‘You’re into community service then,’ he ventured.
‘I really must be going,’ Nikki said. She rustled through her bag busily to avoid further conversation and turned towards the entrance. Then a flyer caught her eye. She stopped and read it quietly to herself, her eyes moving slowly over the words.
Writing Classes: Register Now!
Ever wanted to write? A new workshop on narrative techniques, character and voice. Tell your story! Workshops will culminate in an anthology of best work.
A handwritten scrawl below the print read: Class open to women only. Instructor needed. Paid position, two days weekly. Please contact Kulwinder Kaur at the Sikh Community Association.
There was no mention of qualifications or prior experience, which was an encouraging sign. Nikki pulled out her phone and typed in the phone number to save it. She noticed the man’s curious gaze but she ignored him and fell in step with a current of worshippers who had emerged from the langar hall.
Could she run a writing workshop? She had contributed a piece to the UK Fem Fighters’ blog, comparing her experiences with catcalling in Delhi and London, which had enjoyed three days on the Most Read Posts list. Surely she could give writing tips to some temple women? Perhaps publish An Anthology of Best Work. Editorial credentials would sit well on her bare résumé. Hope flittered in her chest. This could be a job she could actually enjoy and take pride in.
Light streamed into the temple through its wide windows, splashing the tiled floor with brief warmth before a patch of clouds rushed to conceal the sun. Just as Nikki was about to leave the building, she finally received a reply to her earlier message to Olive.
Where’s Southall?
The question surprised Nikki. Surely in their years of friendship, Nikki had mentioned Southall to Olive? Then again, she and Olive had met in secondary school, years after Nikki’s parents had deemed these Punjabi day trips too much trouble, so Olive was spared Nikki’s complaints about wasting a perfectly good Saturday on the hunt for high-quality coriander powder and mustard seeds.
Nikki stopped and looked around. She was surrounded by women with their heads covered – women hurrying after their toddlers, women giving each other sideways glances, women hunched over walking frames. Each one had a story. She could see herself addressing a room full of these Punjabi women. Her senses became overwhelmed with the colour of their kameezes, the sound of fabric rustling and pencils tapping, the smell of perfume and turmeric. Her purpose came into sharp focus. ‘Some people don’t even know about this place,’ she would say. ‘Let’s change that.’ Fiery-eyed and indignant, they would pen their stories for the whole world to read.
Twenty years ago, in her first and last attempt to be British, Kulwinder Kaur bought a bar of Yardley English Lavender Soap. It was a purchase she justified by noting that the family’s regular bar of Neem soap had shrunk to a sliver from frequent use. When Sarab reminded her that they had a cupboard stocked with necessities from India (toothpaste, soap, hair oil, Brylcreem, turban starch and several bottles of feminine wash that he had mistaken for shampoo) Kulwinder reasoned that, eventually, their toiletries from the motherland would run out. She was only preparing for the inevitable.
The next morning she woke early and dressed Maya in woolly tights, a plaid skirt and a jumper. At breakfast, she anxiously reminded Maya to keep still, lest she spill food on her very first school uniform. Kulwinder’s own roti was dipped in achar, a mango pickle that stained her fingers and left a lingering smell on her hands. She offered the achar to Maya whose nose crinkled at the sourness. After eating, Kulwinder used the new soap to scrub both her and Maya’s hands – between fingers, under the nails, and especially in those fine palm lines that spelled out their futures. Scented like an English garden, the pair arrived at the primary school registration desk.
A young blonde woman introduced herself as Miss Teal and crouched so her gaze could meet Maya’s. ‘Good morning,’ she said with a smile, and Maya shyly smiled back. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Maya Kaur,’ Maya said.
‘Oh, you must be Charanpreet Kaur’s cousin. We’ve been expecting you,’ Miss Teal said. Kulwinder felt a familiar tension. This was a common misunderstanding – that all people with the surname Kaur were related – and one that she could usually explain, but today the English words escaped her. She was already overwhelmed by this new world that Maya was about to enter. ‘Tell her,’ Kulwinder urged Maya in Punjabi, ‘or she’ll think I’m responsible for all the other Punjabi kids here.’ She had a frightening image of dropping off Maya and returning home with a gaggle of new children.
‘Charanpreet’s not my cousin,’ Maya said with a small sigh for her reluctant mother. ‘In my religion, all girls are Kaurs and all boys are Singhs.’
‘All one big family, God’s children,’ Kulwinder added. ‘Sikh religion.’ For some stupid reason, she gave a thumbs-up, like she was recommending a brand of detergent.
‘How interesting,’ Miss Teal said. ‘Maya, would you like to meet Miss Carney? She’s the other teacher here.’ Miss Carney walked over. ‘Look at those lovely eyes,’ she cooed. Kulwinder relaxed her grip on Maya’s hand. These were kind people who would take care of her daughter. In the weeks leading up to this day, she had fretted over sending Maya to school. What if the other children teased Maya about her accent? What if somebody had to call Kulwinder about an emergency and she was unable to understand?
Miss Carney handed Kulwinder a folder of forms to fill out. Kulwinder drew a stack of forms from her bag. ‘The same,’ she explained. Sarab had filled them in the night before. His command of English was better than hers but it had still taken a long time. Watching him point to each word as he read, Kulwinder felt the smallness of being in this new country, learning the alphabet like children. ‘Soon Maya will be translating everything for us,’ Sarab had remarked. Kulwinder wished he hadn’t said this. Children shouldn’t know more than their parents.
‘You’re very prepared,’ Miss Teal said. Kulwinder was pleased to have impressed the teacher. Miss Teal flipped through the forms and then stopped. ‘Now, over here, you forgot to write your home telephone number. Can you just tell me what it is?’
Kulwinder had memorized the digits in English so she could recite this combination of words whenever she was called to. ‘Eight nine six …’ She paused and grimaced. There was a tightness in her stomach. She started over. ‘Eight nine six five …’ She froze. The achar from that morning was bubbling in her chest.
‘Eight nine six eight nine six five?’ Miss Teal asked.
‘No.’ Kulwinder waved as if to wipe the woman’s memory clean. ‘Again.’ Her throat felt full and hot. ‘Eight nine six eight five five five five five five five.’ There were fewer fives than this but she became a broken record as her concentration moved towards suppressing the rising burp.
Miss Teal frowned. ‘There are too many numbers.’
‘Again,’ Kulwinder squeaked. She managed the first three digits before a fierce eruption rose from her throat, blaring a trumpet note across the registration table. The air smelled fetid and – at least to Kulwinder’s exaggerated recollection – filled with warty brown bubbles.
After the air filled her lungs again, Kulwinder hastily rattled off the remaining digits. The teachers’ eyes bulged with suppressed laughter (this, she did not imagine). ‘Thank you,’ Miss Teal said. She wrinkled her nose and tipped her face slightly above Kulwinder’s. ‘That will be all.’
Mortified,