Kulwinder hurried away from the women. She reached for Maya’s hand but then spotted her in the distance being pushed gently on the swings by a little girl wearing her curly red hair in pigtails.
A few years later, upon Kulwinder’s announcement that they would be moving to Southall, Maya protested. ‘What about all my friends?’ she wailed, meaning the red-haired girl, the blonde girl, the girl who wore overalls and cut her own hair (‘Isn’t it just awful,’ her mother said in that adoring way that made one word have two meanings). ‘You’ll make better friends in our new area,’ Kulwinder said. ‘They will be more like us.’
These days, Kulwinder limited her achar intake to control her gastric reflux condition. Her English had improved somewhat, although she did not need to use it in Southall. As the recently appointed Community Development Director of the Sikh Community Association, she had her own office space in the Recreation Centre. It was dusty and full of neglected files that she had intended to throw out but kept because they gave the room an air of officiousness, with labels such as BUILDING REGULATIONS and MEETING MINUTES – COPIES. Such appearances were important for the occasional visitor, like the President of the Sikh Community Association, Mr Gurtaj Singh, who was standing in her office now, interrogating her about her flyers.
‘Where did you post these?’
‘On the temple noticeboard.’
‘What sorts of classes are they?’
‘Writing classes,’ Kulwinder replied. ‘For the women.’
She reminded herself to be patient. During their last budget meeting, Gurtaj Singh had rejected her funding requests. ‘We have nothing in the budget for that,’ he said. It wasn’t like Kulwinder to put up a fight in the presence of so many respected Sikh men but Gurtaj Singh always took a certain pleasure in dismissing her. She had to remind Gurtaj Singh that the Sikh Community Association Centre was within temple property and a lie here bore the same weight as a lie in the temple. For that matter, both their heads were covered by turban and dupatta respectively, signifying God’s hallowed presence. Gurtaj Singh had to relent. He slashed his pen across his written notes and muttered some figures and it occurred to Kulwinder that finding money for women was not so difficult in the first place.
Yet here he was, asking questions as if this was the first he ever heard of it. He hadn’t expected her to go out right away and begin advertising for instructors. Kulwinder presented a flyer. Gurtaj took time putting on his bifocals and clearing his throat. Between lines, he gave Kulwinder a sideways glance that made him resemble a crook in an old Hindi movie. ‘Do you have any instructors?’
‘I’m interviewing someone. She’ll be here soon,’ Kulwinder said. A girl named Nikki had called yesterday. She was supposed to have arrived fifteen minutes ago. If Kulwinder had other applicants she wouldn’t be worried, but after a week of the flyer being posted, this Nikki had been the only one to respond.
Gurtaj assessed the flyer again. Kulwinder hoped he wouldn’t ask her what all of the words meant. She had copied this flyer from another one she saw pinned up at a recreation centre off Queen Mary Road. The flyer had looked professional so she had taken it down, added a note below, and taken it to the photocopying shop where Munna Kaur’s son worked. ‘Make me a few of these,’ she instructed the pimply boy. She thought to ask him to translate some words she didn’t understand but if he was anything like that calculating Munna, he would not do a favour for free. Besides, the point was not to be accurate; she just wanted to get the class – any class – running immediately.
‘Are there any interested students?’ Gurtaj Singh asked.
‘Yes,’ Kulwinder said. She had gone around personally, informing women of these classes, telling them that they were twice a week and free, and therefore their attendance was expected. Her main targets: elderly widows who could use a more worthwhile pastime than gossiping in the langar hall. They were the most likely to turn up and make the classes appear successful. Then there would be more initiatives to occupy Kulwinder’s time. ‘Eventually, I hope we can offer much more to the women,’ she couldn’t resist saying.
Gurtaj Singh replaced the flyer on her desk. He was a short man who wore his khaki pants high on his waist as if altering their hems would be conceding to his lack of height. ‘Kulwinder, everybody feels bad about what happened to Maya,’ he said.
Kulwinder felt a stab that took her breath away. She recovered quickly and fixed Gurtaj Singh with a stare. Nobody knows what really happened. Nobody will help me find out. She wondered how he would react if she said those words aloud. ‘I appreciate it,’ she said. ‘But this has nothing to do with my daughter. The women in this community want to learn – and as the only woman on the board, I should be representing them.’ She began stacking the papers on her desk. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have a very busy afternoon planned.’
Gurtaj Singh picked up the hint and left. His office, like the offices of the other men on the Board, was in the newly renovated wing of the temple. It had hardwood floors and wide windows that looked out onto the gardens of surrounding homes. Kulwinder was the only Board member who worked in this old two-storey building, and as she listened to Gurtaj Singh’s fading footsteps, she wondered why men needed all that space when their answers to everything were always ‘no’.
A draught passed through the cracked window and blew Kulwinder’s papers askew. Searching her top drawer for a proper paperweight, she came across her old complimentary Barclays Bank diary. In the Notes section, she had a list of names and numbers – the local police station, the lawyers, even a private investigator that she never ended up calling. It had been nearly ten months and sometimes she still felt as breathlessly desperate as the moment she was told her daughter was dead. She shut the diary and pressed her hands to her teacup. The warmth radiated in her palms. Kulwinder maintained her grip. The burn burrowed through her layers of skin. Maya.
‘Sat sri akal. Sorry I’m late.’
Kulwinder dropped her cup on the desk. A thick stream of spilled chai ran across the table and soaked her papers. In the doorway stood a young woman. ‘You said 2 p.m.,’ Kulwinder said as she rescued the papers.
‘I meant to get here on time but there was a train delay.’ She retrieved a serviette from her bag and helped Kulwinder to blot the tea from the papers. Kulwinder stepped back and observed. Although she did not have a son, habit prompted a quick assessment of this girl for her suitability as a wife. Nikki had shoulder-length hair pulled back in a ponytail, revealing a wide forehead. Her beaky face was striking in its own way but she certainly could not afford to forgo wearing make-up like this. Her nails were bitten down, a disgusting habit, and hanging off her waist was a square bag that clearly belonged to a postal worker.
Nikki caught her looking. Kulwinder cleared her throat imperiously and began shuffling and stacking the dry papers on the other end of her desk. She expected Nikki to watch her. Instead she noticed the girl throwing a disdainful look at the crowded shelves and the cracked window.
‘Do you have your CV?’ Kulwinder asked.
Nikki produced a sheet from her postal worker bag. Kulwinder skimmed it. She could not afford to be fussy – at this point as long as the instructor was literate in English, she would be hired. But the sting of the girl’s look lingered and made Kulwinder feel less generous.
‘What teaching experience do you have?’ she asked in Punjabi.
The girl responded in hurried English. ‘I’ll admit, I don’t have much teaching experience but I’m really interested in—’
Kulwinder held up her hand. ‘Please answer me in Punjabi,’ she said. ‘Have you ever taught?’
‘No.’
‘Why do you want to teach this class then?’
‘I have a … umm … how do you say it? A passion for help the women,’ Nikki said.
‘Hmm,’ Kulwinder acknowledged coolly. On the CV, the longest list was under a header called Activism. Greenpeace Petitioner, Women’s Aid Volunteer, UK Fem Fighters