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. It in’t as if he had to be such a gorafied bhanchod: God had given him brown skin an so he could be a proper desi if he wanted to. He’d made a choice just like I made a choice when I started kickin bout with Hardjit. But the coconut’s choice was the wrong choice. In’t no desi needin to kiss the white man’s butt these days an you definitely don’t need to actually act like a gora. Fuckin bhanchod. Din’t matter what you called them. Coconuts, Bounty bars, Oreo biscuits or any other fuckin food that was white on the inside. Good desi boys who din’t ever cause no trouble. But how many a them’ll still be here in Hounslow in ten years’ time, workin in Heathrow fuckin airport helpin goras catch planes to places so they could turn their own skin brown? No fuckin way I was gonna be hangin round with them saps no more, with those gimpy glasses I used to wear, my drainpipe trousers an my batty books. Fuck that shit. I looked out the car window again to see if I could see any a them saps. See how far I’d come. Weren’t none around though, must’ve all been in lessons. You could play spot the sap in Hounslow these days just like when we went to Southall one time to play spot the gora. As Hardjit once said, any desi round here deciding they din’t wanna be part a the bredren was a bit like some cat barking with the bitches stead a meowing. Complete fuckin pussy, you get me?
We park up behind Davinder’s Johnny Depp on the single yellow line right outside Nando’s. He got out soon as he saw us an started pointing at his Cartier watch.— Kiddaan, pehndus? Where u been? We’s been waitin half an hour 4 yo asses. Wat da fuck is dis? I a busy man, innit.
The we referred to his mate Jaswinder, this tall, fat guy who was built like Hardjit an who was lockin up Davinder’s car. Jaswinder never said much. Probly the only time he’d ever spoke to me was when he told me he was pissed off I’d got the nickname Jas. You can be called Jas too, I’d said. Don’t be stupid, he’d said. It’s bad enough havin so many desis at school with the same names, it’d be stupid havin two people in the same class with the same fuckin nickname. I din’t argue with him, mostly cos Jaswinder at least had an easy surname - Singh. Me, I had one a them extra long surnames that nobody’d ever pronounce proply. All my teachers in all my lessons had always got it wrong when they called out the register an even my mum an dad pronounced it the wrong way. Matter a fact I in’t even gonna tell it to you it’s so fuckin shameful.
—Safe, blud, ma bad we late, Hardjit goes to Davinder,— but we had some business 2 sort on da way, innit. U know wat it’s like, bruv.
—Dat’s safe, but jus call me next time cos if I ain’t mistaken u got some lucrative business here too, innit.
Davinder smiled as he said that. He was easily the most loaded guy for his age we knew, an he knew it too. Stridin around wearin his Swarovski-studded medallion with the letter D on it - the kind that Usher wears, except his is a U an is made a ice. Even when we was all at school, way back before he’d set up his business dealings, Davinder’d got his own business cards printed. Davinder Singh, AKA - Acquirer a Knowledge an Assets.
Amit joined the others as they started walkin towards Nando’s when suddenly Davinder turned round to face the Beemer again, checkin out the engine grille as if he saw faces too.
—Ik minute, I got me one question bout dis ride I been meanin 2 aks u bredrens 4 time now.
—Look, don’t b sayin shit bout ma car, man. Da car in’t slow, Ravi said.— I din’t realise we was in a muthafuckin race.
—Nah, chill, dat shit’s history, Davinder said, pointing at the licence plate.— Wat I want’d 2 aks u is who da fuck is K4V1TA?
—It’s my mum a course, said Ravi.— Da Beemer belongs to her, innit.
The Beemer’s closed windows couldn’t block the smell a spicy periperi chicken. While the other guys were gettin stuck into stuffin their faces inside Nando’s, I was stuck in the car with the DMX CD an a copy a some tutty Bollywood magazine for company. I couldn’t be around when they did a business deal with Davinder, you see. He’d have problems with it. Problem number
