Once the last woman had trailed out of class, Nikki hurried from the building, a clear plan in her head. The high street was bright and warm with the lights from shop windows. The pot-bellied owner of Sweetie Sweets beckoned to Nikki from the doorway. ‘Gulab jamun and barfi all fifty per cent off,’ he offered. At the newsagents next door, a large poster announced the arrival of three Bollywood actors whose faces and names Nikki vaguely recognized from Mindi’s film collection. Her cheeks burned from the winter chill. Droplets of misty rain clung to her hair.
Number 16 Ansell Road was a compact brick structure with a paved driveway, identical to most other houses on this street. A strong wind current carried the scent of cumin through the streets. Nikki knocked on the door. She heard the rapid thumping of steps and then the door cracked open. Through the chain loop, Tarampal’s eyes peered out into the world. Nikki saw the recognition, then the flare of anger in her eyes.
‘Please,’ Nikki said. She braced her hands against the door to keep Tarampal from slamming it shut. ‘I just want to talk to you for a moment.’
‘I have nothing to say to you,’ Tarampal said.
‘You don’t have to say anything. I just want to apologize.’
Tarampal remained still. ‘You already said sorry in your note.’
‘So you received the tapes?’
The door clicked shut. The hairs on Nikki’s arms stood straight against the chilly breeze. It began to drizzle. She took cover under the awning and knocked rapidly on the door. ‘Can I just talk to you for a moment?’ From the corner of her eye, she noticed Tarampal’s figure in the living room window. She went to the window and started knocking on it. ‘Tarampal, please.’
Tarampal flitted out of Nikki’s view. Nikki carried on rapping her knuckles against the glass, aware that she was causing a commotion. It worked. The main door flung open and Tarampal stormed out onto the front steps. ‘What do you think you’re doing? The neighbours can see you,’ Tarampal hissed. She ushered Nikki into the house and shut the door behind them. ‘Sarab Singh will tell his wife I’ve got lunatics visiting my house.’
Nikki didn’t know who Sarab Singh was, or why his wife mattered. She cast a glance down the hallway. This was an immaculate home, with the strong smell of varnish suggesting a recent renovation. She recalled the langar hall ladies mentioning damage to Tarampal’s property – clearly she had fixed up the place since. ‘Are your children here? Your grandchildren?’
‘I have daughters, all married. They live with their husbands.’
‘I didn’t realize you were all alone,’ Nikki said.
‘Jagdev found a place near his new job but he still visits at weekends. He was the one who read your note to me.’
Who was Jagdev? Nikki had trouble keeping up. ‘I’m not familiar with a lot of people in this community—’ she began.
‘Oh yes, you’re a proper London girl,’ Tarampal said. A look of scorn crossed her face when she said the city’s name. In her own home, she had a haughty confidence. She was still wearing a widow’s outfit but an updated version of the white tunic – the neckline bare and the waist cinched to show her figure.
The rain was spitting against the windows now. ‘Could I trouble you for a cup of tea?’ Nikki asked. ‘It’s very cold out there and I’ve come all this way.’
It was a small victory when Tarampal grudgingly said, ‘Yes.’ It would be easier to convince Tarampal to return to the class over tea. Nikki followed Tarampal into the kitchen, where granite counters ran the length of the room beneath a sleek row of cupboards. The electric stove was the state-of-the-art model that Mum coveted, with a white coil seemingly drawn onto the surface, the heat filling it instantly in a digital glow. Tarampal had switched it on and was rummaging through her cupboard. She produced a dented stainless steel pot and an old cookie tin that rattled with the sound of seeds and spices. Nikki had to suppress a smile. If Mum had an ultramodern kitchen, she would probably still store dal in old ice-cream containers and use her simple pot for boiling tea leaves as well.
‘You want sugar?’ Tarampal asked.
‘No, thank you.’
The kitchen became briefly awash in headlights. ‘That’s probably Sarab Singh leaving for his night shift,’ Tarampal said as she added the milk. ‘I don’t think he likes being home alone. A few years ago when Kulwinder and Maya went to India for a holiday, he worked double shifts every evening. God knows he needs even more distraction now.’
‘Kulwinder lives there?’ Nikki asked. She went to the living room and looked through the window. The driveway of the opposite home matched Tarampal’s.
‘Yes. You came to Maya’s wedding sangeet didn’t you? It was there. I thought they should have rented a hall because there were so many guests but …’ Tarampal threw her hands up as if to say it wasn’t up to her. Nikki had no time to correct the assumption that she had been a wedding guest. Tarampal had returned to the kitchen and was bringing out two cups of steaming tea. Nikki followed her.
‘Thank you for this,’ Nikki said, taking her cup. ‘I don’t have homemade chai every day.’ The chai from the market stall earlier had been too thick and sugary.
‘You British girls prefer Earl Grey,’ Tarampal said. She wrinkled her nose.
‘Oh no,’ Nikki said. ‘I enjoy a cup of chai. I just don’t live at home.’ The aroma of cloves made her surprisingly nostalgic for the afternoons spent visiting relatives in India. An idea came to her. ‘Would you be able to write down the recipe for me?’
‘How would I do that? I can’t write,’ Tarampal said.
‘Maybe we could work on that together. If you came back to the classes.’
Tarampal set down her teacup. ‘I don’t have anything to learn from you or those widows. It was a mistake signing up in the first place.’
‘Let’s talk about it.’
‘No need.’
‘If you’re concerned about people finding out about the stories—’
At the mention of the stories, Tarampal nostrils flared. ‘You think those stories aren’t a big deal, but you have no idea what they can do to people’s minds.’
‘Stories aren’t responsible for corrupting people,’ Nikki argued. ‘They give people a chance to experience new things.’
‘Experience new things?’ Tarampal snorted. ‘Don’t give me that. Maya was a big reader as well. I saw her reading a book one day – the cover had a picture of a man kissing a woman’s neck outside a castle. On the cover!’
‘I don’t think books are a bad influence.’
‘Well, you’re wrong. Thank goodness my daughters weren’t like that. We pulled them out of school before they could get any funny ideas.’
Tarampal’s sternness was frightening. ‘How old were your daughters when they got married?’ Nikki asked.
‘Sixteen,’ Tarampal said. ‘All were sent to India when they were twelve, to learn to cook and sew. The matches were made there and then they returned here for a few more years of school.’
‘What if they hadn’t agreed to the matches? They were so young.’
Tarampal gave a dismissive wave. ‘There’s no such thing as disagreeing. Only accepting and adjusting. I had to do that when my marriage was arranged. And when my daughters’ time came, they knew their duties.’
This interpretation of marriage sounded like an endless list of chores. ‘It’s rather unexciting,’ Nikki said. ‘I would think that girls who grew up in England would want romance and passion.’