Erotic Stories for Punjabi Widows. Balli Kaur Jaswal

she saw her mobile phone flashing. Unknown Number. On the other side, a voice that she recognized all too well. ‘You were seen talking to the police today. Try it again and you will be in a lot of trouble.’ Kulwinder tried to defend herself but, as always, her caller hung up before she had a chance to speak.

       Chapter Four

      ‘There are no good men left in London,’ Olive remarked. ‘None.’ She surveyed the crowd from her perch at the bar while Nikki wiped down the counter, cursing the noisy blokes who had spent the past hour singing off-key rounds of football songs and winking sloppily at her.

      ‘There are plenty,’ Nikki assured her.

      ‘Plenty of duds,’ Olive said. ‘Unless you want me to date Steve with the Racist Grandfather.’

      ‘I would rather see you single for the rest of your life,’ Nikki said. Steve with the Racist Grandfather was a regular at the pub who prefaced his bigoted comments with, ‘as my grandfather would say …’ He considered this a foolproof way to absolve himself of being racist. ‘As my grandfather would say,’ he once told Nikki, ‘is your skin naturally that colour, or are you rusting? Of course, I would never say that. But my grandfather used to call khaki pants “Paki Pants” because he honestly thought the colour was named after their skin tone. He’s terrible, my grandfather.’

      ‘That guy’s all right,’ Nikki said, nodding at a tall man joining a group at a corner table. He took a seat and clapped one of his mates on the shoulder. Olive craned her neck to look. ‘Not too bad,’ Olive said. ‘He looks a bit like Lars. Remember him?’

      ‘You mean Laaawsh? He only told us a hundred times how to pronounce it correctly,’ Nikki said. He was a Swedish exchange student that Olive’s family had hosted when they were in Year Twelve. ‘That was the year I spent more time claiming to study at your house than ever.’ It was the only way she could get her parents’ permission to spend so many evenings at Olive’s house.

      ‘With my luck, that guy’s already taken,’ Olive said.

      ‘I’ll go do some investigative work,’ Nikki said. She made her rounds at the tables and floated towards him. ‘Can I get you anything?’ she asked.

      ‘Sure.’ As he gave his order she noticed the wedding ring shining on his finger.

      ‘Sorry,’ Nikki said when returned to Olive. She poured her friend a drink on the house and joined Olive on the other side of the bar once her shift was over. Olive sighed. ‘Maybe I should go for an arranged marriage. How was your sister’s date the other night?’

      ‘Disastrous,’ Nikki said. ‘The guy talked about himself the whole time and then made a fuss because they were served water without lemon slices. I think he was trying to prove to Mindi that he was accustomed to a certain type of service.’

      ‘That’s a shame.’

      ‘It’s a relief, actually. I was worried that she’d settle for the first eligible Punjabi bachelor who came along but she told me she gave him a polite and firm “no, thank you” at the end of the night.’

      ‘Maybe Mindi’s more influenced by you than she realizes,’ Olive said.

      ‘I thought so too but Auntie Geeta who suggested this fine young man gave Mum the cold shoulder at the shops the other day. Mindi felt terrible and called her up to apologize. Auntie Geeta guilted her into signing up for Punjabi Speed Dating. It’s really not Mindi’s thing but she’s going along with it.’

      ‘Oh, you never know who Mindi might meet or where. The odds are in her favour at speed dating. Fifteen men in one night? Sign me up. It could be really fun. If nothing else, she comes out of it having put herself out there. That’s more than I’m doing.’

      ‘It sounds like a nightmare to me. These are fifteen Punjabi men looking for a wife. When Mindi registered, she had to tell the organizers her caste, dietary preferences and rate her religiousness on a scale of one to ten.’

      Olive laughed. ‘I’d be a minus three in any religion,’ she said. ‘I’d be a terrible candidate.’

      ‘Me too,’ Nikki said. ‘Mindi’s about a six or seven, although I think she’d claim to be more religious if it pleased the right man. I worry that she’s only doing this for people like Auntie Geeta.’

      ‘Well, she should be the least of your problems right now,’ Olive said. ‘You have to teach grannies the alphabet tomorrow.’

      Nikki groaned. ‘Where do I start?’

      ‘I told you I have lots of books on literacy that you could borrow.’

      ‘For Year Seven students. These women are starting from scratch.’

      ‘You’re telling me they can’t read road signs? They can’t read the headline scrolling by when the news is on? How have they managed living in England all this time?’

      ‘I suppose they were always able to get by with their husbands’ help. For anything else, they could just speak in Punjabi.’

      ‘But your mum was never so dependent on your dad.’

      ‘My parents met at university in Delhi and Mum has her own livelihood. These women grew up in villages. Most couldn’t spell their own names in Punjabi, let alone English.’

      ‘I can’t imagine living my whole life like that,’ Olive said, taking a swig of her pint.

      ‘Do you remember those writing books we used to have when we were kids? How to do capital letters and cursive?’ Nikki asked.

      ‘The ones where you practise writing in the lines – penmanship books?’

      ‘Yes. Those would be useful.’

      ‘You can find them online,’ Olive said. ‘The school textbook publishers have a good catalogue. I can look out for them for you.’

      ‘I need something for tomorrow’s lesson though.’

      ‘Try one of the charity shops on King Street.’

      After locking up, Nikki stayed back for drinks and then she and Olive stumbled out onto the glistening road, arms linked together like schoolgirls. Nikki took her phone from her pocket and typed a message to Mindi.

       Hey sis! Found the man of your dreams yet? Does he starch his own turban and comb his own moustache or will that be one of your DUTIES?

      She giggled and pressed Send.

      Nikki woke in the afternoon, her head still spinning from the night before. She reached for her phone. There was a message from Mindi.

       Drinking on a weeknight, Nik? Obviously if sending stupid messages at that hour.

      Nikki wiped the blur from her eyes and wrote Mindi a reply.

       U have such a huge stick up your bum

      Mindi wrote back within seconds.

       And u probably just woke up. Talk about bums. Grow up Nikki.

      Nikki tossed the phone into her bag. It took her twice as long as usual to just get out of bed because her head felt so heavy. She winced at the squeaky sound of the shower tap and the sting of water on her skin. After getting dressed, she walked up the street to the Oxfam shop. The musty smell of ancient wool coats tickled her nose. Old school textbooks and worksheets sat on a bottom shelf, under the rows of popular novels that Nikki often browsed and bought. Here, Nikki finally woke up. The familiar comfort of books helped to dissolve her hangover.

      Searching the shop, Nikki found a Scrabble game as well. A few tiles were missing but it would still be useful for teaching the alphabet. She went back to the shelf to see if there was anything there for her and while browsing, a title caught her