Londonstani. Gautam Malkani
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when he found some other limbs to check out. Her legs had come into view soon as we’d turned out the side roads an onto the London Road. Whoever she was, she was wearin one a them fuck-me miniskirts an fuck-me-harder knee-high boots. The skirt beige, the boots black. Ravi slowed the fuck down now while Hardjit turned up DMX’s ‘Ruff Ryders Anthem ’ with the arm that weren’t on display in the door frame. Soon as we’d passed her legs, Amit gives it,— Dat gyal ain’t nothin, if yous lot wanna see proper fitness you shoulda seen dis bitch I shagged last weekend. Harpinder was her name. Imagine if Aishwarya Rai n Shilpa Shetty had a twenty-one-year-old love child.
—Yeh, I bet ‘imagine’ is the right word seein as how you probly imagined the whole thing yourself, I shouted from the back seat before I could even remember that I was in the back seat.
—Fuck you, Jas, goes Amit.— Jus cos you in’t shagged no one. No one female anyway. An even if you did, da Durex’d probly slip off your pin-sized prick n you’d end up wid butt-ugly kids cos dey’ll have your genes.
When everyone’s finished crackin up, Amit carries on:— Whereas me, if I had a kid wid dis bitch from last week, it’d b better-lookin than Pharrell, innit. Only there ain’t gonna b no kid cos I used protection, innit. Extra large a course, none a dat average-sized shit you get outta da machines. Matter a fact, da size I need is so large I gots to go to a special chemist, you get me.
—Safe, bredren, goes Ravi.— Extra large, innit.
—Yeh, bruv, if I din’t use a rubber, she’d probly have twins or triplets or four babies altogether or someshit.
—Yeh, you know it blud.
—I din’t even need to chirps her very long. Couple a jokes, dat’s all. She weren’t easy or nothin, she jus took one look at me n decided we was gonna get in my car, you get me.
—Safe, blud, Ravi gives it again.— Wat’s her friends like? I’ll bone em.
—Too late, bruv, I already shagged her best friend Mandeep last year. She was all over me. Kept textin me afta, leavin voicemails n dat.
—Wikid, man, you b da dog. Da dirrty dawg.
—Yeh you know it, Ravi. Back when I boned Mandeep I was jus using a large size. Now I need extra large, you get me?
—A’ight, blud, jumbo size, innit. Dat’s da way. Shag her, innit, Ravi gives it before Hardjit finally cuts in with:— Yeh n I had a nice dream myself last nite.
—So wat’chyu sayin, desi? goes Amit.— You bein like Jas here n thinkin I makin dis shit up?
—Nah, blud, I sayin I know u makin dis shit up.
—Fuck you, man. You think you da only one who’s been there, done dat, shagged dat bitch, done dat ho?
—No. I ain’t sayin dat cos I don’t get wid no bitches n hos.
The two a them carried on like that till we pulled up at a set a red traffic lights. This desi who pulled up in the lane next to us din’t even look our way once even though we were givin enuff stares at him an his silver Peugeot 305. You could tell from his long hair, grungy clothes, the poncey novel an newspaper on his dashboard an Coldplay album playin in his car that he was a muthafuckin coconut. So white he was inside his brown skin, he probably talked like those gorafied desis who read the news on TV. Probably even more poncier than the way how I used to talk. An think. Probly.
—U boys see how scared a us dat Paki is? Hardjit shouted over DMX so that the coconut heard him too.— Yah, u Mr Muthafucka, I mean u. I ain’t seein any otha Pakis round here, do u?
Still the coconut was too wise to bite, just carryin on lookin straight ahead.
—Tu ki samajda hai? U a Paki jus like me. Even tho u b listenin to U2 or someshit. Are u 2 scared 2 look at us?
The coconut pretty much answered this question by keepin his eyes fixed on the road ahead. Hardjit then tutted at regular intervals till the lights changed. We let the coconut drive ahead a us, cut into our lane an then turn right towards the Great West Road.
