunity,’ Nikki insisted. ‘I’ll have a chance to do some editing as well, which I can add to my CV.’

‘So do you think you want to be a teacher or an editor?’ Mindi asked.

Nikki shrugged.

‘They just sound like two very different things, being a teacher or working in publishing. You like writing as well. Are you going to contribute to these stories as a writer?’

‘Why does it have to be defined?’ Nikki asked. ‘I don’t know what I want to be, but I’m getting there. Is that all right with you?’

Mindi held up her hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘It’s fine with me. I’m just trying to find out more about what you’re doing, that’s all. You don’t have to get so defensive.’

‘I’m doing something to help empower women.’

Now Mum looked up and she and Mindi exchanged a look of worry. ‘I saw that,’ Nikki said. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Aren’t the majority of your students going to be temple ladies?’ Mindi said.

‘So?’

‘So be careful,’ Mindi said. ‘It sounds like a class for beginning storytellers but if you think you’re going to change their lives by tapping into their personal experiences …’ Mindi shook her head.

‘The problem with you, Mindi—’ Nikki began.

‘That’s enough,’ Mum said. Her stern stare quieted Nikki’s protests. ‘You hardly ever come over for dinner, and then every time there’s an argument. If you’re happy with this job, then we’re happy. At least it means you don’t have to work in the disco any more.’

‘It’s a pub,’ Nikki said and this was as far as she went towards correcting Mum. She had neglected to mention that she would still be working at O’Reilly’s. The pay for empowering women through narrative would not fully cover her living expenses.

‘Just make sure you’re travelling safely. Are these night classes? What time do they finish?’

‘Mum, I’ll be fine. It’s Southall.’

‘Crimes don’t happen in Southall? I must be the only one who remembers Karina Kaur. You’ve seen the ads for Britain’s Unsolved Murders, no?’

Nikki sighed. Trust Mum to bring up a murder case from fourteen years ago to prove a point.

‘They never found out who did it,’ Mum continued. ‘The killer could still be on the loose, preying on Punjabi girls walking alone at night.’

Even Mindi rolled her eyes at Mum’s theatrics. ‘You’re being a bit dramatic,’ Mindi informed her.

‘Yeah, Mum. All kinds of girls get murdered in London, not just the Punjabi ones,’ Nikki said.

‘It’s not funny,’ Mum said. ‘It’s the parents left behind who suffer with worry when the children leave.’

After dinner, Mindi and Nikki took over the washing up in the kitchen while Mum retired to the living room to watch television. They scrubbed the pots and plates in silence until Mindi spoke up. ‘So Auntie Geeta’s recommended a few eligible bachelors. She gave me the email addresses of three guys that she shortlisted.’

‘Ugh.’ Nikki could think of no other response to Mindi’s mention of Auntie Geeta. She was a friend of Mum’s who lived up the road and often dropped in unannounced, her eyebrows wiggling with all the secrets she struggled to contain. ‘Not gossiping, just sharing,’ she always claimed before unpacking the ruins of other people’s private lives.

‘I emailed a few times with one guy who seemed okay,’ Mindi continued.

‘Lovely,’ Nikki said. ‘By this time next year you’ll be washing up in his kitchen instead of this one.’

‘Shut up.’ After a beat Mindi added, ‘His name is Pravin. Does that sound like an all right name to you?’

‘It sounds like a name.’

‘He works in finance. We’ve chatted on the phone once.’

‘So I go through all the trouble to post your profile on a noticeboard and you’ve enlisted Auntie Geeta as your matchmaker anyway?’

‘I didn’t receive any responses from the temple profile,’ Mindi said. ‘You’re sure you put it on the Marriage Board?’

‘Yes.’

Mindi studied her. ‘Liar.’

‘I did just as you asked,’ Nikki insisted.

‘What did you do?’

‘I put it on the Marriage Board. It just might not be the most prominent flyer there. There are lots of flyers and—’

‘Typical,’ Mindi muttered.

