Читать книгу Londonstani - Gautam Malkani - Страница 16

We were huddled in the king-sized bathroom between bedrooms number four an five. Hardjit’d got one a his urges to go shape his facial hair in the big magnifying mirror above the sink. There was always a couple a hairs that the beard trimmer missed an if Hardjit din’t pluck em or scissor em they’d totally fuck up the outline a his goatee. It was the same with the lines he’d cut through his left eyebrow like three Adidas stripes. The jacuzzi an shower cubicle in this bathroom had never worked as well as the other two they’d got, not even before his dad’s fuck-up with the plumbing. So, depending on which member a his family was lookin into the mirror, this bathroom was only used for shaping, shaving, plucking or waxing facial hair.

I turned my back to the other guys an stared back out across the landing at the Kareena Kapoor poster. I carried on staring at it even as Amit started takin the mick. Stop dreamin, Jas. You couldn’t pull a nympho. Fuckin Seema mohti Patel is outta your league. That kind a thing. Still, I carried on staring, thankful that I weren’t a gimp into that whole Britpop/R.E.M. scene no more cos if I was I’d probly still be wearin skintight Levi’s 501s stead a my baggy Evisu’s. Skintight jeans hurt at times like this. Even Hardjit’s bedroom-door handle pointed upwards at the poster it shared a door with, though that was probly cos it’d been fixed upside down in another one a his dad’s drunken DIY moments.

Rudeboy Rule #6:

Although desi ladies should dress like Bollywood actresses, under no circumstances should desi men try to dress like their male co-stars. Bollywood actors are the only desi men on Planet Earth who’re allowed to wear skintight jeans. Watchin em carry it off as they carry the heroine outta the fountain during the soaked, see-through sari scene is just one more reason to sit through more Bollywood movies than you currently do. Must really fuckin hurt em though.

Finally, Amit grabbed my arm, yanking me from Kareena Kapoor’s soft arms an then draggin me outta Bollywood altogether.—Kareena Kapoor ain’t nothin special, he goes,—none a dem Bollywood bitches is. It all make-up, innit. Even Aishwarya Rai ain’t all dat. Jus like I told’chyu boys earlier, I ain’t caring how many beauty contests all a dese bitches won. My bum is buffer’n dem.

—Yeh, OK, Amit, we heard it all before, I give it, all pissed off as if my mum had just woken me up from a wet dream before it’d actually become one.—Let me guess, you pulled someone fitter than her last week, right?

Sayin that turned out to be a bad, bad, fuckin bad move on my part cos Amit goes an retaliates by tellin Hardjit how I’d been pervin over Samira Ahmed earlier that day.

—You shoulda seen him, he goes.—Afta we park’d up by Hounslow West, innit. Had his tongue hangin out da car window when she got off da bus.

—Fuck’s sake, Jas, goes Hardjit,—I ain’t caring how much u fancy a piece a her ass, u stay da fuck away from her. Dat bitch b trouble, u get me?

—Look, man, all I did was tell Amit that she’s fit, that’s all, bruv.

—No dat ain’t all, bruv. How many times I’ma gots 2 tell u she fuckin bad news? Shudn’t even b finkin bout her, fuck sayin shit bout her.

—Look, Hardjit, just cos she’s Muslim. I in’t sayin I wanna marry her, I’m jus sayin she’s fit. Wat’s wrong with that? You’re being racist, man. An anyway, the fact that she’s Muslim means it’d be even harder for me to get anywhere with her even if I wanted to, which I don’t. So what’s the big fuckin deal?

—Muslim ain’t got nuffink 2 do wid nuffink, Jas. Everyting u sayin got shit 2 do wid shit. Dere b Sikh n Hindu girls who act like hos n I stay da fuck away from dem too. Bottom line, da bitch is a ho n u best stay clear—less u want me 2 pull out yo tongue wid dese tweezers.

—OK, whatever, man. But it in’t right to call her a ho.

—I aksed u 2 shut da fuck up, Jas, I don’t wanna hear u sayin shit bout her or shit bout any shit no more, u get me? U seen dat bitch in action when she surround’d by munde? Trust me, I’m da expert. She a muthafuckin ho.

Ravi was even quicker to agree with Hardjit an Amit than he usually was. I should’ve buckled as well, but that would’ve contravened my sense a chivalry an shit. An so I carried on standin up for her, carried on defendin her ways. Right up until Hardjit raised his hand as if was gonna give me a thapparh across the face.

Rudeboy Rule #7:

It’s Basic Bollywood for Beginners. In situations that involve defending or rescuing a fit lady, you can stand tall with your front intact even if all your crew walk out on you or try an thapparh you. They call it being a hero. An when a lady’s got your hormones bubbling like two different types a toilet cleaner mixed together in a jacuzzi, you got no choice but to be a hero.

