It’s not fair. So many of our desi friends have sneaked off to London. While I’m captivated over here by my bore lakeer ka fakeer husband who thinks kay it is irresponsible to travel at this time, some of them are swanking around Selfridges, and eating in Zooma and hanging around Harrods and shopping and eating and ghullowing and millowing to their hearts contempt. Bhai you tau know I hate getting personal and never name names but just look at Sunny. She’s put her pictures on Insta while standing by the Prada ka counter with three three bags on each arm. And she’s tagged me jaan kay because she wants to saarho me, knowing I’m trapped in this dozakhi heat.
Oopar say tau I’m putting lots of hearts on her photos and typing messages like ‘Enjoy karo yaar,’ and ‘have fun from my side also’, but from inside, my heart is burning and my blood is boiling and I’m praying kay another lock down is put on London tomorrow only and all flights in and out are band at once, so she gets stuck up over there for six months in the winters with short, short, dark dark freezing days when it rains all the time – you know that thin, miserable rain, na, that starts at dawn and goes on till night – and she can’t even leave her flat because guvmunt ka order hai and the only people she sees are her gora neighbours who all want Brexit and hate desis from the bottoms of their hearts and make faces at her whenever they pass her in the corridor and mutter under their breaths about ‘bloody migrants taking over our country’.
And I hope so she has to do all her cooking shooking and jhaaru pocha herself only for every day of every week for all six months. And I hope the only time she can wear her Jimmy Choos is when she goes from bedroom to lounge. And I hope she gets sick of her husband’s face and they fight all the time. That would serve her right for sneaking off to London without me.
Oopar say tau I’m putting lots of hearts on her photos and typing messages like ‘Enjoy karo yaar,’ and ‘have fun from my side also’, but from inside, my heart is burning and my blood is boiling and I’m praying kay another lock down is put on London tomorrow only and all flights in and out are band at once, so she gets stuck up over there for six months in the winters with short, short, dark dark freezing days when it rains all the time – you know that thin, miserable rain, na, that starts at dawn and goes on till night – and she can’t even leave her flat because guvmunt ka order hai and the only people she sees are her gora neighbours who all want Brexit and hate desis from the bottoms of their hearts and make faces at her whenever they pass her in the corridor and mutter under their breaths about ‘bloody migrants taking over our country’.
And I hope so she has to do all her cooking shooking and jhaaru pocha herself only for every day of every week for all six months. And I hope the only time she can wear her Jimmy Choos is when she goes from bedroom to lounge. And I hope she gets sick of her husband’s face and they fight all the time. That would serve her right for sneaking off to London without me.