‘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?’