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Londonstani
GAUTAM MALKANI
For my wife Monica and in memory of Mum
‘Londonstani is a bold debut, brimming with energy and authenticity, verve and nerve’
Observer
‘A compelling, impressively sustained, skilfully written and structured novel…exhilarating’
Daily Telegraph
‘Malkani’s debut novel displays all the bravado of his swaggering young protagonists. It’s hard not to be dazzled by the way this novel hurtles us into the rudeboy scene. He demonstrates his sharp eye for the contradictions and absurdities of the pseudo-gangsta life these boys have fashioned for themselves. His writing achieves…real verve and power’
Washington Post
‘A novel that is exceptionally funny and heartrendingly moving…a killer piece of dazzingly original fiction. Londonstani’s tremendous energy and vitality stems from the fact that it does not simplify complexities into black and white and brown, but thrives in the grey areas, where values are tested, questioned, set against each other. Such an infectious, evocative voice as this seems destined to enchant’
Herald
‘The first true twenty-first century British-Asian novel. Dealing not with dreams of the motherland but the British-Asian suburban experience, told through the eyes and mouths of mummy’s boy rudeboys. Londonstani is fast, furious, curious and sobering. No cornershops, no flock wallpapered Indian restaurants, and no sitars and saris. It talks how the streets talk - they may not be the streets you recognise though’
NIHAL ARTHANAYAKE
‘Artful, thought-provoking and strikingly inventive. An impressive, in some respects brilliant, first novel. Londonstani deserves a wide audience’
Los Angeles Times
‘I love this book. Everybody that reads it is gonna be in stitches. It’s written in a way that young Asians speak right now and even if you’re not Asian you’re still gonna get it. This is what goes on’
HARD KAUR, BBC Radio Asian Network
‘Smart, linguistically inventive and very funny’
Times Literary Supplement
‘Malkani captures the soul of a subculture that has spread far beyond his hometown. Londonstani - with all its bling, gore, graphic language - will get the kids’ attention. In a language they understand, innit’
Time magazine
‘With street language and typical rudeboy speech, including the obligatory innit and a liberal dose of swearing, it portrays the power struggle most youngsters were going through 10-15 years ago, but cleverly brings it forwards to the present with the stark reality of how people speak here’
Hounslow Chronicle
‘Londonstani turned my scepticism upside down. It subtly explores the contradictions and complexities of relations within Britain’s black and Asian communities. Malkani’s observations about Britain’s urban modern culture are razor-sharp’
RAGEH OMAAR, New Statesman
‘Written in an ingeniously communicable melange of slang. It’s shocking, ball-grabbing stuff and not designed for the weak-hearted. The most powerful strand of this book is the enormity of peer pressure, the overwhelming expectations of burgeoning masculinity’
Financial Times
‘You need this book in your life’ Panjabi Hit Squad, BBC Radio 1Xtra
‘Undoubtedly the biggest British Asian novel of the millennium. Londonstani is a book that appeals to anyone who feels isolated from the tag their parents gave them and longs to be part of something that makes them feel stronger. Have a read of it. You might just want to hug a rudeboy afterwards’
Asiana magazine
‘Captivating…London’s second-generation Asians are given the Trainspotting treatment’
The New Yorker
‘Malkani has effectively dropped a sociological bombshell with the potential to blow apart bland assumptions about ethnic minorities’
The Times of India
‘Sensational. Profane, outrageous, completely original, Londonstani is an explosive first novel which is infinitely readable. A devastating satire of male insecurity hiding inside middle-class alienation’
Now
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Dedication
Praise
PART ONE: PAKI
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
PART TWO: SHER
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
PART THREE: DESI
22
23
24
25
26
27
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
E-book Extra
Copyright
About the Publisher
PART ONE: PAKI
1
—Serve him right he got his muthafuckin face fuck’d, shudn’t b callin me a Paki, innit.
After spittin his words out Hardjit stopped for a second, like he expected us to write em down or someshit. Then he sticks in an exclamation mark by kickin the white kid in the face again.— Shudn’t b callin us Pakis, innit, u dirrty gora.
Again, punctuation came with a kick, but with his left foot this time so it was more like a semicolon.— Call me or any a ma bredrens a Paki again an I’ma mash u an yo family. In’t dat da truth, Pakis?
—Dat’s right, Amit, Ravi an I go,— dat be da truth.
The three a us spoke in sync like we belonged to some tutty boy band, the kind who sing the chorus like it’s some blonde American cheerleader routine. Hardjit, Hardjit, he’s our man, if he can’t bruckup goras, no one can. Ravi then delivers his standard solo routine: —Yeh, blud, safe, innit.