I’d wanted to get off with Samira since the first time I saw her, but I fell for her proply at Ritu Singh’s seventeenth birthday party. Ritu’d only invited me cos I used to help her with her English homework so I’d bought her a book. Her dad’d bought her a VW Golf an she ended up dancin with the keys round her neck before her mum walked up to her an told her she’d ruin her new Swarovski necklace underneath it. Can you imagine havin your mum an dad hangin with all your mates at your seventeenth? Most parents clear the fuck away soon as they’ve taken all their photos, sung ‘Heppi Birday’ an then passed round thookafied slices a birthday cake. But not Ritu’s. Her mum an dad stayed all the way through, right to the end, makin sure there weren’t no troublemakers, ruffians, smokin or underage drinkin. Her dad pretendin like he weren’t really checkin out her friends, her mum mingling as if she was only double her daughter’s age.

Back then I weren’t that tight with people like Hardjit, Amit or Ravi, so I just hung back with the coconuts who were standin around wonderin how come they weren’t on the dance floor with all the fit people. Even Ritu’s dad was on the dance floor, his blatant wig blatantly slidin outta place. He was dancin bhangra-style to some old-skool hip-hop tune by De La Soul an kept smiling at people who were crackin up at him. Then he kept wiping his thick moustache with his handkerchief an lassoing the sweaty thing around his head until everyone else moved off the floor. Everyone except Samira Ahmed, that is. She never once left the dance floor all the time I was watchin her. An the only time she was dancin without some fitlookin guy was when she was left on the floor with Ritu’s dad. From the way he was lookin at Samira an her tight black dress I knew his wife was gonna pull him away an that was the first an only time I saw Samira Ahmed without other people round her.

September before that we’d both started sixth form, which was the first time I’d had lessons with girls since primary school. Did I ever get the seat next to Samira? Did I fuck. It weren’t even as if everyone in the lesson liked her, it’s just that those that did really did. At the same time, those that din’t really din’t. An Hardjit was one a those that din’t. Kids back in the sixth form reacted in ways you couldn’t predict when it came to Samira Ahmed. Din’t matter whether they were Muslim like her, Sikh like Hardjit or Hindu like Amit. Some Muslims, Sikhs an Hindus wanted to shag her, other Muslims, Sikhs an Hindus wanted to smack her. Generally, the more hardcore they were, the more likely that they’d have beef with her. This was odd, seeing as how she mostly hung around with hardcore desis. Matter a fact, it weren’t till I started kickin round with Hardjit an his crew in upper sixth that I started seeing Samira Ahmed more an more outside a school. Afternoon bhangra gigs, Treaty Centre library, Edward’s bar in Ealing Broadway, proper desi events in Hammersmith. First time I ever spoke to her proply was at this desi gig Hardjit’d taken me to cos all fifteen boys from RDB were doing a live set. That stands for Rhythm, Dhol an Bass in case you don’t know, they’re like the So Solid Crew a desi beats. They’d just started playin the opening track from The Lick an all the guys charged towards the dance floor. That’s when I met her proply. Or more like she met me. Straight up, started talkin. To me. An I in’t lyin, what she was sayin had got nothin to do with school or books or me helpin her with homework. She’d just come off the dance floor an was sayin she din’t like being there when all the rudeboys started jumpin round with their bottles a beer, someone nearly elbowing someone in the face every ten seco nds. She was wearin tight jeans an a shiny white V-neck top. A capital V. In fact, the V was so big that the top had to have a white strap across her cleavage so that it looked more like an upside-down A. It was hard to focus on the words coming out her mouth stead a the letters on her chest—especially other times when she was wearin one a those capital U tops or just a B lyin on its back. Even when she was wearin a closed top, Samira Ahmed was way outta most guys’ leagues. She was probly outta Hardjit’s an Amit’s leagues an she was definitely way outta my league. Trust me, I seen proof a this. In fact, I see proof every day walkin down the street. Guys who’re fitter an tonker an better dressed than me going out with ladies who in’t nearly as fit as Samira. They say all this league system shit was just invented by insecure people as an excuse for being insecure. Damn fuckin right I’m insecure. I’m in a lower league than her, innit. By just accepting this hard fact a life I gradually learnt how to talk to her without slippin into some X-rated daydream bout her jumpin me on honeymoon before we even got to the hotel. Pretty soon it weren’t just bout the way she looked an the way I wanted to spend the rest a my life lookin at her. As well as a fit face, fit body, fit hair, fit way a walkin, fit way a dressin, fit way a smilin, laughin an breathin through her fit mouth, she also had a fit personality. An I mean the word personality in a nice way. Beauty on the inside, inner fitness, that kind a stuff.

You din’t need to know Samira well to see her inner fitness cos she’d shove it in everyone’s face like it was a Wonderbra. All this ranting an raving that I’d hear in the sixth-form common room, in my dreams an in my daydreams. It weren’t the usual bitchin bout other desis or bollocks bout clothes, jewellery, make-up or film stars. Well, not exactly. I mean the last time I’d heard Samira Ahmed go off on one it actually was bout make-up. But stead a chattin bout some new shade a brown, she was going off on one bout whether it’s right for companies that make make-up an stuff to test their shit on animals. She thinks they should be allowed to, but only in the same way that the stuff is meant to be used by people. So, if a deodorant in’t meant to be sprayed in a person’s eyes, don’t spray it in a monkey’s eyes. I in’t makin all this up just to big Samira up, she honestly really is into her political shit. An I in’t meanin in a poncey, classical-music-an-carpet-slippers way. She even belongs to some group called Amnesty International, where she does someshit to do with women’s rights in Pakistan. An the only time I ever heard her bitch bout other people’s jewellery was when she went off on one bout Angolan conflict diamonds. An still no flab, no spots, no facial or underarm hair or anything.

