Chapter Twelve
Kulwinder marched home against the brisk winds, clutching the folder to her chest. Her rage was in danger of spilling out onto the streets. She wanted to scream and for a strange moment, she invited thoughts of running into Jaggi now. One fiery look would send him scuttling away.
She arrived home with wild hair and flushed cheeks. Sarab was in the living room as always, the television lights flickering through the windows. She marched in and commanded his attention with a wave of the folder. ‘Did you know about this?’
He looked up, the remote control poised as if to pause her. ‘Know about what?’
‘The English classes. The other day, you said the classes have become very popular. Did you know what was going on?’
He shrugged and looked down. A movie heroine raced across the screen, her faithful dupatta trailing behind her like a red banner. ‘There has been some talk, sure. The English classes are not what they seem.’
‘What are people saying exactly? What are the men saying?’
‘You know I don’t listen much to idle conversation. There were just a few comments that some wives were becoming more outspoken. They had an entirely new vocabulary to describe …’ He shrugged and watched the heroine, who was inexplicably wearing a completely different outfit now. Kulwinder took the remote from him and turned off the television.
‘Describe what?’ she demanded.
‘Their desires.’ His face flushed. ‘In the bedroom.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me this?’ she asked.
‘Kulwinder,’ he said calmly. Her heart missed a beat. It had been very long since he said her name. ‘When have I been able to tell you anything you don’t want to hear?’
She stared at him in disbelief. ‘Those women’s conversations aren’t just about their bedroom lives. They told Nikki about Maya. For all I know, they’ve been discussing it openly for weeks and putting our lives at risk.’ She hadn’t recognized half the women in that room – what versions of the story had they spun and how would she control it?
‘Do they know something?’ Sarab asked. The hope in his voice broke Kulwinder’s heart.
‘Nikki thinks she has some proof but it’s nothing, Sarab. We shouldn’t get our hopes up.’
As Kulwinder relayed Nikki’s discovery about Jaggi’s handwriting, she remembered the police telling her about the note and its contents. The constable had to brace her fall as she staggered onto a chair. What had the note said? Something about being sorry, something about being ashamed. ‘They’re not my daughter’s words,’ Kulwinder had managed to say. ‘My daughter was not concerned about izzat.’ When had Maya ever used Punjabi words when an English one would suffice? The writer of the note had been careless and hasty in this imitation of her daughter.
Sarab stared and stared. He looked at Kulwinder as if she had materialized suddenly out of thin air. ‘Jaggi’s left-handed.’
‘So what?’ Kulwinder asked. ‘It doesn’t mean—’
‘There’s something we can do.’
‘Will they accept it?’ Kulwinder asked. ‘Or will they just repeat what they’ve always said: that Maya was distressed, that it’s natural to look for somebody to blame? Then what if the police won’t help us and Jaggi finds out we’ve gone to them again?’ The first time Jaggi called in the middle of the night, there were no threats. He simply told her that he and his friends knew what time Sarab left work on his late shifts. ‘The important thing is to stay safe now,’ she reminded Sarab.
‘Is it?’ Sarab asked angrily. ‘Are we meant to live our whole lives in fear?’ He crossed the room and pulled open the living room curtains, exposing the view of Tarampal’s house across the road.
‘Please,’ Kulwinder said, turning her back on the window. ‘Close the curtains.’ Sarab did as she asked. They sat in the shadows, listening to the low hum of the house lights. ‘Sarab, if something happened to you—’ She couldn’t complete her sentence. She was aware of Sarab’s heaving breaths from across the room. ‘I lost Maya. I can’t lose you as well.’
Sarab’s lip trembled. Say it to me now, Kulwinder urged silently but he looked past her. She wondered if he had been lonely when she was away or relieved not to avoid speaking to her. She could see them drifting further apart, sleeping in separate rooms, politely waiting for each other to vacate the living room before settling in front of the television. Just the thought made her feel terribly lonely, as if it was already happening.
‘How about Nikki?’ Sarab asked.
Kulwinder narrowed her eyes. The last thing she wanted to do was talk about Nikki. ‘What about her?’ she asked impatiently.
‘Where does she live?’
‘Somewhere in West London.’