—Hear wat my bredren b sayin, sala kutta? Come out wid dat shit again n I’ma knock u so hard u’ll b shittin out yo mouth 4 real, innit, goes Hardjit, with an eloquence an conviction that made me green with envy. Amit always liked to point out that brown people don’t actually go green:— We don’t go red when we been shamed an we don’t go blue when we dead, he’d said to me one time.— We don’t even go purple when we been bruised, jus a darker brown. An still goras got da front to call us coloured.
It was an old joke but, green or not, I in’t shamed to admit I’m envious a Hardjit. Most bredren round Hounslow were jealous a his designer desiness, with his perfectly built body, his perfectly shaped facial hair an his perfectly groomed garms that made it look like he went shopping with P Diddy. Me, I was jealous a his front - what someone like Mr Ashwood’d call a person’s linguistic prowess or his debating dexterity or someshit. Hardjit always knew exactly how to tell others that it just weren’t right to describe all desi boys as Pakis. Regarding it as some kind a civic duty to educate others in this basic social etiquette, he continued kickin the white kid in the face, each kick carefully planted so he din’t get blood on his Nike Air Force Ones (the pair he’d bought even before Nelly released a track bout what wikid trainers they were).
—We ain’t bein called no fuckin Paki by u or by any otha gora, u get me? Hardjit goes to the white boy as he squirms an splutters in a puddle on the concrete floor, liftin his head right back into the flight path a Hardjit’s Air Force Ones.— U bhanchod b callin us lot Paki one more time n I swear we’ll cut’chyu up, innit.
For a minute, the gora’s given a time out as Hardjit stops to straighten his silver chain, keepin his metal dog tags hangin neatly in the centre a his black Dolce & Gabbana vest, slightly covering up the & A little higher an he could’ve probly clenched the dog tags in the deep groove between his pecs.
—Ki dekh da payeh? U like dis chain I got, white boy? Fuckin fiveounce white gold, innit. Call me a Paki again n I whip yo ass wid it.
—Yeh, blud, safe, innit, Ravi goes, cocking his head upwards. This weren’t just cos most desi boys tended to tilt their heads up when they spoke, but also cos Ravi was just five foot five. The bredren was chubby too. Matter a fact, if you swapped Ravi’s waxed-back hair with a £5 crew cut an gave him boiled-chicken-coloured skin he could pass for one a them lager-lout football thugs, easy. The kind who say En-ger-land cos they can’t pronounce the name a their own country.
The boiled-chicken-coloured boy on the floor in front a us weren’t no football hooligan nor no lager lout. He wouldn’t want to be one an wouldn’t want to look like one either. These days, lager louts had got more to fear from us lot than us lot had to fear from them. I in’t lyin to you, in pinds like Hounslow an Southall, they feared us even more than they feared black kids. Round some parts, even black kids feared people like us. Especially when people like us were people like Hardjit. Standin there in his designer desi garms, a tiger tattooed on his left shoulder an a Sikh Khanda symbol on his right bicep. He probly could’ve fit a whole page a Holy Scriptures on his biceps if he wanted to. The guy’d worked every major muscle group, down the gym, every other day since he was fuckin fourteen years old. Since, despite his mum’s best efforts, he hit puberty an became a proper desi boy. Even drinks that powdery protein shit they sell down there but she don’t care cos he mixes it in with milk.
—How many us bredren u count here? Hardjit goes to the white boy.
—Uuuuurgh.
—Fuckin ansa me, u dirrty gora. Or is it dat yo glasses r so smash’d up u can’t count? Shud’ve gone 2 Specsavers, innit. How many a us bredren b here?
—F-F-F…
For a second I thought the gora was gonna say something stupid. Something like F-F-Fuck off perhaps, or maybe even F-F-Fuck you. F-F-Fuckin Paki would’ve also been inadvisable. Stead he answers Hardjit with a straightforward, —F-F-Four.
—Yeh, blud, safe, goes Ravi.— Gora ain’t seein double, innit.
So now it was Ravi’s turn to make me jealous with his perfectly timed an perfectly authentic rudeboy front. I still use the word rudeboy cos it’s been round for longer. People’re always tryin to stick a label on our scene. That’s the problem with havin a fuckin scene. First we was rudeboys, then we be Indian niggas, then rajamuffins, then raggastanis, Britasians, fuckin Indobrits. These days we try an use our own word for homeboy an so we just call ourselves desis but I still remember when we were happy with the word rudeboy. Anyway, whatever the fuck we are, Ravi an the others are better at being it than I am. I swear I’ve watched as much MTV Base an Juggy D videos as they have, but I still can’t attain the right level a rudeboy authenticity. If I could, I wouldn’t be using poncey words like attain an authenticity, innit. I’d be sayin I couldn’t keep it real or someshit. An if I said it that way, then there’d be no need for me to say it in the first place so I wouldn’t say it anyway. After all, it’s all bout what you say an how you say it. Your linguistic prowess an debating dexterity (though whatever you do don’t say it that way). The sort a shit my old schoolteachers told my parents I lacked an which Mr Ashwood’d even made me practise by watchin ponces read the news on the BBC. I in’t lyin. Why’d the fuck’d anyone wanna chat like that anyway? Or even listen to someone who chatted like that? I respect Mr Ashwood for tryin to help me lose my stammer or whatever kind a speech problem it was I’d got when I was at school. But I’d’ve wasted less a the man’s time if I just sat down with Hardjit in the first place. Let’s just say Hardjit’d make a more proper newsreader. An the white boy here was listenin to him.