Even when she din’t have something big to say bout something she’d, like, unload onto you with a machine gun a questions, totally violating all them standard desi-girl rules that said all you should do is smile, look pretty, not get too mohti, do what you’re told by your elders an whoever else you’re s’posed to respect an maybe learn advanced as well as basic Indian cookin. She just couldn’t help breakin all a those rules that required desi girls to check themselves all the time, to check what they say an what they do. So while Hardjit an Amit may not’ve known what Amnesty International was, never mind havin a problem with Samira Ahmed belongin to it, they still had beef with her inner fitness cos, by breakin some sets a desi-girl rules an generally being the gorgeous way she was, it became too easy for her to break other rules an slip into being the way they din’t want any desi sister to be—whether she was Muslim, Sikh or Hindu. Take how Samira joked an chatted with guys bout stuff a good desi girl really shouldn’t be jokin an chattin bout. Mrs Ware is such a cow, I overheard her say one time in the sixth-form common room, I hate her lessons. She’s always moaning about this and complaining about that. I bet she’s the sort of woman who even complains while her husband and her are having sex.

Another time Samira was askin some other guys whether they reckoned VPL was a turn-off or a turn-on, like as if she was doing undercover underwear market research for a thong company. An if a guy told her what star sign he was, she’d tell him if he was good in bed or not, even though her answer usually made the guy decide he din’t believe in astrology no more anyway. It was as if she needed guys to flirt with her, especially guys who she obviously din’t fancy an who she’d never wanna get with. Like she enjoyed being bounced around naked on the beds inside their heads. Clearly this weren’t exactly halal on her part an so it made some people call her a ho.

So there I was that afternoon in Hardjit’s house, standin in the bathroom while he shaped his goatee. Defendin Samira once more like it was my duty in life. By the time Hardjit raised his hand to give me a thapparh I figured it was OK to back down cos I’d already made my point. But still Hardjit’d come back, askin me why the fuck I was tryin to be such a hero when she weren’t even there to hear me.—Matter a fact, she probly too busy actin like a ho wid her ho friend Ritu Singh right now, innit. Cos make no mistake, bruv, she a ho. Look at her, man, she fuckin dresses like a ho, like a slut in all her slitty miniskirts.

—Yeh, blud, I seen her one time wearin a skirt dat look’d more like a belt, Amit gives it.—An wat’s wid her pussyn boots, man? As if any bloke wudn’t wanna laugh n chat n shag wid dat.

—Thing is, bruv, she don’t even need 2 dress like a ho da way she flirts, Hardjit goes, to Amit now stead a me.—Blokes ain’t exactly havin 2 think hard 2 imagine her wearin no boots, no miniskirt n no nuffink. She loves it, man, she a ho.

—No, Hardjit, she’s not, I say.—You guys’re makin me feel like fuckin Wyclef Jean sayin this again an again an again, but all this stuff you’re sayin, it don’t make her a ho. For all you know she’s still a virgin. She in’t no slut an she in’t no ho, that in’t fair, guys, an you all know it. In fact, Hardjit, you just put your finger on it just now. She’s a flirt. She’s just an attention-seeker an a flirt. You put your finger right on it.

—I bet I can put ma finger wherever I want 2 wid her. Dat’s cos she a ho.

—She’s a flirt.

—Ho.

—Flirt.

—She a slut.

—Look, I in’t backin down on this. You lot always tellin me to be more assertive an stand up for things I believe in. Well, I’m standin up for her, innit. She’s an attention-seeking flirt who likes it when guys flirt with her so she tries to encourage it, that’s all.

—Fuck u, Jas, u lairy, lippy little shit, goes Hardjit.—U don’t know wat’chyu chattin bout. Let’s jus all stick wid our own kinds n chat bout sumfink else cos I’m sick a dis shit, a’ight?

—Fine by me.

Amit’s still raging, though, so Hardjit tries to make some jokes, calm things down, by givin it,—I reckon maybe Amit’s jus piss’d cos she ain’t never flirt’d wid him, innit.

—‘Sup, bhanchod?, goes Amit.—Why you linkin up wid Jas now? Why’d I wanna flirt wid Samira anyway? Even if she was da fittest girl in da world, she still a Muslim. You think I’s gonna go out wid a Muslim n let ma dad gimme fifty thapparhs across ma face wid a brick?

—Safe, Amit. But admit it, u did try n chat her up ages ago, goes Hardjit.—Don’t deny it, bruv, cos I was dere when u was actin all smoove wid her n dat.

—Fuck you, man. Dat was years ago. I was jus practisin my technique, innit.