‘What?’

‘Of course you’d put the least amount of effort into helping me with this.’

‘I went all the way to a temple in Southall. That’s no small effort,’ Nikki shot back.

‘Yet you’ve signed on for a job which means you’ll be travelling there regularly. How does that work? You’re all right with going to Southall as long as it benefits your needs.’

‘It’s not all about me. I’m helping women.’

Mindi snorted. ‘Helping? Nikki, this sounds like another one of your …’ she waved as if trying to stir up the word from thin air. ‘Your causes.’

‘What’s wrong with having a cause?’ Nikki demanded. ‘I care about helping women tell their stories. It’s a much more worthwhile pastime than advertising for a husband.’

‘This is what you do,’ Mindi said. ‘You follow your so-called passions and don’t consider the consequences for other people.’

This charge again. It would be easier to be a criminal fairly prosecuted by the law than an Indian daughter who wronged her family. A crime would be punishable by a jail sentence of definite duration rather than this uncertain length of family guilt trips.

‘How exactly did my leaving university have consequences for other people? It was my decision. Sure, Dad could no longer tell his family in India I was becoming a lawyer. Big deal. It wasn’t worth being unhappy just so he could have bragging rights.’

‘It wasn’t about bragging rights,’ Mindi said. ‘It was about duty.’

‘You sound like an Indian housewife already.’

‘You had a duty to Dad. He had been so devoted to championing you – all those school debates, all those speech contests. He included you in political conversations with his friends and he didn’t stop you from arguing with Mum if he thought you had a point. He put such faith in you.’ There was a note of hurt in Mindi’s voice. Dad and Mum had taken Mindi on a trip to India before her exams as well, taking all spiritual steps to ensure that she got into medical school. After the results indicated nursing – not medical school – as her best option, Dad’s disappointment had been obvious and, with renewed enthusiasm, he shifted his focus to Nikki.

‘He was proud of you too, you know,’ Nikki said. ‘He wished I were more practical like you.’ Having been measured up against his brother his whole life, Dad had been careful to avoid comparing his daughters but after Nikki dropped out of university, all fair play went out the window. ‘Look at Mindi. She works hard. She wants a stable future. Why can’t you be like that?’ he’d said.

Nikki felt a sudden rush of irritation with Dad. ‘You know, Dad contradicted himself all the time. One minute he was saying, “follow your dreams, that’s why we came to England” and the next he was dictating what I should do for a living. He assumed that my dreams were identical to his.’

‘He saw a potential career for you in law. You had the chance to succeed professionally. What are you doing now?’

‘I’m exploring my options,’ Nikki said.

‘By this time, you could have been earning a salary,’ Mindi reminded her.

‘I’m not as concerned with money and material things as you are, Mindi. That’s really what this whole arranged marriage thing is about, isn’t it? You’re not confident that you’ll meet a professional with a fat salary in a pub but if you screen the profiles of a few Indian doctors and engineers, you can zero in right away on their earnings and filter them accordingly.’

Mindi turned off the tap and stared angrily at her. ‘Don’t you make me feel like a gold digger for wanting to support Mum! There are expenses to think about. You left, so you have no idea.’

‘I moved across London. It’s hardly as if I abandoned my family. This is what young women do in Britain! We move out. We become independent. This is our culture.’

‘You think Mum isn’t concerned about finances? You think she doesn’t want to retire early from working for the council and enjoy her life? I’m the only one contributing here. Things need to be repaired, unexpected bills arrive, and the car servicing is overdue. Think about that the next time you spout out your lines about independence.’

Nikki felt a pinch of guilt in her gut. ‘I thought Dad had savings.’