—Dat’s right, goes Hardjit,— we b four a us bredrens here. An out a us four bredrens, none a us got a mum n dad wat actually come from Pakistan, innit. So don’t u b tellin any a us Pakis dat we b Pakis like our Paki bredren from Pakistan, u get me.
A little more blood trickled down the gora’s face as he screwed up his forehead. He wiped it with his hands, still tryin to stop it from staining the sappy button-down collar a his checkered Ben Sherman shirt.
—It ain’t necessary for u 2 b a Pakistani to call a Pakistani a Paki, Hardjit explains,— or for u 2 call any Paki a Paki for dat matter. But u gots 2 b call’d a Paki yourself. U gots 2 b, like, an honorary Paki or someshit. An dat’s da rule. Can’t be callin someone a Paki less u also call’d a Paki, innit. So if you hear Jas, Amit, Ravi or me callin anyone a Paki, dat don’t mean u can call him one also. We b honorary Pakis n u ain’t.
—Yeh, blud, safe, goes Ravi. Don’t ask me why the white boy still looked confused. It was the exact same for black people. They could call each other nigger but even us desi bredrens couldn’t call them niggers. Or niggaz, if you spell it like that. At least that’s how NWA was spelt when their name was spelt out in full. In fact, I figured that if Niggaz With Attitude followed the usual rules a acronyms, it’d be more accurate to use a capital letter, as in Nigga or Paki. I know I should’ve fuckin known better, but I decided to share this thought with the other guys.
—Yeh, motherfucker, an even when you allowed to call someone a Paki, it be Paki wid a capital P, innit.
—Jas, u khota, Hardjit goes, swivelling round so fast his dog tags would’ve flown off someone with a thinner neck,— why da fuck u teachin him how 2 spell?
I shrugged, deeply lamenting my lack a rudeboyesque panache.
—Da gora ain’t no neo-Nazi graffiti artist n dis ain’t no fuckin English lesson, innit.
An so I shut the fuck up an let Hardjit sum up his own lesson.
—A Paki is someone who comes from Pakistan. Us bredrens who don’t come from Pakistan can still b call’d Paki by other bredrens if it means we can call dem Paki in return. But u people ain’t allow’d 2 join in, u get me?
All a this shit was just academic a course. Firstly, Hardjit’s thesis, though it was what Mr Ashwood’d call internally coherent, failed to recognise the universality a the word Nigga compared with the word Paki. De-poncified, this means many Hindus an Sikhs’d spit blood if they ever got linked to anything to do with Pakistan. Indians are just too racist to use the word Paki. Secondly, the white kid couldn’t call no one a Paki no more with his mouth all cut up. It was still bleedin in little bursts, thick gobfuls droppin onto the concrete floor like he was slowly puking up blood or someshit. It made me feel like puking up myself (the samosas an a can a Coke we got at the college canteen at break time). The blood trickled differently down his chin than down his cheeks. A closer look showed it was cos he’d got this really short goatee beard that I din’t notice before. What’s the point in havin a goatee if it’s so blond no one can even see it unless your face is covered in blood? Amit’d always said goras couldn’t ever get their facial hair right. If it weren’t too blond, it was too curly or too bumfluffy or just too gimpy-shaped. One time he said that they looked like batty boys when they’d got facial hair an baby boys when they din’t. I told him I thought he was being racist. He goes to me it was the exact same thing as sayin black guys were good at growin dreadlocks but crap at growin ponytails. Amit probly had the wikidest facial hair in the whole a Hounslow, better than Hardjit’s even. Thin heavy lines a carefully shaped, short, unstraggly black hair that from far back looked like it’d been drawn on with a felt-tip pen. Anyway, even if it was possible for a gora to have ungay facial hair, the gora in front a us now looked like he’d shaved himself with a chainsaw.
Hardjit was tellin the gora something else, but I din’t hear what. I’d zoned out during the short silence an tuned into the creaking a these mini goalposts Hardjit’d hung his Schott bomber jacket over. You could tell from the creaking that they’d rusted an were meant to be used inside the school sports hall rather than stuck out here opposite the dustbin an traffic cone that made up the other goal.
—Ansa me, you dirrty gora, Hardjit goes, before kneeling down an punchin him in the mouth so that his tongue an lower lip explode again over the library books he’d tried to use as a shield. Even if the white kid could say something stead a just gurgling an splutterin blood, he was wise enough not to.
