Erotic Stories for Punjabi Widows Read online

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  Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

  Copyright © Balli Kaur Jaswal 2017

  Cover design: Holly MacDonald © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017

  Cover illustrations © Shutterstock.com

  Balli Kaur Jaswal asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008209889

  Ebook Edition © March 2017 ISBN: 9780008209902

  Version 2017-01-10

  Dedication

  For Paul

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Balli Kaur Jaswal

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  Why did Mindi want an arranged marriage?

  Nikki stared at the profile her sister had attached to the email. There was a list of relevant biographical details: name, age, height, religion, diet (vegetarian except for the occasional fish and chips). General preferences for a husband: intelligent, compassionate and kind, with strong values and a nice smile. Both clean-shaven and turban-wearing men were acceptable, provided beards and moustaches were neatly maintained. The ideal husband had a stable job and up to three hobbies which extended him mentally and physically. In some ways, she had written, he should be just like me: modest (a prude in Nikki’s opinion), practical with finances (downright stingy) and family-oriented (wants babies immediately). Worst of all, the title of her blurb made her sound like a supermarket seasoning spice: Mindi Grewal, East-West Mix.

  The narrow corridor connecting Nikki’s bedroom to the kitchenette was not suitable for pacing, with uneven floorboards that creaked in various pitches under the slightest contact. She travelled up and down the corridor nonetheless, gathering her thoughts in tiny steps. What was her sister thinking? Sure, Mindi had always been more traditional – once, Nikki had caught her watching an internet video on how to roll perfectly round rotis – but advertising for a groom? It was so extreme.

  Nikki called Mindi repeatedly and was connected to voicemail each time. By the time she got through, the sunlight had leaked away into the dense evening fog and it was nearly time to leave for her shift at O’Reilly’s.

  ‘I know what you’re going to say,’ Mindi said.

  ‘Can you see it, Mindi?’ Nikki asked. ‘Can you actually picture this happening?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re insane, then.’

  ‘I’ve made this decision on my own. I want to find a husband the traditional way.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s what I want.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It just is.’

  ‘You need to come up with a better reason than that if you want me to edit your profile.’

  ‘That’s unfair. I supported you when you moved out.’

  ‘You called me a selfish cow.’

  ‘But then when you left, and when Mum wanted to go to your place and demand that you come home, who convinced her to let it go? If not for me, she would never have accepted your decision. She’s over it now.’

  ‘Almost over it,’ Nikki reminded her. Time had worn on Mum’s initial sense of outrage and stretched it threadbare. These days Mum was still deeply dissatisfied with Nikki’s lifestyle, but she had given up lecturing Nikki about the perils of living on her own. ‘My own mother would not have dreamt of allowing this,’ Mum always said to prove her progressiveness, a balance of boastfulness and lament in her tone. East-West Mix.

  ‘I’m embracing our culture,’ Mindi said. ‘I see my English friends meeting men online and in nightclubs and they don’t seem to be finding anyone suitable. Why not try an arranged marriage? It worked for our parents.’

  ‘Those were different times,’ Nikki argued. ‘You’ve got more opportunities than Mum had at the same age.’

  ‘I’m educated, I’ve done my nursing degree, I’ve got a job – this is the next step.’

  ‘It shouldn’t be a step. Acquiring a husband, that’s what you’re doing.’

  ‘It’s not going to be like that. I just want a bit of help to find him, but it’s not like we’re going to meet for the first time on our wedding day. Couples are allowed more time to get to know each other these days.’

  Nikki balked at the word ‘allowed’. Why did Mindi need permission from anyone to take liberties with dating? ‘Don’t just settle. Do some travelling. See the world.’

  ‘I’ve seen enough,’ Mindi sniffed – a girls’ trip to Tenerife last summer during which she had discovered her allergy to shellfish. ‘Besides, Kirti is looking for a suitable boy as well. It’s time for both of us to settle down.’

  ‘Kirti couldn’t spot a suitable boy if he came flying through her window,’ Nikki said. ‘I’d hardly consider her a serious competitor.’ There was no love lost between Nikki and her sister’s best friend, a make-up artist, or Facial Enhancing Practitioner, according to her name card. At Mindi’s twenty-fifth birthday party last year, Kirti had scrutinized Nikki’s outfit and concluded, ‘Being pretty is about making an effort though, innit?’

  ‘Mindi, maybe you’re bored.’

  ‘Is boredom not a valid reason to try to find a partner? You moved out because you wanted independence. I’m looking to marry someone because I want to be a part of something. I want a family. You don’t know it now, because you’re still young. I get home after a long day at work and it’s just Mum and me. I want to come home to somebody. I want to talk about my day and eat dinner and plan a life together.’

