Читать книгу Londonstani - Gautam Malkani - Страница 15

According to Hardjit, it don’t matter if the proper word for something sounds fuckin ridiculous. If it’s the proper word then it’s the proper word.

Yard is one a them words. If it was me who was the American hiphop G or whoever the fuck it was who invented all this proper speak, no way the proper word for house’d be yard. That’s the garden, for fuck’s sake. I in’t feelin the word crib either cos that’s what American babies sleep in. Also, I wouldn’t decide that the proper word for wikid is heavy. Why they decided that The Shit should mean The Greatest I got no idea, maybe cos bad’s always meant good. But more than all a this, if I was the Proper Word Inventor I’d do two things differently. I wouldn’t decide that the proper word for a deep an dickless poncey sap is a gay batty boy or that the proper word for women is bitches. That shit in’t right. I know what other poncey words like homophobic an misogynist mean an I know that shit in’t right. But what am I s’posed to do bout it? If I don’t speak proply using the proper words then these guys’d say I was actin like a batty boy or a woman or a woman actin like a batty boy. One good thing though: now that I use all these proper words I’m hardly ever stuck for words. I just chuck in a bit a proper speak an I sound like I’m talkin proper, talkin like Hardjit. I just wish I was the Proper Word Inventor so I could pick different proper words, that’s all. But, seeing as how I in’t that person, we were cruisin to Hardjit’s yard in Ravi’s ride, checkin out the bitches round the high street. We nod at some bredren we know from Hounslow Manor School as we turned off the London Road. We pass some G drivin a red Pharrell Williams with a number plate that says D3S1, which we figure is meant to mean DESI. We talk bout how you never see a car like that without a personalised number plate. We turn up DMX again as we drive up alongside some ladies in a little convertible Justin Timberlake who’re waitin to turn into the Treaty Centre car park. We see some Somali kids makin mischief near some other car park by the Yates pub. We see Deepak Gill an his crew hangin outside the car park by Hounslow West tube station an normly we’d’ve shouted Kiddaan at them but we din’t this time cos he’d got some beef with Amit’s older brother’s fiancée’s brother-in-law’s nephew. We din’t shout Muthfuckin bhanchods either, though, cos Amit’s brother’s shaadi was only a few months away an we din’t want to fuck things up for him by causing some complicated, family-related shit. Ravi slid down from fourth to second an tried to pull away from the station, partly to make a loud, angry noise at Deepak Gill an partly to try an overtake this pain-in-the-butt H91 bus in front. But the oncoming lane in’t clear an so we’re fuckin stuck. Right behind the rear end a some fuckin Grampa Simpson when we could be chasing the rear end a some J-Lo or Beyoncé instead.

—Fuckin plebs, Ravi keeps shoutin at the Grampa Simpson in front. Then,— Oi, you gandah fucker, every time it, like, farts at us. We couldn’t squeeze past it cos the dickless driver din’t pull into the bus stop proply cos there was another bus in front a him. That bus was a H91 as well. Now that we cleaned these streets a saps, coconuts an Paki-bashing skinheads, we gotta do something bout all these buses. Even with a special slip road for them outside Hounslow West tube station, they always managed to cause chaos there. It was the same near Hounslow East tube, Hounslow Central tube, Hounslow railway station an Hounslow bus station (though I in’t sure it’s fair for us to have beef with buses hangin round at that last one).

The oncoming lane finally clears up, but we still don’t overtake the buses in front cos suddenly one a the H91s opens its doors again to let out a bunch a sixth-formers from the Green School. The Green School for Girls, that is. An even more accurate name would be the Green School for Fit Girls. They were upper sixth-formers, meanin they’d binned their dark green school uniforms a couple a years back an were now struttin around in their best casual garms. Good desi girls, though, so no fuck-me clothes. Jeans an jumpers mostly, but with enough Lycra to make you glad it weren’t cold enough for coats. Hardjit leaned out the window an did whatever it is that he does so well. I couldn’t hear exactly how he was chirpsin them over the CD, but I caught him givin it the line:— Oye oye sohni kurhiyo! The girls did that giggle-disguised-as-a-smile thing an Hardjit was out the door, escorting them to the tube station before you could say, Dude, the station’s only five metres away.

—What the fuck’s he gonna do? Buy their tube tickets for them? I asked the other guys. No answer.