—Dat’s right, the three a us go in boy-band mode again,— ansa da man or we bruck yo fuckin face.
—Yeh, blud, safe, goes Ravi.
We should’ve just left the white kid then an got our butts back to the car. We’d still got some other business to sort out before headin back to college that afternoon. We were also takin some serious liberties with our luck that none a the teachers’d look out the classroom windows or step into the playground to pick up litter. They’d ID us for sure if they did. Not just cos we hung round this school’s sixthform common room now an then, but also cos up till last June we were sixth-formers here ourselves. We all fuckin failed, a course, despite all our parents’ prayin an payin for private maths tuition. An so now we were down the road at Hounslow College a Higher Education, retakin our fuckin A-levels at the age a fuckin nineteen when we should’ve been at King’s College or the London School a Economics or one a the other desi unis with nice halls a residence in central London.
Teachers or no teachers, fuck it. I had to redeem myself after my gimpy remark bout spellin Paki with a capital P. After all, Ravi had spotted the white kid in the first place an Amit’d helped Hardjit pin him against the brick wall. But me, I hadn’t added anything to either the physical or verbal abuse a the gora. To make up for my useless shitness I decided to offer the followin carefully crafted comment:
—Yeh, bredren, knock his fuckin teeth out. Bruck his fuckin face. Kill his fuckin…well, his fuckin, you know, him. Kill him.
This was probly a bit over the top but I think I’d got the tone just right an nobody laughed at me. At least I managed to stop short a sayin, Kill the pig, like the kids do in that film Lord a the Flies. It’s also a book too, but I’m tryin to stop knowin shit like that.
—U hear wot ma bredren Jas b chattin? Hardjit says, welcoming my input.— If u b gettin lippy wid me u b gettin yo’self mashed up. I’ll bruck yo face n it’ll serve u right, fuckin bhanchod. Shudn’t b callin us Pakis, innit.
There weren’t much face left to bruck, a course. No way Hardjit could’ve done that damage with his bare fists. I weren’t sure whether he’d used his keys or his Karha. One time, when he sparked Imran I think, Hardjit slid his Karha down from his wrist over his fingers an used it like some badass knuckleduster. Even though he was one a them Sardarjis who don’t even wear a turban, Hardjit always wore a Karha round his wrist an something orange to show he was a Sikh. Imran’s face was so fucked up back then that we made Hardjit promise never to do that shit again. We weren’t even Sikh like him but we told him he shouldn’t use his religious stuff that way. Din’t matter that he was fightin a Muslim. Din’t matter that he was fightin a Pakistani. His mum an dad got called into school an after dinner rinsed him for being a badmarsh delinquent ruffian who’d abused his religion an his culture. Then again, Imran did call it a bangle so served him right.
My fledgling rudeboy reputation redeemed, I was now ready to get the fuck away from there. But Hardjit weren’t. He still needed to deliver his favourite line. An just like one a them chana-daal farts that take half an hour to brew, out it eventually came.
—U dissin ma mum?
The blood on the white kid’s face seemed to evaporate just to make it easier for us to see his expression a what-the-fuck? But before he could start screamin denials an protesting his innocence, Hardjit delivered his second an third favourite lines,— U cussin ma mum? an the less venacular,— U b disrespectin my mother?
The rest a us knew where all a this was headed an Amit, who’d known Hardjit since the man was happy just being called Harjit, was the best placed to challenge him.
—Come now, bredren, dat’s nuff batterings you given him. Da gora din’t cuss no one’s mum.
—Yeh, Amit, yeh he fuckin did.
—Nah, man, come now, we done good here, let’s just allow it, blud.
—Allow him to dis ma mum? Wat da fuck’s wrong wid’chyu, pehndu? U turnin into a batty boy wid all a dis let’s-make-peace-n-drink-spunk-lassi shit?
—No, I mean allow as in, u know, leave it be, blud. He din’t cuss your mum n no fuckin way he ever gonna call no one a Paki no more. Let’s just leave it, blud. Let’s just allow it n get goin wid our shit, innit.
—Da fuckin gora call’d me a Paki. He cuss’d da colour a my skin n my mama got the same colour skin as me, innit.
None a us dared argue, an Hardjit’d found a reason to kick the white kid in the face again, an again, an again, this time punctuating the rapid-fire beatin with,— U fuckin gora, u cuss’d my mum, an then adding variations like,— U cuss’d my sister n ma bredren. U cuss’d my dad, my uncle Deepak, u cuss’d my aunty Sheetal, my aunty Meera, ma cousins in Leicester, u cuss’d ma grandad in Jalandhar.