‘He did, but some of his savings were tied up in his company’s stock options. They haven’t really recovered since the financial crisis. And he took out that loan to renovate the guest bathroom, remember? Mum had to defer payments and now the interest has nearly doubled. It means Mum has had to put off all these other home improvements she thought would be done by now. The curtains, the built-in shoe cupboard, the kitchen counters. She’s already starting to worry about losing face. She’s concerned about how our home would look to my prospective husband’s family, not to mention what they might say if she couldn’t afford a dowry or a lavish celebration.’

‘Min, I had no idea.’

‘I told her I wouldn’t marry someone from a superficial family and she said, “There might not be any Punjabi boys for you to marry then.” She was joking of course.’ Mindi smiled but her eyes were tight with worry.

‘I could help,’ Nikki said.

‘You’ve got your own expenses to think about.’

‘I’ll have some extra income from this new job. I could send some money once a fortnight.’ Nikki hesitated, realizing what she had just committed to. The extra income was supposed to go into her savings so she’d have something to fall back on when O’Reilly’s went bust. She would need money to rent a place then because moving back home would be far too humiliating. ‘It won’t be much,’ Nikki added.

Mindi looked pleased. ‘It’s the gesture that counts,’ she said. ‘I have to say, I didn’t expect this of you. It’s very responsible. Thank you.’

In the other room, Mum had turned up the volume of her television series and the shrill violin notes of a Hindi song poured through the house. Mindi turned the tap back on. Nikki stood by while Mindi scrubbed the dishes, her vigorous motions sending soap suds flying into the air. As they landed on the counter, Nikki wiped them off with her fingers.

‘Use a towel,’ Mindi said. ‘You’re leaving streaks.’ Nikki did as she was told.

‘So when are you meeting Pravin?’

‘Friday,’ Mindi said.

‘Mum’s excited about it, I guess?’

Mindi shrugged. She peered at Mum through the kitchen entrance and lowered her voice. ‘She is, but I talked to him on the phone last night.’

‘And?’

‘He asked me if I wanted to work after marriage.’

‘For fuck’s sake,’ Nikki said, dropping a dishtowel on the counter and turning to stare at Mindi. ‘What did you say?’

‘I said yes. He didn’t sound thrilled about it.’

‘You’re still meeting him?’

‘You don’t know until you meet someone face to face, do you?’

‘Judging from the temple profiles alone, I wouldn’t give any of those men the time of day,’ Nikki said.

‘But that’s you,’ Mindi said. ‘You and your feminism.’ With a flick of her wrist, she dismissed Nikki and everything she stood for.

Rather than enter another argument, Nikki finished her share of the dishes without saying another word. As she slipped out into the back garden to sneak an after-dinner cigarette, she felt as if she could breathe again.

The next day Nikki arrived at the community centre early to set up her classroom. The room was as modest as Kulwinder Kaur’s office. Two rows of desks and chairs faced a blank whiteboard. Nikki moved the seats around – according to Olive, a horseshoe shape would help promote more discussion. A thrill shot through Nikki as she pictured the classroom full of women writing the stories of their lives.

For the first lesson, Nikki had prepared an introductory task. Everybody was to write a complete scene in ten simple sentences. Then, returning to each sentence, they had to add a detail – dialogue or description for example.

By 7.15 p.m., Nikki had paced the classroom and wandered out twice into the deserted hallway. She stepped back inside and wiped the board for the fifth time. She stared at the empty chairs. Perhaps this was all some elaborate prank.

As she began to pull the desks back to where she’d found them, Nikki heard footsteps. The loud, slow thumps made Nikki aware of her own heartbeat. She was in this rundown building all alone. She pulled a chair out in front of her, preparing to use it should she need to.

There was a knock on the door. Through the window, Nikki saw a woman wearing a scarf on her head. It was just a lost granny. It did not occur to Nikki that she was one of her students until the woman entered and took a seat.

‘Are you here for the writing class?’ Nikki asked in Punjabi.

‘Yes,’ the old lady nodded.

Do you speak English? Nikki thought it would be rude to ask.

‘I guess you’re my only student tonight,’ Nikki said. ‘We’ll begin.’ She turned to the board but the woman said, ‘No, the others are coming.’