—Or does he reckon he’s gonna get off with one a them in the photo booth?

Still no answer. So I look at whatever it is Amit an Ravi are busy lookin at. An suddenly I’m thinkin Cheers God for makin us bunk off lesson.

—Phwoar! Gimme some air, goes Ravi as another Green School girl steps off the bus.— Wat da fuck is Samira Ahmed doing ridin on a bus?

— I dunno, man, maybe her Beemer broke down, goes Amit.

—But ridin on a bus wid all dem plebs, man. She is so fit, she should b in my Beemer ridin wid me. Actually, scrap dat, she should b ridin me.

—Or maybe even me, goes a voice that sounds a lot like mine. Shit. I covered my mouth as I realised I’d just said that out loud. I apologise to my mind even before it starts givin me a bollocking, but it’s too late to apologise to Amit an Ravi. It weren’t my fault though. I mean, just look over there. Just look at Samira Ahmed. She was the reason guys round Hounslow’d bothered learnin how to spell the word Beautiful stead a just writin the word Fit inside their valentine cards. She was beautiful like them models in make-up ads, the ones where they’re so fit they don’t even look like they’re wearin any makeup. Unlike any a the other desi girls that’d got off the bus before her, Samira Ahmed weren’t even wearin no jewellery either. That’s how fit she was. I in’t lyin. She made you realise how some desi princesses were lookin more an more like clowns dressed up like Christmas trees with all their bling-bling Tiffany tinsel an Mac masks. It was like as if they were tryin to distract your attention from other shit on their faces, like their noses, mouths an eyes. Like they’d got so hooked on who’d got more bling that they’d forgot what jewellery was originally for, same way some desis keep complaining bout non-spicy food cos they forget the original reason for drowning food in chillies was cos the desis in the pinds were so skint they could only afford off meat an so wanted to hide the taste. In business-speak it’s called overinvesting in marketing stead a product development, an sometimes overstating the value a your assets as a result. Soon as the customer’s focus shifts back to the product again your business is fucked cos the whole demand curve, like, shifts inwards. That’s why fizzy soft drinks in’t sellin so well no more now that people know they should be drinkin pani an fruit juice stead a all them artificial flavourings an colouring s an all that other shit desi princesses slap on their faces. But not Samira Ahmed. No marketing, no make-up, no sodium benzoate, no jewellery, no aspartame an none a that potassium sorbate shit. Multiply her usual fitness by ten the way she was lookin today, dressed in that tight black polo neck that stretched round her chest an that khaki skirt - shiny, soft, slinky. Satin, probly. What is it bout shiny skirts that let you see a lady’s curves even better than you’d be able to if she was wearin no skirt, no nothin? All a that Heaven held together by this thin brown leather belt fastened diagonally across Samira’s butt an matchin her boots.

—Yeh, right, goes Ravi.— Why’d she go for a deep n meaningful gimp like you when she cud wrap dem legs round a stud like me?

But Amit is less willin to just roll with my comment bout wantin Samira to ride me.— Easy now, Jas, he goes.— Ravi here jus b chattin bout how fit she is. Da way you say it, it soundin like you onto her. Samira outta bounds for all a us bredrens an you know it. She Muslim, innit. We best all stick to our own kinds, boy, don’t b playin wid fire. An you best not b chattin like dat in front a Hardjit.

Amit had a point a course. If any a us ever got with Samira, her mum an dad’d probly kill her and then try an kill us. That’s if our own mums an dads din’t kill us first. An then that’s if Hardjit din’t kill us before they did. Mr Ashwood had taught us bout the bloody partition a India an Pakistan during History lessons. What we din’t learn, though, was how some people who weren’t even born when it happened or awake during History lessons remembered the bloodshed better than the people who were.

—Relax, Amit, I jus be jokin, innit. I jus be chattin shit, checkin her out same way Ravi is, I go, tryin to sound casual but not managing to sound casual enough. Not nearly casual enough.— But it in’t as if she’s like a strict Muslim, is it?

—Wat da fuck is wrong wid’chyu? Wat da fuck’d I jus say, Jas? None a us lot should ever b goin there, man. Don’t matter whether she strict n dat. Jus don’t b fuckin goin there, a’ight.

I figure things can’t get any more tense, so I defy him an go there a little more:— Yeh, but I’m just sayin, how strict can she be? I mean, she’s a she. Most Muslim fundamentalists are blokes.