‘Tell her she needs to be careful.’
Kulwinder thought back to her heated confrontation with Nikki. Not once had she mentioned to Nikki that she might be in danger. Did Jaggi know about Nikki’s questions? And what if the Brothers found out that she was the ringleader of these classes? Kulwinder shook her head to dismiss the thought. Nikki lived outside Southall. There was no need to panic about her safety. ‘I don’t know where she might be now,’ Kulwinder said.
‘Go to the next class and—’
‘I’ve suspended the classes,’ Kulwinder said. ‘I fired Nikki.’
Sarab looked up sharply. ‘Kulwinder, think about the girl,’ he said. He drew himself away from her. She felt the emptiness of the room as he vacated it but her indignation remained. It was Nikki who had put them in this situation. If she had just done her job, none of this would have happened. Kulwinder opened the folder. Weeks and weeks of deception were written in these pages. Picking through the folder, she saw that one of the illiterate widows had put her artistic talents to use and filled a page with illustrations. A man hovering over a woman’s breast, his mouth slightly open to capture her nipple. A woman straddling a man, the crease down her spine to her buttock defined to show the slight arching of her back. Filth.
Kulwinder tossed the papers back into the folder and went to the kitchen to make some tea. She poured the water into the pot. While waiting for it to heat up, she could not help thinking about the angles of the man’s body as he crouched over the woman. She shook her head and focused on the pot. Tiny bubbles were beginning to surface on the water. She crossed to the spice cabinet and took out the fennel and cardamom seeds and there, again, she paused and shut her eyes. Spots of light danced around as her vision adjusted to the darkness. Then, instead of disappearing, the spots took shape. A man. A woman. Fingers skilfully gliding across bare skin. Red lips pressing into glistening flesh. Her eyes flew open. She went to the stove and took the pot off. She glanced at the folder. She supposed there was no harm in reading one story, just to review the information. After all, if she were to be questioned by the council over this, she needed to have all the details.
Kulwinder picked out the first story.
The Tailor
Centuries ago, on the fringes of a palace city, there was a talented but modest tailor named Ram. Ram’s customers were women who wanted to look like the royals who lived within the palace walls. These women travelled for miles to see Ram, carrying with them a list of seemingly impossible demands. It was said that Ram had a gift for putting together the most regal and fashionable creations out of nothing. He could spin a simple yellow thread into gold and turn an ordinary pale green into the rich emerald shade of a rare jewel.
Many of Ram’s customers were enamoured with him. They noticed the way he handled his modest sewing machine, his fingers deftly moving between layers of cloth and they drew conclusions about what a talented man he must be between the sheets. During fittings, some women purposely loosened their top garments and leaned forward to give him a sneak peek at their cleavage. Some left a gap in the curtain of the changing space to give Ram a chance to peek. Ram paid no attention. While working, he preferred not to be distracted by temptations. One day he would have time for a lover but for now there were too many orders. Word had spread all over India that Ram was the best tailor. The popular rhyme went:
The tailor Ram is the best in town
You’ll feel like a royal in a fancy gown
His prices are good, his prices are fair
You’ll be a queen with a crown in her hair
But for every piece of praise Ram received, there was also a curse. Jealous tailors all over India were furious with him for luring their clients away with his magical skills. Ordinary men cursed him for catering to the demands of their wives, who, when wearing such fine saris, expected royal treatment.
One afternoon a woman came to Ram asking for his help. Her hazel eyes made Ram’s heart skip. ‘For once, I would like to look like a rich woman,’ she told him in a voice that he wanted to hear whispering in his ear. She handed him an old shawl. ‘I can’t afford to buy something new but can you stitch a border onto this?’
‘Of course,’ Ram said. For you, I would do anything, he thought. ‘Your husband must have bought this for you.’
The woman smiled and tucked a stray hair behind her ear. ‘I have no husband,’ she said to Ram’s delight.
This beautiful woman was fit to look like a queen. Ram decided that he would not accept any payment from her when the shawl was completed – all he wanted was a chance at another conversation so he could find out her name. Ram’s passion for the woman ignited his creativity. He blended dyes to create threads of the most brilliant colours to impress her. The border of the shawl would be lined with a parade of turquoise and magenta peacocks. In the centre of the border, Ram would embroider a replica of the palace with a minuscule image of the woman standing in one of its windows. He would point it out to her, this secret, so she would know that she was his queen.