Hardjit was so fast with his moves that the white boy had hardly got time to scream before the next impact a the man’s foot, fist, elbow. Hardjit’s thuds against the gora’s body an the gora’s head against the concrete playground had a kind a rhythm bout it that you just couldn’t block out. Ravi starts cheering as if Ganguly had just scored six runs an there’d be no saving the gora’s Ben Sherman shirt now. When it was done, stead a knockin the white kid out, Hardjit straightened himself up, took his Tag Heuer out his pocket an put his keys back in it. He could’ve done the same damage even if he’d just used his bare fists. He does four different types a martial arts as well as workin every muscle group, like I said, down the gym, every other day. He says it don’t really matter how many times you go down the gym, you can’t be proper tough less you also have proper fights. It was the same with all his martial arts lessons. There weren’t no point learnin them if he din’t use them in the street or in the playground at least. His favourite martial art that time was kalaripayat, which in case you don’t know was one a the first kindsa martial arts ever to be invented. A big bonus point if you know where it was invented. China? Japan? Tibet? Fuck, no. It’s from India, innit. Chinese an Tibetan kung fu came later. People tend to forget this cos the British banned kalaripayat when they took over India. But now Hardjit’d found out bout it he wouldn’t let no one forget. He reminded the white kid never to call anyone a Paki again before we headed across the playground to the gate where Ravi’d parked the Beemer on the zigzag line. We were stridin slowly a course, so as not to look batty. With the gora gone quiet you could now hear screamin from inside the school. It was the usual voices. Four, maybe five different teachers yellin an shoutin at the usual kids for fuckin around in lessons, resulting in more laughter from the back rows followed by more shoutin from the front. From outside, the place sounded more like a mental home than a school. Lookin at where the sounds were coming from I figured no way any a the teachers would’ve spotted us through a classroom window. Even those that were clean were covered in masking tape cos they’d been broken by cricket balls. The result a special desi spin-bowling probly.
Nobody said jackshit to nobody in case it took the edge off Hardjit’s warm-up for the proper fight he’d got lined up for tomorrow. But as the four a us got to the Beemer, Ravi remembered he’d left Hardjit’s Schott bomber jacket wrapped round the goalposts in the playground.
—U fuckin gimp, was all Hardjit said. He weren’t even referring to me for a change but still I volunteered to go get his jacket, even though it meant a spectacularly gimpy fifty-metre trot to the other side a the playground. Not exactly my most greatest idea seeing as how I’d just spent the last twelve months tryin to get upgraded from my former state a dicklessness.
As I got nearer the goalposts, I watched the white kid wipe his face with his shirt. You hardly ever saw a brown-on-white beatin these days, not round these pinds anyway. It was when all those beatins stopped that Hardjit started hooking up with the Sikh boys who ran Southall whenever they took on the Muslim boys who ran Slough. Hounslow’s more a mix a Sikhs, Muslims an Hindus, you see, so the brown-on-browns tended to just be one-on-ones stead a thirty desis fightin side by side. Whenever those one-on-ones were between a Sikh an a Muslim an whenever the Sikh was Hardjit, people’d come from Southall an Slough just to watch his martial arts moves in action. If you don’t believe me, wait till the big showdown with Tariq Khan he’d got lined up for tomorrow.
The white kid was now lookin me straight in the eye in a way that made me glad we hadn’t made eye contact while he was being beaten.— What, white boy? I said.— Did you expect me to stop them? Do you think I’m some kind a fuckin fool?
—Jas, I didn’t call nobody a Paki, he said, coughin.— You know that’s the truth.
—I don’t know shit, Daniel.
—I didn’t even say nothing, Jas. Nobody would ever be so stupid as to mess with you lot any more.
I tried to ignore what he was sayin an the way sayin it had made his lips an tongue start bleedin again. But I couldn’t help noddin. Damn right.
—Why didn’t you tell them I didn’t say anything, Jas? What’s happened to you over the last year? the gora says before havin another coughin an splutterin fit.— You’ve become like one of those gangsta types you used to hate.
Damn right.
—Why didn’t you tell them I didn’t say anything?
—OK, Daniel, I go,— swear on your mother’s life you din’t call us Pakis.
—For fuck’s sake, Jas, you know my mother’s dead.
—So, swear on your mother’s life.
—But Jas, she’s dead. You came to the funeral.
I picked up the jacket, turned around an jogged back to the car. Hardjit’d been wise to take it off. He’d worn the jacket during other fights but wanted to be careful with it now cos he’d just got the word ‘Desi’ sewn onto the back. He’d thought bout havin ‘Paki’ sewn on but his mum’d never let him wear it an, anyway, nobody round here ever, ever used that word.
2
Most desis had either black, blue or silver Beemers, but Ravi’s was a purply kind a metallic grey. Lilac, I think he said one time. Yeh. He said lilac was his favourite colour a ladies’ underwear an he wanted the outside a the car to match the panties pulled off inside.
—If she b wearin black thongs dey’d still match da dashboard, he’d said, stroking the BMW’s bonnet before he took us for our first ever ride in it.— But if dey b dem red panties then she a dirrty ho an I’d bounce her ass out ma car, da bitch.