—Look, she got three brothers an dey well strict. One a dem even belongs to Hizb ut-Tahrir or Al-Muhajiroun or one a dem groups. Dey stricter bout keepin their sister halal than my mum is bout keepin her shit vegetarian so you jus best shut da fuck up before Hardjit gets back.

—I jus sayin she can’t be that strict, that’s all, I go,—I mean you seen her when she dresses an dances like she the fourth member a Destiny’s Child or someshit. Come on, Amit, admit it, surely even you think she’s fit.

—No I don’t, Jas. An you best calm da fuck down n focus your hormones on your own kind. Anyway, wat da fuck we arguin bout her being Muslim for? Samira Ahmed ain’t nuffink special whether she b a Muslim, a Sikh, a Hindu or a mermaid on a beach in fuckin Goa. In fact, my bum is buffer than her.

—Ahh, blud, now you shut yo mouth, goes Ravi.—Jus cos I ain’t wantin to get wid her, it don’t mean dat girl ain’t da fittest lady in da hood. At da end a da day, she did win Miss Hounslow two years in a row, innit.

—Dat’s jus cos I din’t enter ma ass. Look at her. She a tramp, da lady ain’t got no class. She ain’t even wearin no jewellery or makeup, man.

—That’s cos she don’t need none, I go.—Sayin she ain’t got no class is like sayin Pamela Anderson’s got a flat chest cos she don’t wear a Wonderbra.

Just then Hardjit gets back in the Beemer, bringin a smile an the smell a perfume with him. We stop the conversation bout Samira an skip to the next track on the CD.

—Wat’chyu boys been doin? Hardjit asks as he starts struggling with his seat belt again.

—Nothin, I go.—Jus chattin bout business, checkin out da bitches, innit.

Hardjit’s yard had a double driveway, big enough to park his dad’s Al Pacino an his mother’s Mary J Blige, but probly not big enough for a Mary J Blige an the Amitabh Bachchan his dad’d always wanted. They really needed a driveway cos his yard was right up near where the Great West Road an the Bath Road joined into the road that takes you to Terminal 4 or the road that went straight to Terminals 1, 2 or 3—the gateway to India just down the A4. Living there, they din’t know what was worse—the traffic on the road outside or the traffic in the sky. Either way the double glazing weren’t thick enough an they’d had to hook up their living-room TV to two sets a surround-sound speakers. It’d probly be the best TV ever for watchin MTV Base or the B4U desi music channel, only we’d never know cos we never actually went in the living room when we went round. There was always some auntyji in there with Hardjit’s mum, you see. Her an a friend gup-shupping bout this bit a gossip or that bit a gossip. Somehow they always managed to sound like those emergency sessions in the Indian parliament you sometimes see on Star News.

It was obviously deeply disrespectful if we din’t go in an say hello to the auntyjis, but it’d’ve also been deeply disrespectful to just suddenly barge in unexpected. This time we figured it’d be more disrespectful to go in than it’d be not to. We could hear Hardjit’s mum inside talkin importantly, sayin things like Hai hai. So stead, we politely took our trainers off in the porch, whispered the usual jokes bout Ravi’s paneer-smellin socks an legged it upstairs, givin it a respectful Hi, Aunty to his mum, an adding another Hi, Aunty for whoever else was in the living room with her. Aunty’s freshly cooked subjhi chasing us all the way upstairs, even though Ravi’s feet were cheesier than usual an even though she’d shut the kitchen door to stop the smell escaping. Up on the landing, the subjhi mixed with the incense sticks burning in bedroom number one along the long, L-shaped corridor. There weren’t no bed in bedroom number one. It was where they kept their copy a the Guru Granth Sahib on a table. They’d hung their pictures a various Sikh Gurus on the landing walls outside. They’d even got a couple a pictures a Hindu Gods too. Usually you only get Hindus who’ll blend their religion with Sikhism but Hardjit’s mum an dad were one a the few Sikh families who blended back.