A scene with this level of detail required Ram’s fullest concentration. He was so focused that he dismissed the voices of the children playing outside. It was only when he heard his name that he stopped working and paid attention.
The tailor Ram is the best in town
You’ll look like a princess in a fancy gown
His prices are good, his prices are fair
But he’ll never be a part of a loving pair
This was the worst curse in existence because it banished its victim to a lifetime of loneliness. Ram ran outside. ‘Where did you hear that?’ Ram asked. The children scattered. Ram chased them up the street before he realized that he was still holding the shawl. It was ripped and covered in mud from being dragged along the ground. ‘Oh no!’ Ram cried out. He returned to his shop and tried his best to repair the shawl but it was ruined. That evening, when the woman returned to check on his progress, Ram hung his head in shame and said that he had lost the shawl. The woman was outraged. Gone was the warmth from her hazel eyes. ‘How could you do this?’ she screamed. ‘You’re the worst tailor in the world!’
Ram closed his shop the next day. He wept at his workstation, seeing the curse darkening his future like a storm cloud. He had never wished for anything before but now he wished for a chance at intimacy. Why didn’t I bed a woman when I had the chance? he asked himself. He went to sleep dreaming of the milky thighs of the customers who had bared their bodies to him. In his dreams, he was bold enough to bury his face in their bosoms and breathe in their sweet scent. In another dream, Ram saw himself bent over a woman, kissing her plump lips as she stroked his manhood with one hand and tickled her own private parts with the other …
Suddenly, Ram woke to a rustling noise. A burglar! Ram leapt out of bed and rushed to his storage room first. Nobody was there. The rustling noise started again. Ram shone his lamp in the direction of the noise and noticed that his fabric was moving. He picked it up and noticed that it was heavier than usual, almost solid. He brought it to his workstation to see it in a better light. The fabric twisted away from his grip and fell to the floor. Its shape shifted in waves until a woman fully emerged. Ram staggered back against the wall, staring at this ghostly thing in his home.
‘W-what are you?’ he stammered.
She had the sorts of eyelids that swept as dramatically as butterfly wings each time she blinked. Her skin had a golden hue and her shimmering hair let off the sweet scent of jasmine. The curves of her body were very arousing. She followed his gaze across her chest and reached for him. Her touch was soft. Her fingers, now fully formed, ran along her body to show him that she was real. She drew attention to parts of the body that Ram had never had to consider as a tailor – the bone jutting from her collar, the sharp edge of her elbow. Her toenails were curved and white like half-moons. Her belly button was a dark crater in the golden desert of her body. Ram reached out to clutch a handful of flesh above her hip. It was as real as his own.
‘Call me Laila,’ she said.
She put her lips to his earlobe and sucked it gently. Shivers of delight ran through Ram like an electric current. He ran his hands down her back and grabbed her buttocks, drawing their hips together as they fell back against the bed of fabric. She unwound the loose cloth that covered the top of her body and exposed her breasts to Ram. Ram flicked his tongue against a dark nipple. Laila gasped with pleasure, grinding herself against him. Ram switched to the other breast. She tasted salty and musky, the way he could never have imagined. Daringly, he brought his fingers to her mouth. She licked and sucked on them. Ram’s manhood throbbed with anticipation of what Laila’s sweet, silky mouth might do for him. His fingers were slick with saliva when he pulled them away from Laila’s lips and into the silky crevice between her legs.
‘You’re so real,’ Ram uttered.
Laila spread her legs wider and allowed Ram to stroke her. The fabric beneath her darkened with shadows of sweat. With both thumbs, Ram gently parted the folds of her womanhood and used the tip of his tongue to tickle her protruding button. Laila’s giggle turned him on even more. She rolled over him, pulling off his pants fiercely. His manhood was stiff. Laila teased him. She brushed her wetness against the tip of his manhood and watched his face contort with pleasure. ‘How does that feel?’ she breathed into his ear. Her breasts dangled over his lips. He replied with a groan. ‘That’s not a proper answer,’ Laila said sternly. With a scowl, she lowered herself onto him and began riding vigorously on his hard, thick stick.