Greasy sleazebag bullshit merchant or not, you had to hand it to Ravi. His BMW M3 was way phatter than other Beemers you saw round here. Most desi bredren had got the E36 model, but Ravi drove a E46. Slick side gills, wider wheel arches, curved roof an four chrome exhaust pipes stickin out from under the rear skirt. He’d stuck on an even slicker spoiler, alloy hubcaps that kept on spinnin at red traffic lights an matchin lilac windscreen wipers. The inside a the ride was pimped up with rally-car-style seat belts that criss-crossed over your chest, chrome plating over the gearstick an handbrake handles, Sony X-Plod three-way speakers with 220 watts a power an sand-coloured seats that looked lush even though they weren’t leather. He’d even got those neon lights fitted under the chassis that lit up the road underneath. But whereas most rudeboys’d got blue neon lights, Ravi’s were purple to match the car. Purple weren’t an exact match, a course, but he couldn’t find lilac neon lights an only people in Prince videos wore purple panties.
—Where we meetin Davinder? Ravi goes, tryin to shout down the DMX CD being turned up by his left hand an the engine being revved up by his right foot.— You hear me, blud? Where we meetin Davinder?
—I already told u, u thick khota: outside Nando’s, innit, goes Hardjit, though without needin to shout cos Ravi eased off with his hand an foot for him.— I also told’chyu we had 2 call Davinder b4 we left dis place, innit, so any a u chiefs know his mobile?
—Yeh, he got one a them new Sony Ericsson P800s, innit, came my voice from the back seat, all jumpy like when I used to sit up front in History lessons an knew the answer to Mr Ashwood’s questions.— It’s a wikid fone, man, it got a camera, it got a video player, it got them polyphonic ringtunes, an Java games.
—Jas, u pehndu. I meant his mobile numba. I’s gonna fuckin fone him, innit. Fuckin dickless piece a shit.
—Ah, sorry, man, my bad, I go as I start searchin my fone for Davinder’s number.
—Ras clat, fuckin useless, all a u, Hardjit goes, shakin his head an doing that suckin the inside a his front teeth thing. Hardjit could suck his front teeth louder, longer an harder than most people could. I in’t lyin, the man could tut like a black brother.
—Davinder got a lesson on Monday so he probly got his fone on silent, goes Amit.— Dem bhanchod teachers make you turn your fone off now. Stick it in your bag or sumfink so you can’t even flex it on your desk.
—Amit, I don’t give a fuck whether his fone’s on silent or stuck up his butt n set 2 vibrate, Davinder told me 2 call him when we left da school n we b leavin da fuckin school, innit. So c’mon, u bunch a chiefs. One a u’s gotta b havin his numba.
Amit dialled Davinder’s number from his Nokia fone book an passed his fone up front to Hardjit, all in a single, smooth move, like a cricket fielder scooping up an throwin the ball in one go.
—Shut da fuck up, dis b business, Hardjit goes to all a us as, somewhere near Hounslow High Street, Davinder’s fone started ringin, or vibrating, or flashin, or whatever the fuck he’d set it to.
—Kiddaan, man, ‘sup, homeboy?… Listen, blud, we jus leavin now, innit… Some gora got lippy wid us… Nah, u know it, blud …He ain’t got no lips no more, bhanchod… U know it, blud, innit …A’ight, safe… Nah, I call her tonite… I got me free minutes on my fone, innit…Say wat?…Nando’s. Safe. Nah, we’ll hook up wid’chyu dere… We leavin da school right now… We got da Beemer, innit …A’ight, safe, laters.
Soon as Hardjit hangs up, Amit takes his Nokia 6610 back an starts makin a call beside me. He’s being all polite an in’t using no swear words or nothin so is clearly chattin to his mum. But he makes sure he don’t look like he’s chattin to his mum, narrowin his eyes, suckin in his cheeks an noddin as he stares out the window. Amit pulled a better fone face than all a us. Tellin some stockbroker or banker to liquidate his portfolio a stocks an, no, he din’t give a damn how bad the market is today: just fuckin sell.
—Theekh hai, he goes.— Flour an eggs. Free range. I’ll get it, Mama. Alright, Mum, theekh hai.
—I ain’t squashin u back there, is it? Hardjit goes to me, his seat pushed all the way back so I was gettin, like, kneecapped.
—Nah, man, I’m cool, I go.— Move the seat further back if you need to. I’m cool.