The women streamed in together at twenty-five past. One by one they took their seats and made no apologies for their tardiness. Nikki cleared her throat. ‘Class begins at 7 p.m. sharp,’ she said. The women looked up in surprise. Nikki saw that they were mostly elders who weren’t used to being reprimanded by a young woman. She backtracked slightly. ‘If this time doesn’t work with the bus schedule, I’m sure we can arrange to begin at half-past instead.’ There were some nods and a general murmur of approval.

‘Let’s quickly introduce ourselves,’ Nikki said. ‘I’ll start. My name is Nikki. I like to write and I’m looking forward to teaching you all to write as well.’ She gave the first woman a nod.

‘Preetam Kaur.’ Like some of the other women, she wore a white salwaar kameez, which indicated her widow’s status. A scarf hemmed with white lace hid her hair and a walking stick printed with lavender floral patterns lay at her feet.

‘And why have you joined this class, Preetam?’ Nikki asked.

Preetam winced at the sound of her name. The other women looked startled as well. ‘That’s Bibi Preetam to you, young lady,’ she said stiffly. ‘Or Auntie. Or Preetam-ji.’

‘Of course. I’m sorry,’ Nikki said. These were her students but they were also Punjabi elders and she would have to address them appropriately.

Preetam accepted her apology with a nod. ‘I want to learn writing,’ she said. ‘I’d like to be able to send letters on the internet to my grandchildren in Canada.’

Strange. She seemed to think the course would cover letter writing and emailing. Nikki nodded to the next woman.

‘Tarampal Kaur. I want to write,’ the woman said simply. She had small lips, which pinched tightly together as if she wasn’t meant to speak at all. Nikki couldn’t help her gaze lingering on Tarampal Kaur – like the older women, she was shrouded in white but there was hardly a wrinkle on her face. Nikki placed her in her early forties.

The woman next to Tarampal also appeared much younger than the rest, with reddish brown streaks dyed in her hair and pink lipstick that matched her purse. The colours stood out against the plain cream of her kameez. She introduced herself in English, with just the slightest hint of an Indian accent. ‘I’m Sheena Kaur. I can read and write in Punjabi and English but I want to learn to be a better writer. And if you call me Bibi or Auntie, I’ll just die because I must only be ten or fifteen years older than you.’

Nikki smiled. ‘Very nice to meet you, Sheena,’ she said.

The next elderly woman was tall and thin and had a distinct mole on her chin from which fine hairs poked out. ‘Arvinder Kaur. I want to learn to write everything. Stories, letters, everything.’

‘Manjeet Kaur,’ said another woman without being prompted. She smiled brightly at Nikki. ‘Do you also teach us how to do some basic accounting?’

‘No.’

‘I’d like to write and also learn how to do the bills. There are so many.’ The other women murmured in agreement. So many bills!

Nikki put her hand up to silence them. ‘I wouldn’t know the first thing about accounting. I’m here to run a creative writing workshop, to collect a collaboration of voices.’ The women stared blankly at her. She cleared her throat. ‘It’s occurring to me that some of you might not be proficient enough in English to write confidently. Who is in this category? Not confident in English?’ She raised her hand to indicate that they should do the same. All of the widows except Sheena raised their hands.

‘That’s okay,’ Nikki said. ‘In fact, if you’d prefer to write your stories in Punjabi, I can adjust to that. Some things are just lost in translation anyway.’ The women’s prolonged staring made Nikki uneasy. Finally, Arvinder raised her hand.

‘Excuse me, Nikki – how are we meant to write stories?’

‘Good question.’ She turned to the desk and picked up her stack of loose-leaf paper. ‘Now I know we lost some time today but this is great place to start.’ She passed the papers around and explained the instructions. The women reached into their bags and took out their pens and pencils.