The angry look on Laila’s face was the only remnant of the punishing nature of the curse. Ram gave Laila’s bottom a hard squeeze. Her scowl deepened. ‘How dare you?’ she asked. He gritted his teeth, the tension building inside him. He felt Laila’s muscles clenching at the same time as his. She cried out his name and let out a long, shuddering moan. Witnessing Laila’s ultimate pleasure triggered Ram’s quick, hot release. He grabbed her hips and moaned loudly. Laila’s body was slick with sweat. She continued to rock slowly on his stick as tiny aftershocks sent quivers through his body.
As they lay together, Laila explained that she had been created from Ram’s wishes to be with a woman. The curse had been no match against the strength of his desires. Aware that wishes, just like curses, have a lifespan, Ram asked Laila how long they would be together. ‘As long as these rolls of fabric,’ Laila said. They looked around. The fabric had unspooled and spilled across Ram’s modest studio. Rich, fiery hues of orange and dazzling silver threads stretched as far as they could see.
Kulwinder’s tea was cold. She barely noticed it as she brought the cup to her lips and gulped it down. Her face, her hands and feet felt very warm, almost hot. She could feel the pulsing of her heart and another pulsing in very private place. There was a faint recollection of this feeling, from many years ago when she first discovered what it was that men and women did, and why they did it. Her earlier appalled façade forgotten, she was enthralled. She even dared to think that it was worth living the rest of her life for, this closeness with another human being.
She put the story back into the folder and pulled out another one. This was by Jasbir Kaur, a widow who lived in South London. Kulwinder had attended the engagement party of her grandson a few years back. She began reading Jasbir’s story and felt the blood surging through her body with such urgency that she had to put it down. She stood up and left the cup of tea on the table. A wave of energy swept over her and carried her up the stairs. Lying on the bed, Sarab was staring at the ceiling. Kulwinder took his hand and laid it gently on her breast. He stared at her in confusion at first, and then he understood.
Nikki knew without ever having had the experience that she would be pretty hopeless in a fight. A wrestling scenario played in her mind and immediately she saw herself being pinned to the ground by one of Kulwinder’s meaty arms. She winced; even in a fantasy, she was losing. She would have to use her wits. The stories, she would explain, had never been intended to make a mockery of the classes, or of Kulwinder. The stories were inspired by the women, and yes, they were raunchy, but weren’t they learning language all the same?
If these tactics didn’t work, Nikki would just grab the folder and leave. For this scenario to work, the folder would have to be within reach of course. It occurred to her with a pang that Kulwinder might have already tossed the stories out in the rubbish.
The night breeze picked up and rustled through the trees. On the main road, the headlights of cars shone intensely like eyes. Nikki turned to a side street and walked briskly to warm herself. At night, the houses seemed to crouch together behind dim patches of porch lights. Nikki’s phone buzzed in her pocket. A text from Sheena.
One problem at a time, Nikki thought, shoving the phone back into her pocket. In Kulwinder’s living room, the television flashed like a siren against the windows, which had curtains only partly drawn. Nikki rang the doorbell and waited but nobody came. She tried again and then peered into the window. She could see into the whole bottom storey from here. She squinted at the kitchen – lights on, a steel teapot and matching cup on the table, but no one in sight. Nikki shivered from the cold. The rain was getting heavier now. She tugged the hood of her jacket around her head. Opposite Kulwinder’s lit house, Tarampal’s home was completely dark.
Nikki crossed the road and hesitated on the edge of Tarampal’s driveway. She was hoping for a better view of Kulwinder’s house but she would have to go closer to Tarampal’s porch. It was clear that nobody was home but this was only a small comfort. The house still loomed menacingly, its gaping windows like blackened eyes. She forced herself forward. At least the awning on the porch provided some shelter from the rain. On the second level of Kulwinder’s house Nikki could see that the dim bedroom lights were on. She squinted, searching for more. At one point, she thought she saw a shadow crossing the window but it could easily have been a sheet of rain being carried by a strong gust.
