foot of the stairs. He grunted a reply. She put down her things, and went to the kitchen to make a start on dinner. From the corner of her eye, she checked to see if Sarab had moved the living room curtains. This morning, he had suggested opening them to let in a bit of light so he could read the paper. ‘Don’t,’ Kulwinder had insisted. ‘The glare from the sun gives me a headache.’ Both of them knew it was Number 16 and not the pale English sunlight that bothered Kulwinder.
Kulwinder set out the plates and the bowl of dal and took the achar out of the fridge and set the table. There was nothing more comforting in all her years in England than the simplicity of a Punjabi meal. Sarab sat down and they ate quietly, and then he turned on the television and she cleaned the dishes. Maya used to help her with this, but one day she asked, ‘Why can’t Dad pitch in with the cooking and cleaning?’ Such questions had crossed Kulwinder’s mind in her younger days, but she would have been beaten for suggesting that her father or brothers did the housework. She had taken Maya roughly by the arm and steered her into the kitchen.
After completing her chores, Kulwinder went to the living room and sat next to Sarab. The television was on at a low volume. There was an English show on so it didn’t matter that they couldn’t hear it because the things the English laughed about were no laughing matter to Kulwinder.
She turned to Sarab and started a conversation. ‘An odd thing happened today,’ she said. ‘A mix-up with one of my community classes.’ She paused for a moment. My community classes. It was nice hearing it aloud. ‘The girl I hired to teach it thought she was teaching women to write their memoirs, but the women who signed up can’t even write. I had advertised creative writing classes and once the women started registering, I knew they were the types who couldn’t even spell their own names, but what could I do? Turn them away? That wouldn’t be right. I’m there to help the women of our community after all.’ It was partially true. She had been vague with the women about what exactly they would learn in these classes. ‘Writing, reading, that sort of thing,’ she had told them while passing around the registration form.
Sarab nodded but his eyes were blank. He was staring at the screen now. Kulwinder glanced at the clock and saw that there were many hours to kill before she felt like going to bed, like most nights. The drizzle had cleared. ‘Would you like to go for a walk?’ she asked Sarab. How unnatural it felt to ask him like this, when evening walks used to be their after-dinner routine. ‘It’s good for digestion,’ she added. She instantly felt silly trying to persuade him but today she really wanted his company. Her conflict with Nikki had reminded her of the way she and Maya used to argue.
Without even looking at her, Sarab said, ‘You go ahead.’
Kulwinder walked up Ansell Road and turned onto a main road where a small strip of shops were illuminated by long fluorescent ceiling bulbs. In Shanti’s Wedding Boutique, a group of young women tried on bangles and held up their wrists, letting the sequins catch the light. The owner of the masala shop next door was patiently ushering out his customers, an English couple, looking very pleased with their bottles of red and yellow powders. Teenagers in puffy black jackets milled in the empty lots outside, stray words and laughter darting into the air. Yeah. Hah! You dickhead.
Kulwinder offered a few hellos to passing Punjabi women but mostly she looked past them. Before Maya died, she used to chat to ladies, turning these walks into lengthy social outings. If their husbands were there, they’d break off into another group with Sarab. On the way home, comparing stories, she often noticed that men and women shared the same information – who was marrying whom, the rising cost of food and petrol, the occasional community scandal. Now she preferred not to stop. There was no need these days – only occasionally did people approach to offer their condolences. Most people just averted their gazes. She and Sarab were outsiders now, like the widows and divorced women and all those shamed parents they had feared becoming.
At a traffic light she paused, turned the corner and found a bench to sit on. The smell of sweet fried jalebi rose from a cart nearby. Her feet were rough like sandpaper against her hands as she massaged her heels and considered Nikki. Clearly, the girl was not from here, or she wouldn’t have been so disrespectful. Her parents were probably city types – Delhi or Bombay, and they probably turned their noses up at the Punjabis who washed up in Southall. She knew what the rest of London thought of Southall – she’d heard all of their comments when she and Sarab decided to move here from Croydon. Village people who built another Punjab in London – they’re letting all types of people into this country these days. ‘Best choice we ever made,’ Sarab had declared when they unpacked their last box. Kulwinder agreed, her heart almost bursting with happiness from the comforts of their surrounds – the spice markets, the Bollywood cinema, the gurdwaras, the samosa carts on the Broadway. Maya eyed all of it with suspicion but she would adjust, they assured themselves. One day she would want to raise her children here too.
Tears welled up in her eyes and blurred her vision, as a bus rolled to a slow stop in front of her and the door opened. The driver looked at Kulwinder expectantly. She shook her head and waved him along. A sob escaped her throat but the sound of the engine rumbling drowned it out. Why did she always torture herself like this? Sometimes she got carried away and imagined little moments of Maya’s life as it would be – mundane things like paying for groceries or replacing the batteries in her television remote control. The smaller the details, the harder it hit that Maya would never do these things. Her story was over.
The air felt colder now that Kulwinder was still. She wiped her eyes and took a few deep breaths. When she felt strong enough again, she stood up and headed in the direction of her home. Halfway across Queen Mary Road, Kulwinder spotted a police officer. She froze. What to do? Turn around and walk back? Keep going? She stood in the middle of the road until the light turned red and cars started honking their horns, and this was worse because people began to stop and stare. The policeman began searching for the cause of the trouble until his gaze landed on her. ‘Nothing. No problem,’ she called out feebly. He rushed into the street and with a firm hand signal, ordered all the cars to stay in place. Then he beckoned her to cross the road towards him.
‘Is everything all right?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she replied. She kept her distance and avoided looking him in the eye. A small crowd had emerged from the shops and gathered on the pavement to watch. She felt the urge to shoo them away. Mind your own business!
‘You’re just out taking a walk?’
‘Just walking, yes.’
‘Good exercise.’
She nodded, still aware of the stares. She tried to do a quick scan of who was watching. Unlike Maya, Kulwinder never considered Southall a hotbed of gossip. Most people just shared harmless observations. The problem was that Kulwinder could not afford to be observed talking to the police. Somebody might casually mention this scene to friend or a spouse, and then they might tell somebody else and—
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ the policeman asked. He peered into her eyes.
‘I’m very good thank you,’ she replied. She found an English word. ‘Splendid.’
‘Then take care when crossing the road in the future. The youngsters like to speed down the Broadway and they turn onto these main roads sometimes.’
‘I will. Thank you.’ Kulwinder spotted a middle-aged couple approaching. She could not recognize them from this distance but they were sure to notice her chatting with the police in the middle of the street, and if they knew her, they would ask each other, ‘What trouble is she causing now?’
‘Stay safe,’ the policeman called after her as she hurried home.
Sarab
