‘It’s not a book,’ Geeta said. ‘They’re just typed-up stories. Nobody knows exactly where they’re coming from.’
‘What do you mean? The author’s anonymous?’
‘Supposedly there’s no single author. These stories haven’t been published anywhere. They’re just being copied, scanned, emailed and faxed all over London and they’re reaching an intended audience. Mittoo Kaur has read three already, and all three have completely transformed her relations with her husband. During yoga class the other day, when the teacher asked us to lie on our backs and pull our knees to our chests, Mittoo winked at me and said, “Just like last night.” At our age! Can you imagine?’
‘No,’ Harpreet said quickly. ‘I can’t.’ She was imagining though. She was picturing herself with Mohan. ‘Did Mittoo tell you where she got the stories from?’
‘Her cousin passed them to her. Her cousin got them from a friend at the Enfield temple, who first heard about them from a Punjabi colleague who lives in East London. She lost the trail there because her cousin never asked the colleague where the stories came from but Mittoo Kaur isn’t the only person I know who has come across these stories. Kareem Singh’s wife told me she’s come across them as well. The one she told me about was very graphic. A Punjabi woman brings her car to a mechanic and they end up having sex on the bonnet. She ties his wrists to the wing mirror with her dupatta.’
‘They’re that detailed?’ Harpreet asked. ‘I’ve never come across stories like that with our people in them.’
‘Rumour has it the stories are coming from Southall.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Harpreet said with a laugh. ‘I’d believe it if you said they were from Bombay, but if they’re from England, they’re not from there.’
‘No, it’s true. Her aunt has a friend who attended a class there on how to write dirty stories.’
That made no sense. ‘There would be riots in the community if such a thing existed,’ Harpreet said.
‘That’s why it’s advertised as an English class.’
‘That’s imposs—’ Harpreet froze. Southall. English class. Harpreet swallowed and kept quiet. She reminded herself that Geeta was a gossip. Geeta exaggerated. There was no reason to think—
‘You know what else she told me? The stories are being written by older women whose husbands have died. Can you imagine? Women like us.’
‘Hanh,’ Harpreet croaked. She took a gulp of tea. ‘Women like us.’
By the time Nikki got to Southall station the next day, she was grumbling under her breath. The train had been delayed and she was running so late that there wasn’t even time for that cigarette that she badly craved. Bloody Jason and his plan for them to quit together. The bus dutifully climbed the hill and descended slowly onto the Broadway. Vegetable peels littered the ground outside the market and sequins twinkled like constellations in the sari shop windows. A couple emerged from the steps of Fast Track Visa Service clutching papers against their chests. As the bus pulled up to the temple, Nikki checked the time on her phone: class had started half an hour ago.
A humming noise was coming from the community centre building. Nikki climbed the stairs. The noise grew. Distinct voices – Arvinder’s and Sheena’s – could be heard over an ocean of excited chatter. Nikki walked into the room and gasped.There were women everywhere – sitting cross-legged on tables, nestled comfortably in chairs, leaning against the walls, perched on the teacher’s desk at the front of the room.
Nikki was speechless. She stepped back and stared at the women, unable at first to take in what she was seeing. There were many widows, distinct in their white attire, but clusters of women from other age groups had joined the classes as well. The presence of younger women was chaotic – the clink of bangles, the clouds of perfume. The voices of the middle-aged women rang out with an enviable certainty.
It was the widows who noticed her first. One by one, they pulled away from their conversation and focused on Nikki. The noise bled from the room gradually until Nikki was facing a completely quiet group of women. She felt the sudden need for air and wondered if she had been holding her breath this whole time.
‘Is that the teacher?’ one woman asked.
‘No, the classes are being run by a gori.’
‘What gori can speak Punjabi?’ another woman asked. ‘No, it must be her.’
The chatter commenced again, voices bouncing across the walls. Nikki stepped through the crowds and found Sheena.
‘When did they all show up?’ Nikki asked.
‘The first ones were standing outside the building about an hour ago. I noticed them from the langar hall and hurried over to tell them that the classes hadn’t started yet. They said, “That’s all right, we’re waiting for the others.” Then another crowd arrived,’ Sheena said.
‘When you said that the stories had spread all over London …’ Nikki said, looking around.
‘I didn’t think there would be this many women either,’ Sheena said. ‘But we couldn’t turn them away.’
‘But what will we do when Kulwinder returns?’
‘We can make up a roster,’ Sheena said. ‘The women can sign up for sessions.’
‘Or we can start our own classes in our areas,’ a woman sitting nearby called out. ‘Anyone else here live in the Wembley area?’
A few hands shot up. Oh shit, Nikki thought. If the stories were spreading, they had probably reached Enfield as well. She did a quick scan for Mum’s friends and saw nobody that she recognized.
‘Everybody listen,’ Nikki shouted. The women were momentarily stunned into silence. Nikki rushed to maintain the pause. ‘Welcome to all of you. I want to thank you for coming tonight. I wasn’t expecting such a large turnout, and we’ll need to put a limit on class sizes in the future.’ She looked around the room. ‘I also want to emphasize the need to be discreet, although I’m not sure if it’s realistic.’ Her heartbeat quickened at the thought of the Brothers discovering them. ‘We could be in a lot of trouble if the wrong people find out about these classes.’
Quick glances darted about the room. Nikki’s heart sank. ‘They already know, don’t they?’ she asked.
From a back corner, Preetam raised her hand. ‘Dharminder here says she found out about the classes because one of the Brothers came knocking on her door asking if she knew anything about the stories.’
Dharminder, a stout widow whose low dupatta hung over her eyes, nodded. ‘Yes. If anything, they’re the ones spreading the word.’
It wouldn’t be long before they went knocking on Kulwinder’s door then. Panic tightened Nikki’s chest. They had to stop the classes – they had to, otherwise the women were in danger. She was in danger. ‘I’m not sure if this is a good idea then,’ Nikki said.