‘We can’t shut down the classes now, Nikki,’ Sheena said. ‘These women have come from all over. Let’s go on with the session tonight and then we’ll think about what to do later.’
The room was silent now. All eyes were fixed on Nikki. Sheena was right – these women had turned up to support the class. She couldn’t stand the thought of turning them away and losing all of these new voices.
‘Who has a story to share?’
Hands shot into the air and voices began to overlap. Nikki gestured for quiet. She searched the room. A bony middle-aged woman wearing a long maroon kurti stretched over black tights was waving a piece of paper.
‘My story is incomplete,’ she confessed when Nikki called on her. ‘I need some help with it. Oh, I’m Amarjhot, by the way.’ She giggled shyly. Her mannerisms reminded Nikki of her first encounters with Manjeet. ‘Why don’t you start us off, Amarjhot,’ Nikki said.
As Amarjhot approached the front of the room, the other women clapped. Amarjhot cleared her throat and began.
There was a young, beautiful woman by the name of Rani. She looked like a princess but she was not treated like this by her parents. Being the youngest daughter of a poor family, Rani had to do all the housework and she was rarely let out of the house. Many people in her village did not even know she existed.
There was an audible yawn in the back of the room. Amarjhot’s reading was very slow. She continued describing Rani – her hazel brown eyes, her fair skin with cheeks you could mistake for apples, her slender waist. Then one day, a man came to ask Rani for her hand in marriage. She stopped here. She stared at her page and then turned to Nikki. ‘After this, I couldn’t find the words. They wouldn’t come. I remember what I wanted to say though.’
‘Say it then. Skip to the wedding night,’ Preetam called out. ‘What did Rani and this man do together?’ Anticipatory giggles floated through the room.
Amarjhot closed her eyes briefly and a smile flashed across her face. She began to laugh.
The more vocal women in the room were more than happy to bring the story forward. ‘He unwound her wedding outfit and laid her on the bed.’
‘He took off his clothes. Or she took off his clothes for him and touched his body.’
‘He had a big one.’
‘Massive. Like a python.’
‘He used it gently though, because she knew so little. He let her hold it first and move her hands along it.’
‘And then he kissed her,’ continued Amarjhot. ‘She eased at the touch of his lips on hers. As they kissed, he traced his fingers over her body as if he was drawing her. He circled a flat palm over her nipples. They hardened at his touch. He then put his lips to one nipple and began sucking while rolling the other gently between his fingers. Rani was in ecstasy.’
‘But she began moaning a name which wasn’t his,’ Bibi called out.
Gasps and murmurs of appreciation. ‘Whose name was she calling out?’
‘No, don’t – this Rani was a virtuous girl who was feeling love for the first time – why ruin it?’
‘Nobody’s ruining anything. We’re just adding masala,’ Tanveer said.
Their heckling faded into the background for Nikki. She carefully stepped past the women to the desk, where the enrolments list was kept. It would be a good idea to record names and details. Looking through the paperwork, she came across Tarampal’s registration form. Nikki couldn’t help another wave of panic – where was 16 Ansell Road on the Brothers’ canvassing trail?
‘Maybe they try it at first but they discover that he’s too large,’ Preetam suggested.
‘So they do it from behind,’ another woman said.
‘Eww,’ a few women squealed. There was then a small and precise lesson in what ‘behind’ meant. ‘Not in her bum,’ Tanveer said helpfully, to their relief.
‘Oh, why not though? That’s not so bad. It’s different.’
‘Have you not heard how big this guy’s garden pipe is? It’s more like a fire hose. Would you really want something that size entering your exit-zone?’
‘Where the hell is their ghee?’ somebody asked desperately.
The discussion continued. It was finally decided that Rani and her husband would turn their crisis into an exciting adventure. They would try a variety of positions.
Spot fires of conversation broke out across the classroom. Casual confessions drifted into earshot. ‘My husband and I tried that one,’ Hardayal Kaur sniffed. ‘It only works if you’re very flexible. My knees were too stiff from farm work, even at age twenty.’
‘Mine tried to put his banana between my breasts once. I don’t recommend it. It was like seeing a canoe trying to edge its way through two hillsides.’
Amarjhot glanced helplessly at the page in her hands. ‘I think I have to consider this story a bit further,’ she said. She returned to her seat.
‘My tongue will stoke your burning fire; a hot, licking flame of pure desire,’ boomed a voice from the far left corner of the room. All heads turned to Gurlal Kaur. She was a vision of peaceful meditation with her legs crossed and her eyes closed. Her words commanded silence. She continued.
‘You are the suppleness of soil, the strength of stalks. Let me lay atop you, my manhood growing like a root into your velvety soft embrace. When it rains, I feel your slick wetness against my body and I breathe in your musky scent. We will rock together in a joint rhythm, our fiery passions evoking the strongest thunder and lightning to crack onto this earth.’
All that could be heard was the breathing of women. Nikki was the first to speak. ‘Did you just make that up?’ she asked.
Gurlal shook her head. She opened her eyes. ‘There was a terrible drought in my village the year I was supposed to marry. My parents couldn’t afford a dowry but they knew I wouldn’t settle for anyone less than my dear Mukesh Singh, whom I had met once during a bridal viewing and fallen madly in love with. My parents knew I wouldn’t be happier with anybody else; they had seen the way our eyes lit up when we first saw each other. You’re the one, we both said silently.’
‘That’s beautiful,’ Preetam said. ‘The land was barren but their love grew.’ The other women shushed her.
‘Each morning and night, special prayers were said for the rain. They were being said in Mukesh’s village as well, where the situation was no better. It was from those daily prayers that he became inspired to write poetry. He sent the poems to my home. I had to be careful to collect them from the mailman before my parents got to them, although they wouldn’t have been able to read the poems anyway. They were both illiterate. That year, my father often grumbled that my schooling had given me too many choices because I was stubbornly insisting on marrying Mukesh. I took out one of the letters and pretended that it was a note from Mukesh’s relatives, praising my father for raising such an educated daughter. That appeased him. That poem is my favourite.’