When you’re in the back seat a some pimped-up Beemer it’s basically your job to be cool. To just chill, listen to the tunes an stare out the window like some big dumb dog with a big slobbery tongue. DMX pumpin so loud out the sound system you can hardly hear what the other guys’re sayin up front. Amit shuffles into the middle a the back seat, leaning forward into that death-if-you-don’t-wear-a-seat-belt position my mum was always going on at me bout. But I just stay sittin back. The world going by outside the window tells me that in the olden times, before the airport, Hounslow must’ve been one a them batty towns where people ponced around on cycles stead a drivin cars. Why else we got such narrow roads? Some a them were so narrow that the trees on each side had got their branches castrated to stop them fightin in the middle. In’t no leaves on em either, even in the summer. Talk bout a shitty deal for the trees. Castrated an no pubes. Standin there like giant, upright versions a the dried-up sticks a dogshit that lay at their feet. If I was a cycleriding, tree-huggin, skint hippie I might’ve given a shit bout the trees an all the posters pinned to them for some Bollywood film that’d been released two weeks ago, the new Punjabi MC single that came out a month ago or ads for a bhangra gig in Hammersmith that happened a year ago. But I in’t, so stead I hope the skint people who work for the local council would just finish the fuckin job an chop em all down. Make room for more billboards, more fuckin road. Only proper-sized roads round here were the Great West Road an London Road, both a them runnin along either side a this part a Hounslow like garden fences to an airport at the back where the garden shed should be (they called it Heathrow cos it’s bang in the middle a Hounslow Heath or someshit). Lucky for us there weren’t no other cars cruisin down all these side roa ds squashed between the garden fences. There were hardly any parked cars along the pavements either, partly cos the staff car parks at Heathrow were full but mostly cos all a the houses round here had got their front gardens concreted over an turned into driveways. Big wheelie rubbish bins an recycling boxes where the plants, flower beds an garden paths between them used to be. No sign a the other stuff I drew on houses when my playschool teacher moved me up from crayons to colouring-in pencils. None a them smokin chimneys an those lollipop-like trees were missin too. Missin, presumed castrated. Some houses had got Om symbols stuck on the wooden front doors behind glass porches, some a them had Khanda Sahibs an others had the Muslim crescent moon. All a them had satellite TV dishes next to the main bedroom window, stuck up there like framed dentists’ diploma certificates. If there weren’t no symbol on the front door, you could still tell if it was a desi house if there was more than one satellite dish. One for Zee TV an one for Star Plus, probly. You could tell if someone was home cos the daal an subjhi smell would mix in with the airport traffic on the Great West Road. An you could tell if the people at home were friendly if the car parked in the driveway was a car with a friendly face. I in’t jokin. That kid in The Sixth Sense, he sees dead people all the time - me, I see faces in cars. Maybe this makes me some mad weirdo psycho, but I been seein them ever since I was little. It’s like as if the headlights are the eyes, the grille the mouth an the wing mirrors the ears. The faces meant that, back before I got tight with Hardjit’s crew, I tended to like smaller cars. Ford Fiestas, Fiat Puntos an all the other crappy hatchbacks my schoolteachers drove. I din’t like them in a skint hippie way, though, I liked them cos they’d got friendlier faces. Take this red Nissan Micra that just pulled out behind us. It looked like a little, button-nosed puppy dog. The black Volkswagen Beetle parked in a drive on the left had got big friendly eyes. This was why, back when I was a gimp, I never got why everyone reckoned big flash cars were such big fuckin deals. Sure, flashy Mercedes were smiling cos a their massive grilles, but their faces weren’t friendly cos it was more like some smug grin: I’m a fuckin SLK, look at me, you pleb. Aston Martins got mouths like piranha fish, Beemers looked like androids playin fuckin poker an Italian sports cars were even scarier cos they’d got no mouths, no eyes even. I dig sports cars now a course, cos my head in’t so stupidly fucked up these days an I try an not see the faces no more. Matter a fact it’s the bodies I tend to notice now. Take the body on a Lexus SC430. So sleek an smooth you don’t even notice its face. Like Christina Aguilera. The curves on an Audi TT make it J-Lo while the Porsche 911 GTS got a booty like Beyoncé. An it in’t just divas: I got the Bentley Continental GT down as Snoop Dogg an the Hummer H2 down as 50 Cent.
