Erotic Stories for Punjabi Widows: A hilarious and heartwarming novel. Balli Jaswal Kaur

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      A storm cloud seemed to take over Kulwinder’s expression. Her lips became menacingly thin. ‘I think you’re forgetting something very important,’ she said, her voice suddenly low and steady. ‘I am your boss. I hired you. You should thank me for taking you on even though your only skills were pouring drinks. You should thank me for coming here to remind you to remain focused. You should thank me for letting you off with a warning. I didn’t come here for a discussion. I came here to remind you of your responsibilities, something you are clearly lacking. Understand?’

      Nikki swallowed, hard. ‘I understand.’ Kulwinder looked at her expectantly. ‘And thank you,’ Nikki whispered. Tears of humiliation burned in her eyes.

      She waited for a few moments before re-entering the classroom. The women’s eyes were wide in anticipation. Even Tarampal was looking up from her book.

      ‘We have to get back to work,’ Nikki said, blinking furiously.

      Thankfully, there were no arguments. Arvinder, Tarampal, Preetam and Manjeet accepted an exercise on consonants. Sheena practised writing a persuasive speech. While the women worked, Nikki couldn’t help replaying the humiliating confrontation in her mind. She told herself that Kulwinder probably chastised everybody but her harsh words had hit a raw nerve. Your only skills were pouring drinks. Lacking responsibility. Here Nikki had been trying to steer the women back towards literacy to avoid getting into trouble but did Kulwinder recognize her efforts? It didn’t matter if Nikki did the right thing. It was still wrong.

      The time passed quickly while Nikki was lost in her thoughts. Even her fights with Mum didn’t leave her feeling so helpless. If Kulwinder was like this as a boss, imagine what she had been like as a parent to her rebellious daughter. Nikki glanced at the clock.

      ‘Is everybody finished?’ she asked.

      The women nodded. Nikki took up the consonants worksheets. Arvinder’s wobbly handwriting made her H’s look like M’s but she had persisted until Z, slashed across the lines like a lightning bolt. Preetam’s handwriting was more precise but she only reached J before time was up. Manjeet had ignored the consonants entirely, choosing instead to write A E I O U at the top of the page as if revising what she had learned before.

      What was there to do besides feeding more worksheets to the women, more rote practices? This reproduced string of alphabets looked as uninspired as any other monotonous task that filled these widows’ days. If they continued on this path, the women would stop showing up. Nikki could already sense their restlessness. As she scanned the worksheets, a debate clamoured in her mind. She’d been hired to teach English, yes, but hadn’t she only signed up because she thought she’d be empowering women? If the widows wanted to share erotic stories, who was she to censor them?

      ‘You’ve all worked very hard today,’ Nikki said. ‘These practices are good.’ She handed the worksheets back to the women. Then she smiled. ‘But I think your stories would be better.’

      The women looked at each other and grinned. Only Tarampal scowled and crossed her arms over her chest. ‘I promise to continue to teach you how to read and write,’ Nikki said to her. ‘But the rest of you are welcome to bring in your stories. We must make sure to be very quiet from now on though.’

      ‘See you on Tuesday,’ Sheena said on her way out the door.

      ‘See you all then,’ Nikki said. ‘Oh, and if you see Bibi Kulwinder, remember to say thank you.’ And fuck you, she thought.

      The following Tuesday Nikki made sure to leave time for the quick odour-neutralizing routine she had practised to perfection as a teenager. Pre-cigarette, it involved pulling her hair back into a bun and taking off her jacket to avoid clinging smoke smells and then, after, a dose of extra-strong mints and a spray of extra-strong perfume.

      Nikki was in the middle of her perfume bath when a face appeared and then flitted out of her view. ‘Sorry,’ the man belonging to the face said. She only caught a glimpse but she noticed that he was cute. A moment later, she stepped out of the corner and saw him leaning against the wall.

      ‘It’s all yours,’ she said.

      ‘Thanks,’ he said, ducking in. ‘I just needed to make a phone call.’

      ‘Sure,’ Nikki said. ‘Me too.’

      ‘No, you were clearly smoking. It’s not very good for you,’ he said as he lit his own cigarette. ‘You really shouldn’t.’

      ‘Neither should you.’

      ‘True,’ he said. ‘Is it just me or do they taste even better in hiding?’

      ‘Much better,’ Nikki agreed. As a teenager, she used to smoke in the park behind her house, her adrenaline surging each time she saw Mum or Dad’s silhouette crossing the window. ‘Especially when your parents are within sight.’

      ‘Ever got caught?’

      ‘No. You?’

      ‘Oh yeah. It was bad.’ Nikki watched as he took a long drag of his cigarette and stared into the distance. His attempt at being mysterious came off as cheesy but surprisingly, she liked it.

      ‘I’m Nikki,’ she said.

      ‘Jason.’

      She raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that an American name for a Punjabi boy?’

      ‘Who says I’m American?’

      ‘Canadian?’ Nikki asked. She definitely detected an accent.

      ‘American,’ Jason said. ‘And Punjabi. And Sikh, obviously.’ He gestured at the temple. ‘And yourself?’

      ‘British and Punjabi and Sikh,’ Nikki said. It had been a long time since she identified herself in all of those terms at once. She wondered if this was what the widows thought of her, and in which proportions.

      ‘So what’s your real name?’ she asked Jason.

      ‘Jason Singh Bhamra.’ Jason squinted at her. ‘You look surprised.’

      ‘I was sure it was an anglicized version of something else.’

      ‘My parents gave me a name that Americans could pronounce as well. They were forward-thinkers in that regard. Like yours, I’m assuming.’

      ‘Oh no,’ Nikki said. ‘I just don’t tell people my full name. It’s only on my birth certificate. Nobody uses it.’

      ‘Does it start with an N?’

      ‘You’re not going to guess it.’

      ‘Navinder.’

      ‘No.’ Nikki was already regretting lying about her name. It just seemed more interesting than the truth: “Nikki” meant little and she was a younger sibling so her parents had decided it was apt.

      ‘Najpal.’

      ‘Actually—’

      ‘Naginder, Navdeep, Narinder, Neelam, Naushil, Navjhot.’

      ‘None СКАЧАТЬ