—Ain’t dat some muthafuckin coincidence, goes Hardjit.— We goin dat way too.
The Great West Road, which is basically the stretch a the A4 that runs along Hounslow, is a dual carriageway. It’s got three lanes in each direction so Ravi had no problem pullin up alongside the coconut the next time we got lucky with a red light.
—Oi, mate, Hardjit gives it, pointing at the coconut’s car door as if something was wrong with it.
This time, the coconut bit the bait, openin his door a little an then slammin it shut. Then the khota wound down his window.— Thanks, he goes,— I must’ve got my seat belt caught in it. Thanks again, mate.
Fool.
—No, Mr Matey, your door was shut just splendidly fine, old boy, Hardjit gives it in his best poncey Angrez accent.— I weren’t fuckin pointing at yo fuckin door, u bhanchod. I was pointing at yo fuckin car, innit. I mean, look at it.
—I’m sorry, mate? I don’t understand.
—Your car. Ain’t u noticed? It’s crap. Your car’s a piece a crappedup shit, innit.
—Well, it gets me from A to B, the coconut goes before winding up his window. Fool. Fool fool fool. In’t no point winding your window up now, not unless it’s soundproof or double-glazed or someshit.
—A to B? Hardjit shouted.— Fuckin batty boy, u sound like a poncey gora. Wat’s wrong wid’chyu, sala kutta? U 2 embarrass’d to b a desi? Embarrass’d a your own culture, huh? Thing is, u is actually an embarrassment to desis. Bet’chyu can’t even speak yo mother tongue, innit. I should come over there n cut yo tongue out, u dickless bhanchod. Then Hardjit started tuttin like he was in some fuckin teeth-suckin competition, before givin it,— Look at me when I talk 2 u. Ain’t nobody mess wid us. Fuckin R.E.M. playin on yo stereo. Ras clat pehndu. Tell him, Amit.
—Bhanchod coconut, Amit goes after openin his window.— Ain’t your own culture good enuf for you, you fuckin gora lover? Amit felt as passionate bout healin coconuts as Hardjit felt bout healin rednecks who used the word Paki an Ravi felt bout healin lesbians. —Wat da fuck happened wid’chyu you gots to act like a gora for? You think you better than your own kind cos you is so white n you read some poncey books n newspapers? I wipe ma ass wid yo fuckin newspaper.
As if tryin to show us he was as streetwise as those dicks who wear hats to horse races, the stupid idiot fuckin khota fool then wound down his window again an gives it,— Look, mate, I’m not looking for any trouble here. I’m just going about my business.
—Goin bout yo business? Ehh ki hai? Amit goes.— Wat business you got goin? Readin fuckin batty books? Take some advice from me, don’t mess wid us. Cos we b da man round here n you b da gora-lovin bhanchod who can’t even speak his mother tongue, innit. Wat’s wrong wid your own bredren, brown boy? Look at us. We’s b havin a nice car, nice tunes, nuff nice designer gear, nuff bling mobile. But no, you wanna b some gora-lovin, dirrty hippie wid fuckin Radiohead playin in your car. Look at ma man Jas here. Learn some lessons from him.
On green we left the coconut in our dust an Hardjit started laughin, givin it,— Bhanchod show’d us some respect. Nuff muthafuckin respect.
—I remember back in da day when most desis round here were like dat gimp, goes Amit.— Skinny saps pretendin like they were gora so no one treat’d dem like dey’d just got off da boat from Bombay, innit. But all da gora fuck’d wid dem anyway.
—Yeh, bruv, you know it, I cheered from the back,— that in’t being our shit no more.
—U can fuckin talk, Jas. U was da biggest sap in town till we took yo coconut-lovin, faggot ass in.
As we turned off the Great West Road an the coconut disappeared from the rear window I almost felt sorry for him. But I din’t. Not any more, anyway, not these days, not a chance. Coconuts like him deserved to have Hardjit an Amit lay into them.