The P Word E-Book

Waleed Akhtar

• Herausgeber: Nick Hern Books
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Serie: NHB Modern Plays
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 59

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

'I'm not in your Britain. I'm in another Britain.' Zafar flees homophobic persecution in Pakistan to seek asylum in the UK. Londoner Bilal (or Billy as he prefers to be known) is ground down by years of Grindr and the complexity of being a brown gay man. In Soho, at 2 a.m., worlds collide – and Zafar and Billy's lives are about to change forever. The P Word is Waleed Akhtar's sharp-witted and devastating play charting the parallel lives of two gay Pakistani men as they negotiate everything from casual hook-ups to the UK's hostile environment. A story of who wins in the luck of life's draw, it was premiered at the Bush Theatre, London, in 2022, directed by Anthony Simpson-Pike and received widespread critical acclaim, winning the Olivier Award for Outstanding Achievement in Affiliate Theatre.

Leseprobe

Waleed Akhtar

THE P WORD

NICK HERN BOOKS

London

www.nickhernbooks.co.uk

Contents

Original Production Details

The P Word

About the Author

Copyright and Performing Rights Information

The P Word was first performed at the Bush Theatre, London, on 9 September 2022, with the following cast:

BILAL

Waleed Akhtar

ZAFAR

Esh Alladi

Director

Anthony Simpson-Pike

Set & Costume Designer

Max Johns

Lighting Designer

Elliot Griggs

Sound Designer

Xana

Composer

Niraj Chag

Movement Director

Rachael Nanyonjo

Assistant Director

Adam Karim

Dramaturg

Deirdre O’Halloran

Voice and Dialect Coach

Gurkiran Kaur

Costume Supervisor

Maariyah Sharjil

Production Dramatherapist

Wabriya King

Casting Director

Jatinder Chera

Characters

ZAFAR, thirty-four, Pakistani

BILAL/BILLY, thirty-three, British Pakistani

ACT ONE

BILLY. Knew it was on, the minute I saw his Instagram linked to his profile. He’s a white boy who has been travelling to India…

ZAFAR. Haroon was always there. I don’t remember a time before him, since we were kids we were inseparable.

He’d always pick me first when we played cricket.

I’m shit at cricket, he was brilliant, tall and strong. Could have played for Pakistan if he was given half the opportunity. But he came from a poor family in our village. By fifteen he was working in my father’s factory. Never complained, always a smile on his face.

It’s a cliché to talk about a smile that lights up a room, but it lit me up.

BILLY. Pictures of him outside the Taj Mahal, pictures with some local kids, in a rickshaw. That means he’s down with a bit of brown. Plus I’m like the best version of brown. I’m not even into Pakistanis and I’d probably hook up with myself. Like you can’t tell I’m a Paki straight away, most people can’t believe it when I tell them anyway.

My name gives it away… Bilal. Fuck that, Bilal was the fat boy who got bullied at school for being a big brown poof. But Billy is the jacked masc lad, who gets all the boys.

He gets a Grindr message so pulls out his phone.

And this one’s just sent me a picture of him bent over and his Calvins are nowhere to be seen. Can’t wait, love me a twinky little white boy. Got to respond –

He begins to type a message.

ZAFAR. Doctors and nurses, another game we would play, a lot. Always give each other mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

Somewhere along the line we dropped the game and just the mouth-to-mouth bit remained. Kissing him, I would never want to stop.

BILLY. ‘Nice’ nah, ‘sexy’ yeah that’s the one.

And bingo I’m in. He’s pinging me his location, practically begging me to come over.

BILLY types.

‘I’ll definitely cum, maybe twice.’ What? It’s subtle! (Don’t hate the player hate the game.)

ZAFAR. It’s nice to remember him like this. The real Haroon. Not the bit at the end. I don’t want to remember that.

BILLY. I rock up to his apartment block, I knock and I’m nervous… No matter how many times you do this (and I’ve done this a lot) you still get that fluttering feeling in your stomach.

Fuck, he’s better looking than his profile pics, no one’s better looking than their pictures, you always account for like a ten per cent margin of uglier than the profile.

But this guy.

Get it together, Billy.

ZAFAR. I don’t have a single picture of him. I left Pakistan in such a hurry, the majority of my things are still there. I hardly have anything here in this temporary accommodation in Hounslow. I worry about forgetting his face, the exact position of the beauty spot on his cheek, the broadness of his shoulders, the slight bump on his nose.

BILLY. ‘Whatsup.’

‘Why don’t you come in?’

‘Sure sure.’

I walk in, offer to take my shoes off, sometimes the Pakistani slips out without even realising. He says it’s fine. We end up chatting in his living room –

Actually I’m enjoying the conversation. He works for a charity. Tells me about the half-marathon he did…

Don’t do it, Billy! This is just a hook-up. Not a date. So I work my moves.

‘It’s a nice flat, wanna give me the grand tour… Why don’t we start with the bedroom?’

ZAFAR. The letter from the Home Office. Application rejected. Insufficient proof. After all that waiting. After everything I had to endure, and continue to. They didn’t find me credible.

The solicitor says I have to pay him to make an appeal. I have no money.

My words weren’t good enough for them once. What will change a second time?

BILLY. We’re on his king-size kissing and ripping each other’s clothes off. He’s peeling off my boxers.

‘You’re cut, so Muslim? Arab? Pakistani?’

Forgot my cock is the other thing that gives me away…

‘Urmm yeah.’

‘Don’t worry I like Pakistani, like how they dominate, I can be a little sub.’

So I give him what he wants, act the part. Give him a little slap, choke him a little, tell him ‘I own your fucking ass.’

He’s loving it, can’t get enough.

I mean I suppose I am too? Of course I am. He’s hot… Look at him, he’s toned, smooth, blue eyes, blond hair, perfect ass… white.

ZAFAR. As I lie here in my single bed I can’t control my memories. The good ones, the bad ones, the ones they don’t believe.

The noise in my head is constant. Gets louder at night.

They gave me pills to sleep, and when I get up in the morning there is this moment between sleep and wake.

Where the reality of Hounslow and the filthy accommodation disappears.

Can almost feel him, like nothing ever happened. Like he’s there next to me.

Right now I long for that moment, the gap between sleep and awake.

BILLY. We’ve been spooning for ages. Feels good. Lying here in the afterglow.

He falls asleep. Does this cute little snoring thing.

Do I snore? I don’t know, don’t really sleep with anyone else, like I sleep with people but not sleep sleep.

When I go to leave, we kiss at the door for ages, he’s a good kisser. I get the feeling he wants me to stay. But I tell him:

‘I got to go.’

ZAFAR. I feel drowsy.

The pills are kicking in. I took more than I was supposed to, but they don’t bring peace.

I’m back at Lahore Airport, walking towards the desk.

Hand over the passport, my brother’s passport, to the woman behind the desk. We kind of look alike, but his features are rounder, his nose more pronounced, his face… still intact.

My heart is pounding hard.

She inspects the visa stamp.

My breath quickens, with every inhale my ribs ache.

Still has three months valid from when my brother went to Birmingham for a work conference.

She turns to the page with the photograph.

Should I puff out my cheeks a little, make myself rounder? She just waves me past.

I mutter a thanks to God, at least that’s one prayer listened to.

Eventually when I’m thousands of feet in the sky I breathe normally. That’s when I begin to cry.

The old man sitting next to me turns and asks:

‘Is everything okay?’

‘Someone has died.’

‘Who, beta?’

‘The love of my life.’

His eyes turn sad.