Londonstani. Gautam MalkaniЧитать онлайн книгу.
not carry me, Mama…Oh forget it, Mama. It was nothin, I promise. We’ll be quiet now.
—Forget? I make you bache pakoras and samosas and you embarrass me in front of my guest with this, this…ruffian behaviour. Is this the way I bring you up? Like fighter-cock badmarsh ruffian? And already I tell you, no toys on bed.
Aunty started clearin up the glasses and plates, massaging her spine as she bent over, sayin things like Hai hai an Give me strength. Then she started givin it her usual shit, askin what had gone wrong in the world that young bache like us showed such a lack of respect for their elders.
—Ravi, Jas, your mamas will be ashamed of you if they know what you do in my house. All the time playing the fool in my house. Always. Play the fool. Good, good, verry good. Fail your exams, live on the street. Verry good.
She was doing that wobbly thing with her neck again, her sari makin the scratchin sound as she then pointed her guns, bazookas an thermonuclear missiles at Amit.
—And you! You too, Amit, vot I should tell your mama, huh? That you come to my house, eat my fresh-fried pakoras and act like council estate ruffian from the street?
—Aunty, I din’t do nothin. Those two were fightin. I was just sittin here.
—Hahn hahn, ji ji. Sitting on silk bedcover. Wait, I tell your mama.
This weren’t just tough talk on Aunty’s part cos she was really tight with Amit’s mum. She was tight with all our mums, but she an Amit’s mum were like sisters. Called each other Bhainji, shared the pickin an droppin from school, wore their best jewellery to each other’s satsangs. They’d even tried to convince their husbands to go into business together one time, become one big happy family. Hardjit’s mum figured his dad could make better bucks than he already did running nine twenty-four-hour local convenience shops in partnership with two a his cousins. Amit’s mum thought her husband could do better than the aeroplane catering business he ran with his brothers in Heston. Things hadn’t been the same since they lost the contract with Air India or whatever. In the end, though, both men stayed in their businesses by promising their wives rapid, five-year expansion plans. An now it was Amit’s turn to plead with Hardjit’s mum—who’d already taken out her mobile as if she was bout to dial his mum. But a course she was only pretendin to dial. How much a this whole Rottweiler routine was just pretend it was hard to tell. That’s the way with her. She’d play it as sweet as an angel’s fairy godmother but if you pissed her off you were as good as dog’s diarrhoea on those silk bedcovers. Fucked: that’s what we were.
The only way to dodge Hardjit’s mum’s nastiness was to never cross her in the first place, which might sound like simple advice but it in’t easy to follow cos it’s really easy to cross her. It’s like as if she’s addicted to being offended. All her friends seem to have this same addiction, especially this one hairy-faced auntyji who was always round there complaining bout this shit or that shit. If holdin a grudge was an Olympic sport they’d all have even more gold to decorate their wrinkly bodies with. They’d play it in teams, especially at wedding receptions. You’d see them there, all sittin together with their fake smiles like rows a substitutes on the bench.
Hardjit’s mum din’t give us all a bollocking for too long though, probly cos she figured the doilies an teacups downstairs were becoming emptier than the ones she was clearin up here. So she picked up the silver tray an, scratch-scratch-scratch, went back down to her guest as quickly as she’d come up in the first place. This time slammin the door so hard that the num-chuckers nearly slipped off the handle. They carried on swinging against the door for the whole three hundred hours it took for someone to say something. It was Ravi.—Shit, we bust’d da fone, he said as he picked the pieces a the smashed-up E700 off the floor.
—Uh, I don’t fuckin fink so, Ravi, u da one wat bust da fuckin fone, goes Hardjit, puffing out his chest an clenchin both his fists before rememberin his mother’s words bout the noise an backin down again like she was still in the room, holdin a gun to his bollocks or someshit.—Look, Ravi, he said calmly,—u da one who threw it across da room pretendin u was playin fuckin cricket wid it. So u da one wat’s gonna find us a new one cos no fuckin way I’ma tell Davinder we broke one a his fones.
—C’mon, bruv, man, how’ma get a new E700?
—Dat’s easy enuf, bruv. We just take yours, innit.
—Uh-uh. No way. Ma mum jus upgraded to dis last month. Dey won’t give her no more upgrades if we tell dem it got bust so soon.
—Well, I guess u’ll jus have 2 find one, innit.
—I know what, why don’t we ask Jas to gets one from his dad’s warehouse, innit? Da man’s bound to have E700s in stock.
Before I can even protest Hardjit comes out with,—Why da fuck shud Jas call on a family favour 4? It ain’t his bad, it yo bad so u sort it. Best make it quick time tho, cos we gots 2 give dese fones back 2 Davinder by Friday.
As Ravi stood there with his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, weighing up his options as if he had any, one a the mobiles on the bed suddenly started ringin. This should’ve made us jump cos the cops can track em if they’re pickin up a signal. But we all knew it was just Ravi’s mum callin one a Ravi’s Nokias. We knew this for two reasons. Firstly, his parents had one a them old mobile tariffs that was free after seven o’clock an rang on the dot if he weren’t back by then. Secondly, we all knew it was his mum cos Ravi’d got different ringtones for different people. She’d want to know why her son weren’t back from school yet. Was he shaming her by talkin to short-skirted kurhiyaan at the bus garage or had he just been kidnapped?
Amit’s parents, who lived three houses down from Ravi, would be gettin all worried too. We usually tried to get home before our dads got back from work so as not to give our mums another excuse to look at the kitchen clock an call us. But what happens when your dad works from home? Ravi’s dad had been offerin financial advice from behind an IBM Thinkpad in the living room for as long as I could remember. He made good bucks by it too, an best thing was he din’t have to commute in the traffic or sit there on the tube with all them plebs who can’t afford a decent car an the even plebier pricks who offer to stand up so that other plebs can sit down.
—Hahn, Mama, Ravi goes into his fone,—detention nahi hai, cricket club vich si…Hahn, Mama, OK, I’ll tell Amit…Hahn, eggs and naan bread from Budgens. OK, Mum, see you, bye. He closed his fone an turned to Amit.—I gots to chip now n yo mum wants you back quick time. Sound to me like it urgent.
—Oh fuck, Amit gives it,—I forgot we got anotha a dem family committee meetings bout ma brother’s wedding.
—I give you a lift, blud, goes Ravi.—Also, you gotta get eggs n naan on da way. Jas, lift to da tube station, right?
Before we left, Ravi tried to turn his mum’s polyphonic ringtone into a bell he could be saved by. But let’s face it, that weren’t ever gonna happen with the theme tune to Jaws.
—Hardj, man, fuck’s sake. How’ma jus find anotha E700, man?
—Not ma problem, bruv. Same way Davinder jus found all a dese.
—I thought you said we din’t jack fones, man. Dat ain’t where we at in da supply chain, you says.
—Yeh, but I ain’t ever said we b bowlin muthafuckin fones round like dey b fuckin cricket balls either, did I? Dat means dat 2moro, afta ma fight wid Tariq, u best not even show me yo face till u jack’d us a new E700 or I’ma mash u up like u mash’d up da fone.
It still seemed early cos we’d bunked off college most a the day. That really fucks up your sense a time. Like them nightclubs that hold bhangra gigs at two in the afternoon cos they know it’s the only time some desi mums’ll let their daughters go out. Not only was it still daylight as we left Hardjit’s house, but his little sister had only just arrived back from after-school netball practice. Hardjit’s mum was standin in the porch, arms folded, waitin for her. Waitin an watchin as her daughter got her big bag a netball kit from her friend’s mum’s car boot an said bye, bye an bye to her three netball