Nikki turned to the board to write down a few essential notes for the next lesson. ‘Next class is on Tuesday, 7.30–9.00 p.m. Be punctual.’ She wrote this in Punjabi as well, thinking herself quite considerate and adaptable. When she turned back around, she expected to see the women hunched over their papers, scribbling away but they remained still. Manjeet and Preetam tapped their pens against their desks and looked at each other. Tarampal looked positively irritated.

‘What’s wrong?’ Nikki asked.

Silence.

‘Why isn’t anybody writing?’ she asked.

More silence and then Tarampal spoke. ‘How are we supposed to write?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘How are we supposed to write,’ Tarampal repeated, ‘when you haven’t taught us yet?’

‘I am trying to teach you to write, but we have to start somewhere, don’t we? I know it’s difficult, but if I’m to help you with your stories then you need to actually start writing them. Just a few sentences …’ She trailed off when she noticed Preetam. The way she clutched the pencil reminded Nikki of being in nursery school. It dawned on her then, just as Arvinder began to pack away her things.

‘You knew,’ Nikki said as soon as Kulwinder answered the phone. She didn’t bother saying sat sri akal first – she wasn’t going to pay respects to this conniving elder.

‘Knew what?’ Kulwinder asked.

‘Those women can’t write.’

‘Of course. You’re meant to teach them.’

‘They. Can’t. Write.’ Nikki wanted the words to burn past Kulwinder’s calm exterior. ‘You tricked me into it. I thought I’d be teaching a creative writing workshop, not an adult literacy class. They can’t even spell their own names.’

‘You’re meant to teach them,’ Kulwinder repeated. ‘You said you wanted to teach writing.’

‘Creative writing. Stories. Not the alphabet!’

‘So teach them how to write and then they can write all the stories they want.’

‘Do you have any idea how long that will take?’

‘The classes are twice a week.’

‘It will take more than twice-weekly classes. You know that.’

‘These are very capable women,’ Kulwinder said.

‘You’re joking.’

‘You weren’t born writing stories, were you? Didn’t you have to learn your ABC first? Wasn’t it the simplest thing you had to learn?’

Nikki caught the contempt in Kulwinder’s voice. ‘Look. You’re trying to prove a point – I get it. I’m modern and I think I can do anything I want. Well, I can.’

She was about to tell Kulwinder that she quit but the words got caught in her throat. She considered it, a familiar sense of anxiety seizing her stomach. Leaving this job would mean having nothing to contribute to Mum and Mindi. Worse yet, they would know that she had given up after just one class and they would be proven right – that Nikki didn’t follow through on anything, that she was just a drifter who avoided responsibilities. She thought of the crumbling pub and pictured Sam wrapped in ribbons of receipts apologetically telling her that she was being let go.

‘This job was falsely advertised. I could report you for that,’ Nikki said finally.

Kulwinder responded with a snort, as if she knew the emptiness of Nikki’s threat. ‘Report me to whom?’ she challenged. She waited for a response but Nikki had none. Kulwinder’s message was clear: Nikki had stumbled into her territory and now must play by her rules.

In winter, the days lost their shape early. The streets were blurry with shadows and traffic lights as Kulwinder walked home and thought about her day. She wasn’t proud of deceiving Nikki but the more she thought about their conversation, the more she remembered how Nikki had incensed her. It was that demanding attitude that got under her skin. How dare you ask me to teach these idiots, she might as well have said.

Kulwinder’s two-storey brick home was on the end of Ansell Road. From her bedroom window the golden tip of gurdwara’s magnificent dome was visible on clear afternoons. The neighbours on the right were a young couple with two small children who sat in the porch and giggled together until their father came home. The neighbours on the left were a couple with a teenage son who had a big dog who howled for hours after they left each morning. Kulwinder was used to running through all of these details about her neighbours, anything to avoid thinking of that house across the street.