Bedroom number two: Aunty an Uncle’s. Stricly off-limits, although just inside you can see a blown-up photo hangin on the magnoliapainted woodchip wall. It’s from when Hardjit’s family went to Disneyland with his chacha’s family in New Jersey. Hardjit’s dad’s also got another brother living back in Jalandhar, where according to Mr Ashwood the smells are even stronger an the colours even brighter. But Hardjit prefers visiting his cousin in New Jersey cos she’s got fitter friends in her desi scene out there. Fitter buddies with fitter bodies who dress like desi versions a Britney Spears—in the video for ‘Slave’ a course, not ‘Hit Me Baby One More Time’. Before you turn the corner to get to bedroom numbers three, four an five, there’s a laundry basket on the landing lookin like a milk pan that’d been on the hob too long. Amit takes one look at it an gives it,—Ehh ki hai? Wat’s wid all dis gandh, man? You best gets your mum to do your laundry quick time or you’ll have to wear da same smelly kachha every day.

—Ain’t ma fault, blud. Da washing machine’s fuck’d, innit. Dad was tryin 2 do some shit 2 da plumbing n pipes n dat, n suddenly da washin machine, dishwasher n even da fuckin tea-maker all fuck’d up in one go.

—How da fuck’s your chai-maker connect’d to da pipes? Ravi asks.

—I dunno. Maybe it ain’t. I ain’t fuckin Bob da Builder, innit.

—You know wat I’d do if my washin machine, dishwasher or chai-maker broke down? goes Ravi.

—Wat?

—Divorce da bitch, innit.

On the floor by the laundry basket lay a pile a Bollywood magazines. Old issues a Cineblitz an Stardust mostly, which Hardjit, his parents an his little sister had agreed to keep out on the landing so that they din’t fight over who could keep them in their bedroom.

—Nice stash, bruv, goes Ravi, lookin down at them, which was probly difficult for him seeing how he was more used to angling his neck upwards when he was checkin out magazines,—verrry nice stash, he gives it again.—Hope u in’t got yo Playboys tucked away in da middle a them. Jus imagine yo mama or sister’s face next time dey wanna read bout Shah Rukh Khan, innit.

Hardjit sometimes gets pretty vexed bout that kind a shit. Porn, hookers, slutty ladies. Other times he’ll be laughin along, actin like a pimp. I in’t lyin, one minute he’s talkin bout how he’s gonna get inside some desi girl’s lace kachhian an the next minute he’s actin as if a girl’s gotta be a virgin if she wants to be a proper desi. Fuck knows why sometimes he’ll act one way an other times he’ll act the other way. Could be he’s only OK bout it when it’s obvious we’re only chattin bullshit or just fantasising or someshit. Problem is, you in’t allowed to fantasise bout Bollywood actresses cos he reckons they’re s’posed to be all pure an everything. You in’t allowed to fantasise bout someone real in case Hardjit thinks you’re being serious bout them an you in’t allowed to fantasise bout someone famous cos chances are they’re a Bollywood actress. You in’t allowed to fantasise bout blatant sluts like porn stars cos desi girls in’t meant to be into that kind a thing. An you in’t allowed to fantasise outside your own race, like when Ravi goes on bout Page Three models, glamour girls an lap dancers. Those kindsa ladies get Hardjit so vexed that when he calls them bitches he don’t just mean they’re female. But right now Ravi’s only fantasising bout fantasising. That’s the way Ravi is. Sometimes if you allow him to just carry on, his gandahness can even get funny. Like when he got us kicked outta B&Q in Brentford by actually using one a the toilet bowls in the bathroom showroom.

—Jus imagine it, man, goes Ravi,—imagine if Aunty n Uncle picked up some bedtime Bollywood readin, innit, n out fell some topless gori woman wearin lacy black chuddies n suspenders, innit. Again, Hardjit just let Ravi carry on:—Or maybe jus a black thong, innit. Maybe it’d even help yo mum n dad, you know, get jiggy wid it.

Hardjit shot him a look, but still without sayin nothin or doing nothin or smackin nothin.—Help em make such a rumble in da jungle dat dey break da fuckin bed, innit, Ravi goes,—maybe even yo dad cud stop takin his Viagra.

The boy was well into red rag an bull territory now, as Mr Ashwood used to say. I guess Hardjit must’ve been too busy thinkin bout something else. Tomorrow’s fight, today’s fones, yesterday’s fuck. If everyone who dissed him was as lucky as Ravi right now, the ER bit a Ealing Hospital wouldn’t be so busy all the time. Stead a coming back proply with his fists, Hardjit just gives it,—Yeh n maybe ma dad can give his Viagra 2 u innit cos u clearly needin it, u fuckin sexually frustrated sex maniac.

