‘You think Mum isn’t concerned about finances? You think she doesn’t want to retire early from working for the council and enjoy her life? I’m the only one contributing here. Things need to be repaired, unexpected bills arrive, and the car servicing is overdue. Think about that the next time you spout out your lines about independence.’
Nikki felt a pinch of guilt in her gut. ‘I thought Dad had savings.’
‘He did, but some of his savings were tied up in his company’s stock options. They haven’t really recovered since the financial crisis. And he took out that loan to renovate the guest bathroom, remember? Mum had to defer payments and now the interest has nearly doubled. It means Mum has had to put off all these other home improvements she thought would be done by now. The curtains, the built-in shoe cupboard, the kitchen counters. She’s already starting to worry about losing face. She’s concerned about how our home would look to my prospective husband’s family, not to mention what they might say if she couldn’t afford a dowry or a lavish celebration.’
‘Min, I had no idea.’
‘I told her I wouldn’t marry someone from a superficial family and she said, “There might not be any Punjabi boys for you to marry then.” She was joking of course.’ Mindi smiled but her eyes were tight with worry.
‘I could help,’ Nikki said.
‘You’ve got your own expenses to think about.’
‘I’ll have some extra income from this new job. I could send some money once a fortnight.’ Nikki hesitated, realizing what she had just committed to. The extra income was supposed to go into her savings so she’d have something to fall back on when O’Reilly’s went bust. She would need money to rent a place then because moving back home would be far too humiliating. ‘It won’t be much,’ Nikki added.
Mindi looked pleased. ‘It’s the gesture that counts,’ she said. ‘I have to say, I didn’t expect this of you. It’s very responsible. Thank you.’
In the other room, Mum had turned up the volume of her television series and the shrill violin notes of a Hindi song poured through the house. Mindi turned the tap back on. Nikki stood by while Mindi scrubbed the dishes, her vigorous motions sending soap suds flying into the air. As they landed on the counter, Nikki wiped them off with her fingers.
‘Use a towel,’ Mindi said. ‘You’re leaving streaks.’ Nikki did as she was told.
‘So when are you meeting Pravin?’
‘Friday,’ Mindi said.
‘Mum’s excited about it, I guess?’
Mindi shrugged. She peered at Mum through the kitchen entrance and lowered her voice. ‘She is, but I talked to him on the phone last night.’
‘And?’
‘He asked me if I wanted to work after marriage.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Nikki said, dropping a dishtowel on the counter and turning to stare at Mindi. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said yes. He didn’t sound thrilled about it.’
‘You’re still meeting him?’
‘You don’t know until you meet someone face to face, do you?’
‘Judging from the temple profiles alone, I wouldn’t give any of those men the time of day,’ Nikki said.
‘But that’s you,’ Mindi said. ‘You and your feminism.’ With a flick of her wrist, she dismissed Nikki and everything she stood for.
Rather than enter another argument, Nikki finished her share of the dishes without saying another word. As she slipped out into the back garden to sneak an after-dinner cigarette, she felt as if she could breathe again.
The next day Nikki arrived at the community centre early to set up her classroom. The room was as modest as Kulwinder Kaur’s office. Two rows of desks and chairs faced a blank whiteboard. Nikki moved the seats around – according to Olive, a horseshoe shape would help promote more discussion. A thrill shot through Nikki as she pictured the classroom full of women writing the stories of their lives.
For the first lesson, Nikki had prepared an introductory task. Everybody was to write a complete scene in ten simple sentences. Then, returning to each sentence, they had to add a detail – dialogue or description for example.
By 7.15 p.m., Nikki had paced the classroom and wandered out twice into the deserted hallway. She stepped back inside and wiped the board for the fifth time. She stared at the empty chairs. Perhaps this was all some elaborate prank.
As she began to pull the desks back to where she’d found them, Nikki heard footsteps. The loud, slow thumps made Nikki aware of her own heartbeat. She was in this rundown building all alone. She pulled a chair out in front of her, preparing to use it should she need to.
There was a knock on the door. Through the window, Nikki saw a woman wearing a scarf on her head. It was just a lost granny. It did not occur to Nikki that she was one of her students until the woman entered and took a seat.
‘Are you here for the writing class?’ Nikki asked in Punjabi.
‘Yes,’ the old lady nodded.
Do you speak English? Nikki thought it would be rude to ask.
‘I guess you’re my only student tonight,’ Nikki said. ‘We’ll begin.’ She turned to the board but the woman said, ‘No, the others are coming.’
The women streamed in together at twenty-five past. One by one they took their seats and made no apologies for their tardiness. Nikki cleared her throat. ‘Class begins at 7 p.m. sharp,’ she said. The women looked up in surprise. Nikki saw that they were mostly elders who weren’t used to being reprimanded by a young woman. She backtracked slightly. ‘If this time doesn’t work with the bus schedule, I’m sure we can arrange to begin at half-past instead.’ There were some nods and a general murmur of approval.
‘Let’s quickly introduce ourselves,’ Nikki said. ‘I’ll start. My name is Nikki. I like to write and I’m looking forward to teaching you all to write as well.’ She gave the first woman a nod.
‘Preetam Kaur.’ Like some of the other women, she wore a white salwaar kameez, which indicated her widow’s status. A scarf hemmed with white lace hid her hair and a walking stick printed with lavender floral patterns lay at her feet.
‘And why have you joined this class, Preetam?’ Nikki asked.
Preetam winced at the sound of her name. The other women looked startled as well. ‘That’s Bibi Preetam to you, young lady,’ she said stiffly. ‘Or Auntie. Or Preetam-ji.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry,’ Nikki said. These were her students but they were also Punjabi elders and she would have to address them appropriately.
Preetam accepted her apology with a nod. ‘I want to learn writing,’ she said. ‘I’d like to be able to send letters on the internet to my grandchildren in Canada.’
Strange. She seemed to think the course would cover letter writing
