all. Nikki couldn’t help her gaze lingering on Tarampal Kaur – like the older women, she was shrouded in white but there was hardly a wrinkle on her face. Nikki placed her in her early forties.
The woman next to Tarampal also appeared much younger than the rest, with reddish brown streaks dyed in her hair and pink lipstick that matched her purse. The colours stood out against the plain cream of her kameez. She introduced herself in English, with just the slightest hint of an Indian accent. ‘I’m Sheena Kaur. I can read and write in Punjabi and English but I want to learn to be a better writer. And if you call me Bibi or Auntie, I’ll just die because I must only be ten or fifteen years older than you.’
Nikki smiled. ‘Very nice to meet you, Sheena,’ she said.
The next elderly woman was tall and thin and had a distinct mole on her chin from which fine hairs poked out. ‘Arvinder Kaur. I want to learn to write everything. Stories, letters, everything.’
‘Manjeet Kaur,’ said another woman without being prompted. She smiled brightly at Nikki. ‘Do you also teach us how to do some basic accounting?’
‘No.’
‘I’d like to write and also learn how to do the bills. There are so many.’ The other women murmured in agreement. So many bills!
Nikki put her hand up to silence them. ‘I wouldn’t know the first thing about accounting. I’m here to run a creative writing workshop, to collect a collaboration of voices.’ The women stared blankly at her. She cleared her throat. ‘It’s occurring to me that some of you might not be proficient enough in English to write confidently. Who is in this category? Not confident in English?’ She raised her hand to indicate that they should do the same. All of the widows except Sheena raised their hands.
‘That’s okay,’ Nikki said. ‘In fact, if you’d prefer to write your stories in Punjabi, I can adjust to that. Some things are just lost in translation anyway.’ The women’s prolonged staring made Nikki uneasy. Finally, Arvinder raised her hand.
‘Excuse me, Nikki – how are we meant to write stories?’
‘Good question.’ She turned to the desk and picked up her stack of loose-leaf paper. ‘Now I know we lost some time today but this is great place to start.’ She passed the papers around and explained the instructions. The women reached into their bags and took out their pens and pencils.
Nikki turned to the board to write down a few essential notes for the next lesson. ‘Next class is on Tuesday, 7.30–9.00 p.m. Be punctual.’ She wrote this in Punjabi as well, thinking herself quite considerate and adaptable. When she turned back around, she expected to see the women hunched over their papers, scribbling away but they remained still. Manjeet and Preetam tapped their pens against their desks and looked at each other. Tarampal looked positively irritated.
‘What’s wrong?’ Nikki asked.
Silence.
‘Why isn’t anybody writing?’ she asked.
More silence and then Tarampal spoke. ‘How are we supposed to write?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘How are we supposed to write,’ Tarampal repeated, ‘when you haven’t taught us yet?’
‘I am trying to teach you to write, but we have to start somewhere, don’t we? I know it’s difficult, but if I’m to help you with your stories then you need to actually start writing them. Just a few sentences …’ She trailed off when she noticed Preetam. The way she clutched the pencil reminded Nikki of being in nursery school. It dawned on her then, just as Arvinder began to pack away her things.
‘You knew,’ Nikki said as soon as Kulwinder answered the phone. She didn’t bother saying sat sri akal first – she wasn’t going to pay respects to this conniving elder.
‘Knew what?’ Kulwinder asked.
‘Those women can’t write.’
‘Of course. You’re meant to teach them.’
‘They. Can’t. Write.’ Nikki wanted the words to burn past Kulwinder’s calm exterior. ‘You tricked me into it. I thought I’d be teaching a creative writing workshop, not an adult literacy class. They can’t even spell their own names.’
‘You’re meant to teach them,’ Kulwinder repeated. ‘You said you wanted to teach writing.’
‘Creative writing. Stories. Not the alphabet!’
‘So teach them how to write and then they can write all the stories they want.’
‘Do you have any idea how long that will take?’
‘The classes are twice a week.’
‘It will take more than twice-weekly classes. You know that.’
‘These are very capable women,’ Kulwinder said.
‘You’re joking.’
‘You weren’t born writing stories, were you? Didn’t you have to learn your ABC first? Wasn’t it the simplest thing you had to learn?’
Nikki caught the contempt in Kulwinder’s voice. ‘Look. You’re trying to prove a point – I get it. I’m modern and I think I can do anything I want. Well, I can.’
She was about to tell Kulwinder that she quit but the words got caught in her throat. She considered it, a familiar sense of anxiety seizing her stomach. Leaving this job would mean having nothing to contribute to Mum and Mindi. Worse yet, they would know that she had given up after just one class and they would be proven right – that Nikki didn’t follow through on anything, that she was just a drifter who avoided responsibilities. She thought of the crumbling pub and pictured Sam wrapped in ribbons of receipts apologetically telling her that she was being let go.
‘This job was falsely advertised. I could report you for that,’ Nikki said finally.
Kulwinder responded with a snort, as if she knew the emptiness of Nikki’s threat. ‘Report me to whom?’ she challenged. She waited for a response but Nikki had none. Kulwinder’s message was clear: Nikki had stumbled into her territory and now must play by her rules.
In winter, the days lost their shape early. The streets were blurry with shadows and traffic lights as Kulwinder walked home and thought about her day. She wasn’t proud of deceiving Nikki but the more she thought about their conversation, the more she remembered how Nikki had incensed her. It was that demanding attitude that got under her skin. How dare you ask me to teach these idiots, she might as well have said.
Kulwinder’s two-storey brick home was on the end of Ansell Road. From her bedroom window the golden tip of gurdwara’s magnificent dome was visible on clear afternoons. The neighbours on the right were a young couple with two small children who sat in the porch and giggled together until their father came home. The neighbours on the left were a couple with a teenage son who had a big dog who howled for hours after they left each morning. Kulwinder was used to running through all of these details about her neighbours, anything to avoid thinking of that house across the street.
‘I’m home,’ she announced. She paused and waited for Sarab’s acknowledgement.