—Safe, bruv. But I’m da mack already, innit. I only needs Viagra if ma bitch wanna cum forty times a nite steada thirty. An anyway, ma bitch is so fine I ain’t needin no Playboy magazines to get ma soldier ready for action, you get me.

—Shut da fuck now, Hardjit gives it.—U best jus shut yo dirrty mouth now, Ravi. Dere ain’t no fuckin Playboys in dere. ‘Sup wid’chyu?

—Yeh, you know wat, bruv, you is right, innit. My bad. Now I’ma got to thinkin, you ain’t gonna b havin no Playboys in here. You’s a desi, innit. You’s gonna b havin copies a Asian Babes! G-strings always look better on some nice Indian butt. At da end a da day, you b wantin yo meat proply cooked not raw, you get me.

Ravi did some more free advertising for Asian Babes before adding:

—Hey, any a you boys heard bout dat new American porn star who’s actually a desi? Dey call her Miss Vagindia. In dis new film she done, right, I heard she wearin nuffink but a bindi. Seriously, no kachhi, no banan, nuffink.

Forget the red rag an bull territory, Ravi may as well have stripped that porn star’s red kachhi off himself an waved it in Hardjit’s face.

Rudeboy Rule #5:

Bout six months ago Hardjit taught me that you couldn’t learn to chat proply if you also din’t know when to stop chattin.—U gots 2 know when 2 shut yo mouth, he’d said.—It da same when u stickin yo tongue down a lady’s throat, u can’t jus go on an on an on, she’ll get bored or fuckin choke, innit.

Ravi was the kind a rudeboy who could never stick to Rudeboy Rule # 5. The trouble with rudeboys like Ravi, by which I mean the sheep kind a rudeboy, is they never realise when they’re lucky. Stead they think it’s some desi skilfulness they got that keeps other people’s fists outta their faces. Just watch em next time you’re in a nice bar or a club or whatever. They reckon they’re being the shit an so they can’t help pushin it.

—Hey relax, blud, goes Ravi again.—You know I’d bruck anyone who bought dat Asian Babes shit too. I jus mouthin off cos I got me a high sex drive, dat’s all, man. I can’t help it if I is a wild fuckin beast. Better’n bein a deep n skinny batty bwoy like Jas here, innit. He probly got a stash a gay porn. Bud Bud Batties or sumfink, innit. Dat’s if there is a mag for batty desis. Wat bout one for lesbian desis, man? If there ain’t one a dem then somebody shud start one cos they’d make big bucks. Desi dykes, bindi’d bisexuals n dat, innit. Bring it on, blud.

It was just a punch on the arm an a follow-through elbow in the ribs. An when it was done, Ravi quietly examined his bruises an Hardjit crouched down by the pile a magazines, flickin through them as if to prove there really were no pornos in there. Then he started readin an article bout Hrithik Roshan’s daily bodybuilding routine, as if the rest a us weren’t even there an as if he hadn’t already read it bout ten times already. This might seem rude seeing as how we were guests in his house, but I guess he knew from the new smells runnin up the stairs that his mum’d already started fryin samosas an makin chai for us.—Dat’s some fly shit, he whispered bout something he’d just read, givin Hrithik Roshan a high-five on the shoulder with his still-clenched fist as he did so. Then he closed the copy a Cineblitz, wiped it with his vest an placed it on top a the pile, leavin the front-cover shot a Hrithik Roshan facing up so that the rest a us could feel skinny, spotty an just generally ugly.

Not being a bunch a desperate fourteen-year-olds, we’d not come over with the ulterior motive a huntin for hidden pornos. We’d come to check something else out. An, as if she’d just heard the commotion on the landing, she an her glorious midriff were out waitin for us, standin round the corner outside bedroom number five, right where she usually did when we came round, dressed in tight, black satin. A desi Catwoman outfit. It was as if her black, shoulderless top had been moulded over the breasts beneath it, so that it weren’t even satin but a thick stripe a that body-paint stuff you hear bout, exposing her midriff, bare hips, bronze collarbone an the soft brown flesh above it that connected her shoulder to her neck. Staring at the three a us from the bedroom door, as if to say, Now which one a you boys is gonna be my man?

Ravi strode up to her, placed his hand over her left breast an proceeded to lick her right breast. Slowly at first, but speedin up after bout six strokes. Well, pretend-lick to be precise. He weren’t bout to ruin Hardjit’s prized poster a Kareena Kapoor by gettin his saliva all over it.

