‘Is it something you’ve always wanted to do?’
‘Sure,’ Nikki said, and now she could not help breaking out into a smile. ‘I’ve always wanted to do some sort of community service, and this involves writing, so it combines my two passions.’ The word passion made her giggle.
‘Look at you, so excited about what you do. It’s great,’ Jason said. ‘Your mum and sister must be proud at the very least that you’re helping women in the community.’
An image flashed into Nikki’s mind: Mum and Mindi sitting in the back of Nikki’s classroom, pencils poised primly over their notebooks and confusion descending over their faces when the women started describing sex scenes with vegetables. She burst out laughing. It was the sort of uncontrollable, gasping laughter that made her belly ache. She shook her head and shut her eyes, shaking with laughter and when she opened them, Jason was peering curiously at her.
‘Oh my goodness,’ Nikki said. ‘I’m sorry.’ Tears streamed down her face. ‘I have to tell you, don’t I?’
‘Tell me what?’
‘I’m not a teacher.’
‘What do you do then?’
‘I’m running an erotic storytelling workshop for Punjabi widows.’
Jason blinked. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Exactly that. Twice a week, we meet in the temple community centre on the pretence of learning English but the women come up with these sexual stories instead.’
‘You’re kidding,’ Jason said. ‘You have to be.’
Nikki took a sip of her wine with a flourish, pleased at the widening smile on Jason’s face. ‘No kidding,’ she said. ‘We all pitch in with feedback and suggestions to make the story more convincing. Sometimes one story takes up a whole lesson.’
The frown on Jason’s face worried Nikki a little. Maybe she shouldn’t have said anything. ‘What’s wrong with my amazing job?’ she asked lightly.
‘Nothing’s wrong. I’m just struggling to believe this,’ Jason said.
‘“She felt her pulse throbbing in the sweet, secret spot between her thighs,”’ Nikki said. ‘A widow wrote that.’
Jason shook his head slowly, a curious smile appearing. ‘So how did this come about?’
Nikki found herself at the very beginning, telling Jason about how she had been fooled into thinking she’d be teaching a literacy class. His growing smile made her slightly lightheaded. ‘Are these proper widows? Like my grandmother?’
‘I don’t know. Does your grandmother harbour any fantasies of kneading dough for your grandfather’s roti with her bare bottom? Because that’s a story we did recently.’ It had been Arvinder’s idea. Both members of the couple had been aroused by this act – the half-naked woman grinding her bum over the gooey raw dough and the man eating the roti later which he claimed was velvety soft because of this secret method.
‘I can’t imagine her being savvy enough to come up with a scene like that.’
‘Not to you maybe. But I’ll bet she talks about these things with her friends.’
‘You’ll bet my sweet, innocent Nani-ji talks dirty with her prayer group?’
Nikki smiled. ‘A month ago, I would’ve thought that was crazy as well but there’s such a range of creative stories coming from just four widows. There must be so many more.’ She couldn’t help looking at all elderly women differently now, not just the Punjabi ones.
‘My grandmother can’t even write her own name. She saw me playing computer games when I was a kid once and she thought there were actual men inside the computer, with miniature guns in this tiny little city gone amok. There’s no way someone with that little exposure to the world could come up with such detailed sex stories.’
‘But sex and pleasure are instinctive, right? Good, satisfying sex makes perfect sense to even the most illiterate person. You and me, we’re just used to seeing it as an advanced invention because we learned about it after we learned the other basics – reading, writing, learning how to use a computer, all of that. To the widows, sex comes before all of that knowledge.’
‘I didn’t hear a word of that because I’m thinking about my grandmother making sex-roti,’ Jason said with a grimace.
‘Bum bread,’ Nikki said.
‘Tushy toast,’ Jason laughed. He shook his head. ‘I’m still in shock. What made these women feel comfortable telling you everything? Besides your obvious charm, of course.’
‘I guess they didn’t think I’d judge them because I’m a modern girl. They don’t tell me everything though.’ She thought about Preetam’s outburst about Arvinder’s affair and the way Maya’s name had rankled everyone once again. No explanations had been provided after the women returned from their break and Nikki sensed it would be a long time before she could ask about it. ‘Enough about my job. Tell me about engineering.’
‘You sounded bored just asking about engineering.’
‘Tell me! About! Engineering!’ Nikki said, pumping her fists into the air. Jason’s laughter boomed across the restaurant. A waiter gave them a dirty look.
They did not make it to the film in the end. They stayed on at the restaurant, ordering more wine, glancing only once at their watches and quickly agreeing that they preferred conversation. Jason only wanted to hear about the stories. Nikki studied his face as she spoke; there was not a hint of outrage or disgust. He didn’t bat an eye when she casually mentioned that she felt like she was making a feminist foray into these women’s lives. The word didn’t seem to chafe.
Afterwards, they walked outside together. It was a cool night and the London lights glowed on the streets. Nikki drew close to Jason and he slipped his arms around her waist. They kissed again. ‘It’s those raunchy stories’ fault,’ Jason said. Nikki laughed. No, it’s you, she thought.
Chapter Eight
Nikki laid out the three Indian blouses and took a picture. She sent it to Mindi with a text: Which one for me? The stall owner, a small man with a snowy beard and a large pink turban, rapidly listed their merits: ‘One hundred per cent cotton! Very breathable! Colours don’t bleed in the wash – even the red dye doesn’t come off!’ His overenthusiasm gave Nikki the impression that these were likely polyester blouses that would smell like armpits after ten minutes of wear and make a crime scene of her other laundry if she so much as put them in the same basket.
Mindi rang her back. ‘Since when did you start wearing kurti tops?’ she asked.
‘Since I discovered a Southall clothing bazaar that sells them much cheaper than vintage shops anywhere else in London,’ Nikki said.
‘The bluish-green on the far left is the best.’
‘Not the maroon?’
‘It’s not my favourite,’ Mindi said. ‘The black one is nice too, because of the silver embroidery on the collar. Could you buy me one as well?’
‘Are we going to dress the same like Mum forced us to in primary school?’
Mindi groaned. ‘That was the worst, wasn’t it? Everybody asking if we were twins?’