‘I’m home,’ she announced. She paused and waited for Sarab’s acknowledgement. It pained her on the occasions when she found him deep in silence, staring at the unturned pages of his Punjabi newspaper. ‘Sarab?’ she called from the foot of the stairs. He grunted a reply. She put down her things, and went to the kitchen to make a start on dinner. From the corner of her eye, she checked to see if Sarab had moved the living room curtains. This morning, he had suggested opening them to let in a bit of light so he could read the paper. ‘Don’t,’ Kulwinder had insisted. ‘The glare from the sun gives me a headache.’ Both of them knew it was Number 16 and not the pale English sunlight that bothered Kulwinder.

Kulwinder set out the plates and the bowl of dal and took the achar out of the fridge and set the table. There was nothing more comforting in all her years in England than the simplicity of a Punjabi meal. Sarab sat down and they ate quietly, and then he turned on the television and she cleaned the dishes. Maya used to help her with this, but one day she asked, ‘Why can’t Dad pitch in with the cooking and cleaning?’ Such questions had crossed Kulwinder’s mind in her younger days, but she would have been beaten for suggesting that her father or brothers did the housework. She had taken Maya roughly by the arm and steered her into the kitchen.

After completing her chores, Kulwinder went to the living room and sat next to Sarab. The television was on at a low volume. There was an English show on so it didn’t matter that they couldn’t hear it because the things the English laughed about were no laughing matter to Kulwinder.

She turned to Sarab and started a conversation. ‘An odd thing happened today,’ she said. ‘A mix-up with one of my community classes.’ She paused for a moment. My community classes. It was nice hearing it aloud. ‘The girl I hired to teach it thought she was teaching women to write their memoirs, but the women who signed up can’t even write. I had advertised creative writing classes and once the women started registering, I knew they were the types who couldn’t even spell their own names, but what could I do? Turn them away? That wouldn’t be right. I’m there to help the women of our community after all.’ It was partially true. She had been vague with the women about what exactly they would learn in these classes. ‘Writing, reading, that sort of thing,’ she had told them while passing around the registration form.

Sarab nodded but his eyes were blank. He was staring at the screen now. Kulwinder glanced at the clock and saw that there were many hours to kill before she felt like going to bed, like most nights. The drizzle had cleared. ‘Would you like to go for a walk?’ she asked Sarab. How unnatural it felt to ask him like this, when evening walks used to be their after-dinner routine. ‘It’s good for digestion,’ she added. She instantly felt silly trying to persuade him but today she really wanted his company. Her conflict with Nikki had reminded her of the way she and Maya used to argue.

Without even looking at her, Sarab said, ‘You go ahead.’

Kulwinder walked up Ansell Road and turned onto a main road where a small strip of shops were illuminated by long fluorescent ceiling bulbs. In Shanti’s Wedding Boutique, a group of young women tried on bangles and held up their wrists, letting the sequins catch the light. The owner of the masala shop next door was patiently ushering out his customers, an English couple, looking very pleased with their bottles of red and yellow powders. Teenagers in puffy black jackets milled in the empty lots outside, stray words and laughter darting into the air. Yeah. Hah! You dickhead.

Kulwinder offered a few hellos to passing Punjabi women but mostly she looked past them. Before Maya died, she used to chat to ladies, turning these walks into lengthy social outings. If their husbands were there, they’d break off into another group with Sarab. On the way home, comparing stories, she often noticed that men and women shared the same information – who was marrying whom, the rising cost of food and petrol, the occasional community scandal. Now she preferred not to stop. There was no need these days – only occasionally did people approach to offer their condolences. Most people just averted their gazes. She and Sarab were outsiders now, like the widows and divorced women and all those shamed parents they had feared becoming.