—Fuckin get yo mouth off ma door, u perve, Hardjit said, pullin Ravi away from the poster,—or I’ma glue yo tongue 2 da inside a da door frame n slam dis muthafucka shut. I mean it, Ravi, u best jus ease up on dissin ma shit today b4 I smack u again.

—Safe, bruv, ma bad. But chill, man, I wouldn’t really lick yo poster anyway.

—Fuckin tell me 2 chill, Ravi. D’yu know where u is at, bhanchod? In ma mum n dad’s house. Not some fuckin perve’s sex shop in Soho. We treatin our bitches wid respect, innit.

Amit began to say something, then hesitated, but then had to say it now cos he’d look like a batty boy for stammerin.—Da poster n da door, dey probly already sticky, innit, n I ain’t meanin from glue.

Sayin shit like that was Amit’s privilege in life. If those words had come outta anyone else’s mouth, Hardjit would’ve smacked them for dissin him, dissin his house, dissin his mum’s magazines, dissin the poster he probly got free with one a them magazines an dissin bitches in general. Truth is, we weren’t actually dissin nothin. We were appreciating his poster, like how poncey people do when they go to poncey galleries to check out paintings a sunflowers an shit. I know this cos I seen em do it. We all went to one a them places one time, I in’t lyin, up near Trafalgar Square. Ravi’d wanted to go inside cos he said his mum had suddenly gone all poncey bout famous paintings. She wants some tutty picture a fuckin water lilies, he’d said as we headed straight to the gift shop. We soon managed to get ourselves kicked out by some bitch who wore glasses on the tip a her nose, loads a make-up over her wrinkles an who spoke like she was the Queen’s first cousin or someshit. Seems that you in’t allowed to say things like Check out da size a her melons, not when you’re lookin at a painting which shows a naked woman with big melons. Seems that it in’t no defence if you argue that you din’t even use the word tits. Also, it don’t help if you say, Fuck off, bitch, u jus jealous cos your own melons are saggy wid cobwebs in between them, innit.

Anyway, if you ask me, posters a Bollywood babes are better to look at than them poncey paintings. Matter a fact, I reckon they’re better than posters a fit goris like Kate Moss or Caprice or fit kaalis like Beyoncé Knowles or Halle Berry. Indian women (I know I should say bitches stead a women to keep things proper but I’m still workin on it) are different. Bollywood babes are obviously not black or white so in’t bootylicious or waifs. They’re somewhere in between. Midriffs. Hardjit’s dad once explained his theory bout all this when he caught me staring at a picture a Kate Moss in the paper one time.—Jas, my boy. No waste your time with all these skinny kurhiyaan, he’d said.—I’m like uncle to you. As your uncle I tell to you this: If she thin, that means she not eating. She is sick with this anoraks-yar disease. An if she not eat, she not do cooking. So then what’s the use is she?

I remember noddin politely, tryin to think a something to say, before Hardjit’s dad continued:—See this young kurhi in newspaper, Jas, I say she look like drug addict. I know how these girls are, I tell you. Look at her. I know she not even clean the house. Why she show off her belly button to whole wide world when she not even have belly in first place?

—There’s nothin wrong with being slim, Mr Johal, I go.—It doesn’t mean she does drugs.

—No, no, young man, nothing wrong with slim. I not say she should look mohti and pregnant. But this girl in newspaper, she starving to death.

Even though Hardjit’s dad was chattin some blatant shit bout ladies, at least the man was chattin bout ladies. Only time my own dad ever talks to me bout women is if he’s got an important female customer or supplier or whatever. An that’s hardly ever seeing as how he mostly does business with businessmen.

—All these kurhiyaan they all look like drug addicts, goes Hardjit’s dad again,—I know what I’m saying. Delinquent drug addicts. I know what I’m saying. I’m like uncle to you. My father, before he die, he telled to me, you keep your eye on bellies of well-portioned kurhiyaan and you get good portions in your own stomach.

I remember I wanted to disagree with Hardjit’s dad again, outta respect for Kate Moss an women generally. But Hardjit’s mum was standin right beside him givin me two good reasons to hold my tongue. Firstly, she was noddin in agreement with everything he’d just said. Secondly, it would’ve been disrespectful to her if I disagreed with her husband in front a her.