If Ferrari made a 4x4 SUV, it’d be a Hardjit. A Hardjit SUV would have a big engine grille but it wouldn’t be grinnin. It’d be more like that constipated face he makes when he’s tensing his body an thinks no one else in the gym is watchin him. When I turned my head back from the window to see if anything was going on up front he was still settling into his seat, winding down the tinted electric window, resting his elbow on the door frame, flashin his Tag Heuer, sovereign ring an Karha bracelet. Grabbin the top a the door frame with his left hand, he straightened his shoulder so that his upper arm snapped into place, his tight black D&G vest givin everyone outside an even better view. An just like the empty side roads gave Ravi an excuse to slide down into second gear an do some seriously sharp rudeboy manoeuvres, they gave Hardjit an excuse to grip harder on the door frame an tense his arms up more. The engine an drivetrain connected to his biceps, the brake pads connected to his pecs. Ravi swervin past some random slowcoach Citroën like he was at the arcades playin Daytona USA. Beep beep, get the fuck off the street. Pump pump, we don’t slow for no fuckin speed hump. Luckily, Hardjit din’t notice me watchin him feel his biceps. Otherwise he’d have rinsed me for being gay or a gora lover, or both. I’d caught him enough times feelin his arms an just generally checkin himself out in mirrors an tinted car windows an somehow he always made me feel like I was the batty boy. Right now he only stopped checkin out his arms when he found some other limbs to check out. Her legs had come into view soon as we’d turned out the side roads an onto the London Road. Whoever she was, she was wearin one a them fuck-me miniskirts an fuck-me-harder knee-high boots. The skirt beige, the boots black. Ravi slowed the fuck down now while Hardjit turned up DMX’s ‘Ruff Ryders Anthem ’ with the arm that weren’t on display in the door frame. Soon as we’d passed her legs, Amit gives it,— Dat gyal ain’t nothin, if yous lot wanna see proper fitness you shoulda seen dis bitch I shagged last weekend. Harpinder was her name. Imagine if Aishwarya Rai n Shilpa Shetty had a twenty-one-year-old love child.
—Yeh, I bet ‘imagine’ is the right word seein as how you probly imagined the whole thing yourself, I shouted from the back seat before I could even remember that I was in the back seat.
—Fuck you, Jas, goes Amit.— Jus cos you in’t shagged no one. No one female anyway. An even if you did, da Durex’d probly slip off your pin-sized prick n you’d end up wid butt-ugly kids cos dey’ll have your genes.
When everyone’s finished crackin up, Amit carries on:— Whereas me, if I had a kid wid dis bitch from last week, it’d b better-lookin than Pharrell, innit. Only there ain’t gonna b no kid cos I used protection, innit. Extra large a course, none a dat average-sized shit you get outta da machines. Matter a fact, da size I need is so large I gots to go to a special chemist, you get me.
—Safe, bredren, goes Ravi.— Extra large, innit.
—Yeh, bruv, if I din’t use a rubber, she’d probly have twins or triplets or four babies altogether or someshit.
—Yeh, you know it blud.
—I din’t even need to chirps her very long. Couple a jokes, dat’s all. She weren’t easy or nothin, she jus took one look at me n decided we was gonna get in my car, you get me.
—Safe, blud, Ravi gives it again.— Wat’s her friends like? I’ll bone em.
—Too late, bruv, I already shagged her best friend Mandeep last year. She was all over me. Kept textin me afta, leavin voicemails n dat.
—Wikid, man, you b da dog. Da dirrty dawg.
—Yeh you know it, Ravi. Back when I boned Mandeep I was jus using a large size. Now I need extra large, you get me?
—A’ight, blud, jumbo size, innit. Dat’s da way. Shag her, innit, Ravi gives it before Hardjit finally cuts in with:— Yeh n I had a nice dream myself last nite.
—So wat’chyu sayin, desi? goes Amit.— You bein like Jas here n thinkin I makin dis shit up?
—Nah, blud, I sayin I know u makin dis shit up.
—Fuck you, man. You think you da only one who’s been there, done dat, shagged dat bitch, done dat ho?
—No. I ain’t sayin dat cos I don’t get wid no bitches n hos.
The two a them carried on like that till we pulled up at a set a red traffic lights. This desi who pulled up in the lane next to us din’t even look our way once even though we were givin enuff stares at him an his silver Peugeot 305. You could tell from his long hair, grungy clothes, the poncey novel an newspaper on his dashboard an Coldplay album playin in his car that he was a muthafuckin coconut. So white he was inside his brown skin, he probably talked like those gorafied desis who read the news on TV. Probably even more poncier than the way how I used to talk. An think. Probly.
—U boys see how scared a us dat Paki is? Hardjit shouted over DMX so that the coconut heard him too.— Yah, u Mr Muthafucka, I mean u. I ain’t seein any otha Pakis round here, do u?
Still the coconut was too wise to bite, just carryin on lookin straight ahead.
—Tu ki samajda hai? U a Paki jus like me. Even tho u b listenin to U2 or someshit. Are u 2 scared 2 look at us?
The coconut pretty much answered this question by keepin his eyes fixed on the road ahead. Hardjit then tutted at regular intervals till the lights changed. We let the coconut drive ahead a us, cut into our lane an then turn right towards the Great West Road.
—Ain’t dat some muthafuckin coincidence, goes Hardjit.— We goin dat way too.
The Great West Road, which is basically the stretch a the A4 that runs along Hounslow, is a dual carriageway. It’s got three lanes in each direction so Ravi had no problem pullin up alongside the coconut the next time we got lucky with a red light.
—Oi, mate, Hardjit gives it, pointing at the coconut’s car door as if something was wrong with it.
This time, the coconut 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.
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