Wallace and Gromit really left me on a high yesterday. All of a sudden, I loved the Brits. I loved their food, I loved their lifestyle, I loved their incomprehensible and intimidating slang, I just bloody loved anything and everything about them. My brother and I had a field day quoting lines from the movie, anything we could think of.

Police Constable: Be careful everyone! There might be a big rabbit dropping soon!

or

Police Constable: In my opinion, this is arson.
Villagers: Arson?
Police Constable: Yep, people arsin’ (arson) around!

The pun will be lost on people who missed out on the movie. Things of that sort. Clever wordplay. Yes, I just love the Brits. The things they could do with clay. But this post isn’t about the movie. You could find reviews of the movie everywhere else. No, this is about what I observed coming back from watching the movie. It’s nothing dramatic or tragic, nothing of that sort.

The Komuter was packed, as always. Amidst all the chatter and the chaos, I got pushed towards a group of guys talking and laughing loudly, annoying a middle-aged woman trying to catch a bit of shut-eye. They were big-sized fellows, wearing T-shirts a few sizes too big for them, swapping their 2000-ringgit-handphones among each other like they were candy, wearing baggy and impossibly shiny pants. I could hear phrases like “Ya dig, homie?” and “You gotta apologize twice, son! You know wha’ I mean?” being thrown around. Laughing their asses off and cursing like sailors, completely oblivious to the fact that they were seated among a crowd of families and children.

On and on they went, acting like they were somewhere in the Bronx, when the fact was that they were in a KTM Komuter headed towards Segambut. Pseudo-hip-hoppers, assimilating a culture so foreign and contradictory to ours, that they have lost their identity in the process. Their own identity discarded and a new identity created in its place, shaped and molded by the whole gangsta/bling-bling explosion that we see and hear and read about everyday. I admit, I know very little about hip-hop compared to an ardent follower of the lifestyle, but I know that admiration and obsession are two distinct things. I love listening to Mos Def and Talib Kweli and Bilal, but that’s where it ends. In the admiration of its music, and the respect of the message in its lyrics. I leave it at that.

But back to the stupid fucks in the Komuter. When the train stopped at the Segambut station, a really hot girl stepped in. She had a sophisticated sense of style. Elegant, yet simple. Formal, yet sexy. She’s hot, and she knows it. But she kept to herself. She stood at the corner, looking out into the night. Pretty soon, though, I hear these phrases:

Stupid Fuck A: Ooo! Look at that hot mami there!
Stupid Fuck B: Damn, homie! That ass is fine!
Stupid Fuck A or B or C (I’m too pissed to care): I wanna tap that, for sho!

Who the hell are these people?! was the only thought on my mind at the time. I marveled at their stupidity, their lack of tact, and their bad use of grammar. And at that moment, one of their phones rang. He was laughing when he took it out of his several-sizes-too-big pocket, but stopped laughing immediately upon seeing the name of the caller. He answered the call with a soft voice, but I managed to catch his side of the conversation:

“Hello? Yes, Ma. Ya ya, we reaching Kepong now. No, Ma. Don’t worry. Appa waiting there already? Tata also with him ar? Ah, okay okay. Okay, Ma. Bye.”

Oh, I forgot to mention this earlier. They were all Indian.