At a traffic light she paused, turned the corner and found a bench to sit on. The smell of sweet fried jalebi rose from a cart nearby. Her feet were rough like sandpaper against her hands as she massaged her heels and considered Nikki. Clearly, the girl was not from here, or she wouldn’t have been so disrespectful. Her parents were probably city types – Delhi or Bombay, and they probably turned their noses up at the Punjabis who washed up in Southall. She knew what the rest of London thought of Southall – she’d heard all of their comments when she and Sarab decided to move here from Croydon. Village people who built another Punjab in London – they’re letting all types of people into this country these days. ‘Best choice we ever made,’ Sarab had declared when they unpacked their last box. Kulwinder agreed, her heart almost bursting with happiness from the comforts of their surrounds – the spice markets, the Bollywood cinema, the gurdwaras, the samosa carts on the Broadway. Maya eyed all of it with suspicion but she would adjust, they assured themselves. One day she would want to raise her children here too.

Tears welled up in her eyes and blurred her vision, as a bus rolled to a slow stop in front of her and the door opened. The driver looked at Kulwinder expectantly. She shook her head and waved him along. A sob escaped her throat but the sound of the engine rumbling drowned it out. Why did she always torture herself like this? Sometimes she got carried away and imagined little moments of Maya’s life as it would be – mundane things like paying for groceries or replacing the batteries in her television remote control. The smaller the details, the harder it hit that Maya would never do these things. Her story was over.

The air felt colder now that Kulwinder was still. She wiped her eyes and took a few deep breaths. When she felt strong enough again, she stood up and headed in the direction of her home. Halfway across Queen Mary Road, Kulwinder spotted a police officer. She froze. What to do? Turn around and walk back? Keep going? She stood in the middle of the road until the light turned red and cars started honking their horns, and this was worse because people began to stop and stare. The policeman began searching for the cause of the trouble until his gaze landed on her. ‘Nothing. No problem,’ she called out feebly. He rushed into the street and with a firm hand signal, ordered all the cars to stay in place. Then he beckoned her to cross the road towards him.

‘Is everything all right?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she replied. She kept her distance and avoided looking him in the eye. A small crowd had emerged from the shops and gathered on the pavement to watch. She felt the urge to shoo them away. Mind your own business!

‘You’re just out taking a walk?’

‘Just walking, yes.’

‘Good exercise.’

She nodded, still aware of the stares. She tried to do a quick scan of who was watching. Unlike Maya, Kulwinder never considered Southall a hotbed of gossip. Most people just shared harmless observations. The problem was that Kulwinder could not afford to be observed talking to the police. Somebody might casually mention this scene to friend or a spouse, and then they might tell somebody else and—

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ the policeman asked. He peered into her eyes.

‘I’m very good thank you,’ she replied. She found an English word. ‘Splendid.’

‘Then take care when crossing the road in the future. The youngsters like to speed down the Broadway and they turn onto these main roads sometimes.’

‘I will. Thank you.’ Kulwinder spotted a middle-aged couple approaching. She could not recognize them from this distance but they were sure to notice her chatting with the police in the middle of the street, and if they knew her, they would ask each other, ‘What trouble is she causing now?’

‘Stay safe,’ the policeman called after her as she hurried home.

Sarab was upstairs when she returned. Kulwinder quietly tidied up the shoes in the small circle of light he had left on for her in the foyer. Then she looked for other things to tidy – the couch cushions surely needed plumping and maybe Sarab had left a glass in the sink. These tasks calmed her. By the time she was finished, she realized how paranoid she had been. What were the chances of being noticed? Southall wasn’t that small, it just felt that way sometimes. There was no predicting whom she’d run into. She already avoided another major road because she had been spotted visiting a law office there (although she needn’t have bothered because everything the fast-talking lawyer had said involved fees and no guarantees). If she started changing direction every time she saw somebody she would rather not see, she might as well spend all her time in this living room, with the curtains drawn.

But later that night, while Sarab snored lightly and Kulwinder’s eyes were wide open, she saw her mobile phone flashing. Unknown Number. On the other side, a voice that she recognized all too well. ‘You were seen talking to the police today. Try it again and you will be in a lot of trouble.’ Kulwinder tried to defend herself but, as always, her caller hung up before she had a chance to speak.