  Nikki clicked open the email attachments. There were two close-ups of Mindi, her smile like a greeting, thick straight hair spilling past her shoulders. Another photo featured the whole family: Mum, Dad, Mindi and Nikki on their last holiday together. It wasn’t their best shot; they were all squinting and tiny against a wide landscape. Dad had died later that year, a heart attack snatching his breath at night like a thief
. A pang of guilt seized Nikki’s stomach. She closed the window.

  ‘Don’t use any family photos,’ Nikki said. ‘I don’t want my image in any matchmaker’s files.’

  ‘So you’ll help me?’

  ‘It’s against my principles.’ Nikki typed: ‘arguments against arranged marriage’ into a search engine and clicked on the first result.

  ‘You’ll help me, though?’

  ‘The arranged marriage is a flawed system which undermines a woman’s right to choose her destiny,’ Nikki read aloud.

  ‘Just make the profile sound better. I’m not good with that sort of thing,’ Mindi said.

  ‘Did you hear what I said?’

  ‘Some radical rubbish. I stopped listening after “undermines”.’

  Nikki clicked back to the profile and spotted a grammatical error: I’m looking for my soulmate. Whose it going to be? She sighed. Clearly, Mindi’s mind was made up – it was a matter of whether Nikki wanted to be involved or not.

  ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘But only because you’re at risk of attracting idiots with this profile. Why have you described yourself as “fun-loving”? Who doesn’t love fun?’

  ‘And then could you post it on the marriage board for me?’

  ‘What marriage board?’

  ‘At the big temple in Southall. I’ll text you the details.’

  ‘Southall? You’re joking.’

  ‘It’s much closer to where you live. I’ve got double shifts at the hospital all week.’

  ‘I thought they had matrimonial websites for this sort of thing,’ Nikki said.

  ‘I considered SikhMate.com and PunjabPyaar.com. There are too many men from India looking for an easy visa. If a man sees my profile on the temple board, at least I know he’s in London. Southall’s got the largest gurdwara in Europe. Better chances than posting on the noticeboard in Enfield,’ Mindi explained.

  ‘I’m very busy, you know.’

  ‘Oh please, Nikki. You’ve got plenty more time than the rest of us.’

  Nikki dismissed the hint of judgement. Mum and Mindi didn’t consider her bartending work at O’Reilly’s a full-time job. It was not worth explaining that she was still searching for her calling – a job where she could make a difference, stimulate her mind, be challenged, valued and rewarded. Such positions were disappointingly scarce and the recession had made things worse. Nikki had even been rejected from volunteer positions with three different women’s non-profits, all apologetically explaining how overwhelmed they were with a record number of applications. What else was out there for a twenty-two-year-old with half a law degree? In the current economic climate (and possibly all other economic climates): nothing.

  ‘I’ll pay you for your time,’ Mindi said.

  ‘I’m not taking money from you,’ Nikki said reflexively.

  ‘Hang on. Mum wants to say something.’ There were muffled instructions in the background. ‘She says “remember to lock your windows”. There was something on the news last night about break-ins.’

  ‘Tell Mum that I’ve got nothing valuable to steal,’ Nikki said.

  ‘She’ll say you have your decency to protect.’

  ‘Too late. Already taken. Andrew Forrest’s party after the year eleven prom.’ Mindi said nothing in response but her disapproval crackled like static over the line.

  Getting ready for work afterwards, Nikki considered Mindi’s offer to pay her. A charitable gesture, but Nikki’s burdens were not financial. Her flat was above the pub and the rental rate was subsidized by her availability to work extra shifts at the last minute. But bartending was meant to be temporary – she was supposed to be doing something with her life by now. Each day brought a new reminder that she was sitting still while her peers moved forward. On a train platform last week, she had spotted a former classmate. How busy and purposeful she looked as she marched toward the station exit, briefcase in one hand and coffee cup in the other. Nikki had begun to dread the daytime, the hours when she was most aware of London outside, ticking and clicking into place.

  The year before Nikki took her GCSEs, she had accompanied her parents on a trip to India where they made a point of visiting temples and consulting pundits to bestow upon Nikki the necessary guidance to excel. One pundit had asked her to visualize herself in the career she wanted while he chanted prayers to make her visions a reality. Her mind had gone blank, and this canvas of nothingness was the image sent up to the gods. As with all trips to the motherland, she had been given strict guidelines about what not to say in front of Dad’s older brother who hosted them: no swearing; no mention of male friends; no talking back; speak Punjabi to show gratitude for all those summer lessons here that we hoped would nurture your cultural roots. Over dinner, when her uncle asked about the pundit visits, Nikki bit her tongue to keep from replying, ‘Fraudulent bastards. I’d be better off asking my mates Mitch and Bazza to read my palm.’

