‘… and it’s my belief that everyone has the stories to telling. It would be such a rewarding experience to help Punjabi women to crafting their stories and compile them into a book.’
Kulwinder must have been nodding the girl along because now her rambling made little sense. ‘You want to write a book?’ she asked cautiously.
‘The women’s stories will forming a collection,’ Nikki said. ‘I don’t have much experiencing in the arts but I do like to writing and I’m an avid reader. I think I’m to be able to help them cultivate their creativity. I’ll have some hand in guiding the process, of course, and then perhaps do some editing as well.’
It dawned on Kulwinder that she had advertised for something she did not understand. She took another look at the flyer. Anthology, narrative techniques. Whatever these words meant, Nikki seemed to be counting on them. Kulwinder rustled through her drawer and took out a receipt of confirmed registrations. Scanning the list of names, Kulwinder thought she should warn Nikki. She looked up. ‘The students will not be very advanced writers,’ she said.
‘Of course,’ Nikki assured. ‘That’s understandable. I’ll be there to help them.’
Her patronizing tone dissolved Kulwinder’s sympathies. This girl was a child. She smiled but her eyes had a squinting quality, as if she was sizing up Kulwinder and her importance here. But was there a chance that a more traditional woman – not this haughty girl who might as well be a gori with her jeans and her halting Punjabi – would walk in and ask for the job? It was unlikely. Never mind what Nikki expected to teach, the class had to start right away, or else Gurtaj Singh would strike it off his register and with it any future opportunity for Kulwinder to have a say in women’s matters.
‘The classes start on Thursday.’
‘This Thursday?’
‘Thursday evening, yes,’ Kulwinder said.
‘Sure,’ Nikki said. ‘What time do the classes starting?’
‘Whatever time works best for you,’ Kulwinder chirped in the crispest English she could manage, and when Nikki cocked her head in surprise, Kulwinder pretended not to notice.
The path leading to Nikki’s childhood home in Enfield smelled richly of spices. Nikki followed the scent to the door and opened it with her own key. In the living room, Minute to Win It was on while Mum and Mindi bustled around the kitchen, calling out to each other. Dad had always watched the news while dinner was being cooked. In his chair, somebody had placed a quilted blanket and the side table where he used to rest his whisky glass had been removed. These shifts in details were little and mundane but they pronounced his absence loudly. She switched the channel to BBC. Immediately, both Mum’s and Mindi’s heads poked through the kitchen entrance.
‘We were watching that,’ Mum said.
‘Sorry,’ Nikki said, but she was reluctant to change the channel back. The presenter’s voice brought a wave of nostalgia: she was eleven again and watching the news with Dad before dinner. ‘What do you think about that?’ Dad would ask. ‘Do you think it’s fair? What do you think that word means?’ Sometimes when Mum used to call her to help set the table, Dad would give Nikki a wink and reply loudly, ‘She’s busy out here.’
‘Can I help with anything?’ Nikki asked Mum.
‘You can heat up the dal. It’s in the fridge,’ Mum said. Nikki opened the fridge to find no obvious signs of dal, just a stack of ice-cream containers with faded labels.
‘It’s in the Vanilla Pecan Delight tub,’ Mindi said.
Nikki picked out the container and put it in the microwave. She then watched in horror through the window as the container’s edges melted into the dal. ‘Dal’s going to be a while,’ she said, opening the door and removing the container. The noxious smell of burning plastic permeated the kitchen.
‘Hai, you idiot,’ Mum said. ‘Why didn’t you put it in a microwaveable container first?’
‘Why didn’t you store it in one?’ Nikki asked. ‘Ice-cream tubs are misleading.’ It was a suggestion stirred from years of crushed hopes from searching Mum’s fridge for dessert and instead discovering blocks of frozen curry.
‘The containers work just fine,’ Mum said. ‘They’re free.’
There was no rescuing the dal or the container, so Nikki disposed of both and stepped back to the edge of the kitchen. She remembered lingering here the evening after Dad’s funeral. Mum was weary – travelling back to London with Dad’s body had been a bureaucratic and logistical nightmare – but she refused Nikki’s offers to help and ordered her to the sidelines. Nikki asked Mum about Dad’s final hours. She needed to know that he hadn’t died still angry with her.
‘He didn’t say anything. He was asleep,’ Mum said.
‘But before he went to sleep?’ Perhaps his last words contained some hint at forgiveness.
‘I don’t remember,’ Mum said. Her cheeks were high with colour.
‘Mum, surely you can try—’
‘Don’t ask me these things,’ Mum snapped.
Seeing that forgiveness was a long way off, Nikki had returned to her bedroom and continued her packing. ‘You aren’t still going to leave are you?’ Mindi asked, standing in the doorway.
Nikki looked at the corners of boxes jutting out from under her bed. Piles of books had been pushed into Tesco recyclable bags, and her hooded jacket had been taken off the hook behind the door and rolled up to fit her suitcase.
‘I can’t live here any more. The minute Mum finds out I’m working in a pub, I’ll never hear the end of it. It’ll be that same argument all over again. I dealt with Dad ignoring me. I’m not going to stay here while Mum gives me the cold shoulder as well.’
‘You’re being a selfish cow.’
‘I’m being realistic.’
Mindi sighed. ‘Think of what Mum’s going through. Sometimes it’s worthwhile to consider what’s best for everyone, not just yourself.’
On this advice, Nikki stayed for another week. But upon returning from errands one day, Mum would find Nikki’s room bare and a note on her bed. I’m sorry, Mum. I had to move out. Her new address was listed below. She trusted that Mindi would fill Mum in on everything else. Two weeks later, Nikki gathered up the nerve to call Mum and to her surprise, Mum answered. She spoke stiffly to Nikki and gave minimal responses (‘How are you, Mum?’ ‘Alive’) but that she responded at all was a positive sign. During their next phone conversation, Mum had an outburst. ‘You’re a selfish, stupid, idiot girl,’ she sobbed. ‘You have no heart.’ Each word made Nikki flinch and she wanted to defend herself but wasn’t it true? She had left them at the worst possible time. Stupid, selfish, heartless. Words that Dad had never used to describe her. Afterwards, purged of her anger, Mum began to speak to her in sentences again.
The kitchen was thick with a spice-filled smog now. Dinner was ready. Nikki helped to bring out a serving dish brimming with chickpea and spinach curry. ‘So,’ Mindi said once they settled into their seats. ‘Tell us about this job.’
‘I’ll be mentoring women to write their stories. The workshops are twice a week. At the end of the term, we’ll have a collection of stories to