What am I doing here? The question struck Nikki as the awning rattled with the thrum of rainfall. Even if she knocked on the door and Kulwinder answered it, what were her chances that Kulwinder would calmly return the stories? The pages didn’t really matter. The women could retell them. There were recordings. What Nikki wanted to do was talk to Kulwinder. Explain how the stories came about. Compel her to see that these women who had started one quiet rebellion could come together to fight a bigger injustice. Her heart and mind were still racing from her discovery about Jaggi’s handwriting. She just needed to convince Kulwinder that the case was worth pursuing.
Nikki ducked out from under the awning and made her way back to the main road. She would not confront Kulwinder today. It was too soon. Let her cool off; this was probably what she was doing now. On the main road, Nikki made a left towards the station. Her satchel swung against her hip without the usual weight of the stories. The windows of houses shone with a warm and familiar light. Nikki felt an ache for home. As the rain pelted down, she recalled the long walks through the city after quitting university, her face wet with rain and tears. She had entered O’Reilly’s on a particularly wet afternoon, so grateful to belong somewhere, to be hidden.
Nikki stopped in her tracks. The pub! The widows could continue their meetings in the back room. She strode quickly through the rain and pulled out her phone.
‘Sheena, I’ve found us a place to move the story classes. O’Reilly’s, where I work. It’s quite empty on weekday evenings.’
‘You want those old Punjabi widows to meet in a pub?’
‘I know it’s a bit unorthodox, but—’
‘I’m picturing it now.’
‘I am as well,’ Nikki said. Her vision switched between a scandalized Preetam refusing to enter and a drunk Arvinder swinging from the chandeliers. ‘But listen, Sheena, once we get the stories started, they won’t notice where they are. The important thing is to keep meeting. It can be a temporary place until we find a better solution.’
‘I could drive a few of the older women,’ Sheena said. ‘I could find a friend to take some others and give them directions. You tell me where it is and I’ll sort it out.’
‘You’re sure you don’t mind?’
‘No problem,’ Sheena said.
‘Another thing,’ Nikki said. She paused. Sheena was not going to like this. ‘There might be way to incriminate Jaggi.’
‘Hai, Nikki!’
‘Just listen.’ Nikki rushed to explain the smudged registration form before Sheena could protest.
‘What did Kulwinder say?’ Sheena asked when Nikki was finished.
‘She didn’t want to hear it,’ Nikki said. ‘I think she was too caught up in her shock and anger about the classes. I’m still in Southall at the moment. I thought of going to her house but I’ve decided to give her some distance.’
‘If you’re near Kulwinder’s house, you’re not far from mine. Do you want to come over? It’s really pouring out there.’
‘That would be nice,’ Nikki said. ‘I’m on Queen Mary Road. There’s a bus stop here and a little park across the road.’
‘Okaaay … oh! I can see you now.’
‘Where are you?’ Nikki squinted. Through the rain, she could see the outlines of people in their homes but no specific view of Sheena.
‘I’m across the road. I live near the park – but Nikki, don’t stop. Keep walking quickly.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘Just go straight and make a left at the next junction.’
Nikki felt a dreadful prickling sensation, and from the corner of her eye, she noticed a shadow. ‘I’m being followed?’ she whispered.
‘Yes,’ Sheena confirmed.
‘Who is it? Can you tell?’
‘It might be one of the Brothers,’ Sheena said.
‘I’m going to turn around and say something.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ Sheena hissed. Her tone startled Nikki. ‘Keep walking. Stay calm. There’s a 24-hour supermarket. Go to the car park and wait for me. I’ll come get you.’
‘No, Sheena. I’ll be fine.’
‘Nikki—’
Nikki hung up. Her stalker would recognize Sheena’s little red car. Being on foot was an advantage. She picked up her pace. Her breath caught in her throat. She could hear the person behind her, not slowing down, not turning. He was waiting to see where she would go. She dropped back to a casual pace, her eyes darting left and right to keep track of the shadow. She crossed the road to the supermarket and took refuge in the white, open expanse of the car park. Only then did she dare to glance over her shoulder. A young Punjabi man was staring intently at her. Nikki matched his stare with all the calmness she could muster while her heartbeat thrashed in her ears. Eventually, he walked away, but not without casting a menacing look at Nikki over his shoulder.