  Dad spoke up for her. ‘Nikki will probably get into law.’

  Her future was sealed then. Dad dismissed her uncertainties with reminders that she would enter a secure and respectable profession. These were only temporary assurances. The fluttering anxiety of sitting in the wrong lecture on her first day of university only multiplied throughout the year. After nearly failing a class in her second year, Nikki was summoned by a tutor who remarked, ‘Perhaps this isn’t for you.’ He was referring to his subject, but she saw how the comment applied to everything: the tedium of lectures and tutorials, the exams and group projects and deadlines. They just weren’t for her. She withdrew from university that afternoon.

  Unable to tell her parents that she had dropped out, Nikki still left home each morning with her Camden Market vintage leather satchel. She walked through London, which provided the perfect backdrop to her misery with its soot-filled skies and ancient towers. Quitting university provided some relief but Nikki became plagued with anxieties about what she should be doing instead. After a week of aimless wandering, Nikki began filling her afternoons by attending protests with her best friend Olive, who volunteered for an organization called UK Fem Fighters. There was much to be indignant about. Topless models were still appearing on Page Three of the Sun. Government funding to women’s crisis centres was being halved as part of new austerity measures. Female journalists were in danger of being harassed and assaulted while reporting in war zones overseas. Whales were being senselessly slaughtered in Japan (this was not a women’s issue but Nikki felt sorry for the whales nonetheless and accosted strangers to sign her Greenpeace petition).

  It was after Dad’s friend tried to offer Nikki an internship that she had to admit that she had withdrawn from university. Yelling had never been Dad’s style. Distance was his method of expressing disappointment. In the long argument that followed her confession, he and Nikki were rooted to separate rooms, territories that they had unwittingly staked out, while Mum and Mindi orbited in between. The closest they came to a shouting match was after Dad made a list of Nikki’s suitable attributes for a law career. ‘All of that potential, all of those opportunities, and you’re wasting it on what? You were nearly halfway through. What’s your plan now?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘I’m just not that passionate about law.’

  ‘Not that passionate?’

  ‘You’re not even trying to understand. You’re just repeating everything I say.’

  ‘REPEATING EVERYTHING YOU SAY?’

  ‘Dad,’ Mindi said. ‘Calm down. Please.’

  ‘I will not—’

  ‘Mohan, your heart,’ Mum warned.

  ‘What’s wrong with his heart?’ Nikki asked. She looked at Dad with concern but he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

  ‘Dad’s been having some irregularities. Nothing serious, his EKGs are fine but the blood pressure reading was 140 over 90, which is a little alarming. Then again, there’s a family history of DVT so there are concerns …’ Mindi prattled on. One year into her nursing career and the nove
lty of using medical jargon at home still hadn’t worn off.

  ‘What does it mean?’ Nikki asked impatiently.

  ‘Nothing conclusive. He needs to go in for more tests next week,’ Mindi said.

  ‘Dad!’ Nikki rushed towards him but he held up his hand, stopping her mid-step.

  ‘You are ruining everything,’ he said. They were the last words Dad spoke to her. Days later, he and Mum had booked a trip to India even though they had visited only months before. Dad wanted to be with his family, Mum explained.

  Gone were the days when Nikki’s parents threatened to send her back to India when she misbehaved; now they exiled themselves. ‘By the time we return, maybe you will have come to your senses,’ Mum said. The comment stung but Nikki was determined not to pick another fight. Her own bags were being discreetly packed. A pub near Olive’s flat in Shepherd’s Bush was looking for a bartender. By the time her parents returned, Nikki would be gone.

  Then Dad died in India. The heart condition had been worse than anything the doctors had detected. In traditional Indian morality tales, wayward children were the primary cause of heart conditions, cancerous lumps, hair loss and other ailments in their aggrieved parents. While Nikki wasn’t naïve enough to be convinced that she had given Dad a heart attack, she believed he might have been saved by the follow-up visit in London, which he had postponed to take this hurried trip to India. The guilt gnawed at her insides and made it impossible for Nikki to grieve. At the funeral, she willed for tears to arrive and provide some release but they never did.

  Two years on, Nikki still wondered if she had made the right decision. Sometimes she secretly considered returning to her degree even though she couldn’t bear the thought of poring through more case studies or sitting through another droning series of lectures. Perhaps passion and excitement were meant to be secondary to a stable adult life. After all, if arranged marriages could work out, maybe Nikki could muster enthusiasm for something she didn’t love immediately, and then wait for that love to arrive.