Londonstani

—Wat da fuck is wrong wid’chyu? Wat da fuck’d I jus say, Jas? None a us lot should ever b goin there, man. Don’t matter whether she strict n dat. Jus don’t b fuckin goin there, a’ight.

I figure things can’t get any more tense, so I defy him an go there a little more:— Yeh, but I’m just sayin, how strict can she be? I mean, she’s a she. Most Muslim fundamentalists are blokes.

—Look, she got three brothers an dey well strict. One a dem even belongs to Hizb ut-Tahrir or Al-Muhajiroun or one a dem groups. Dey stricter bout keepin their sister halal than my mum is bout keepin her shit vegetarian so you jus best shut da fuck up before Hardjit gets back.

—I jus sayin she can’t be that strict, that’s all, I go,—I mean you seen her when she dresses an dances like she the fourth member a Destiny’s Child or someshit. Come on, Amit, admit it, surely even you think she’s fit.

—No I don’t, Jas. An you best calm da fuck down n focus your hormones on your own kind. Anyway, wat da fuck we arguin bout her being Muslim for? Samira Ahmed ain’t nuffink special whether she b a Muslim, a Sikh, a Hindu or a mermaid on a beach in fuckin Goa. In fact, my bum is buffer than her.

—Ahh, blud, now you shut yo mouth, goes Ravi.—Jus cos I ain’t wantin to get wid her, it don’t mean dat girl ain’t da fittest lady in da hood. At da end a da day, she did win Miss Hounslow two years in a row, innit.

—Dat’s jus cos I din’t enter ma ass. Look at her. She a tramp, da lady ain’t got no class. She ain’t even wearin no jewellery or makeup, man.

—That’s cos she don’t need none, I go.—Sayin she ain’t got no class is like sayin Pamela Anderson’s got a flat chest cos she don’t wear a Wonderbra.

Just then Hardjit gets back in the Beemer, bringin a smile an the smell a perfume with him. We stop the conversation bout Samira an skip to the next track on the CD.

—Wat’chyu boys been doin? Hardjit asks as he starts struggling with his seat belt again.

—Nothin, I go.—Jus chattin bout business, checkin out da bitches, innit.

Hardjit’s yard had a double driveway, big enough to park his dad’s Al Pacino an his mother’s Mary J Blige, but probly not big enough for a Mary J Blige an the Amitabh Bachchan his dad’d always wanted. They really needed a driveway cos his yard was right up near where the Great West Road an the Bath Road joined into the road that takes you to Terminal 4 or the road that went straight to Terminals 1, 2 or 3—the gateway to India just down the A4. Living there, they din’t know what was worse—the traffic on the road outside or the traffic in the sky. Either way the double glazing weren’t thick enough an they’d had to hook up their living-room TV to two sets a surround-sound speakers. It’d probly be the best TV ever for watchin MTV Base or the B4U desi music channel, only we’d never know cos we never actually went in the living room when we went round. There was always some auntyji in there with Hardjit’s mum, you see. Her an a friend gup-shupping bout this bit a gossip or that bit a gossip. Somehow they always managed to sound like those emergency sessions in the Indian parliament you sometimes see on Star News.

It was obviously deeply disrespectful if we din’t go in an say hello to the auntyjis, but it’d’ve also been deeply disrespectful to just suddenly barge in unexpected. This time we figured it’d be more disrespectful to go in than it’d be not to. We could hear Hardjit’s mum inside talkin importantly, sayin things like Hai hai. So stead, we politely took our trainers off in the porch, whispered the usual jokes bout Ravi’s paneer-smellin socks an legged it upstairs, givin it a respectful Hi, Aunty to his mum, an adding another Hi, Aunty for whoever else was in the living room with her. Aunty’s freshly cooked subjhi chasing us all the way upstairs, even though Ravi’s feet were cheesier than usual an even though she’d shut the kitchen door to stop the smell escaping. Up on the landing, the subjhi mixed with the incense sticks burning in bedroom number one along the long, L-shaped corridor. There weren’t no bed in bedroom number one. It was where they kept their copy a the Guru Granth Sahib on a table. They’d hung their pictures a various Sikh Gurus on the landing walls outside. They’d even got a couple a pictures a Hindu Gods too. Usually you only get Hindus who’ll blend their religion with Sikhism but Hardjit’s mum an dad were one a the few Sikh families who blended back.

Bedroom number two: Aunty an Uncle’s. Stricly off-limits, although just inside you can see a blown-up photo hangin on the magnoliapainted woodchip wall. It’s from when Hardjit’s family went to Disneyland with his chacha’s family in New Jersey. Hardjit’s dad’s also got another brother living back in Jalandhar, where according to Mr Ashwood the smells are even stronger an the colours even brighter. But Hardjit prefers visiting his cousin in New Jersey cos she’s got fitter friends in her desi scene out there. Fitter buddies with fitter bodies who dress like desi versions a Britney Spears—in the video for ‘Slave’ a course, not ‘Hit Me Baby One More Time’. Before you turn the corner to get to bedroom numbers three, four an five, there’s a laundry basket on the landing lookin like a milk pan that’d been on the hob too long. Amit takes one look at it an gives it,—Ehh ki hai? Wat’s wid all dis gandh, man? You best gets your mum to do your laundry quick time or you’ll have to wear da same smelly kachha every day.

—Ain’t ma fault, blud. Da washing machine’s fuck’d, innit. Dad was tryin 2 do some shit 2 da plumbing n pipes n dat, n suddenly da washin machine, dishwasher n even da fuckin tea-maker all fuck’d up in one go.

—How da fuck’s your chai-maker connect’d to da pipes? Ravi asks.

—I dunno. Maybe it ain’t. I ain’t fuckin Bob da Builder, innit.

—You know wat I’d do if my washin machine, dishwasher or chai-maker broke down? goes Ravi.

—Wat?

—Divorce da bitch, innit.

On the floor by the laundry basket lay a pile a Bollywood magazines. Old issues a Cineblitz an Stardust mostly, which Hardjit, his parents an his little sister had agreed to keep out on the landing so that they din’t fight over who could keep them in their bedroom.

—Nice stash, bruv, goes Ravi, lookin down at them, which was probly difficult for him seeing how he was more used to angling his neck upwards when he was checkin out magazines,—verrry nice stash, he gives it again.—Hope u in’t got yo Playboys tucked away in da middle a them. Jus imagine yo mama or sister’s face next time dey wanna read bout Shah Rukh Khan, innit.

Hardjit sometimes gets pretty vexed bout that kind a shit. Porn, hookers, slutty ladies. Other times he’ll be laughin along, actin like a pimp. I in’t lyin, one minute he’s talkin bout how he’s gonna get inside some desi girl’s lace kachhian an the next minute he’s actin as if a girl’s gotta be a virgin if she wants to be a proper desi. Fuck knows why sometimes he’ll act one way an other times he’ll act the other way. Could be he’s only OK bout it when it’s obvious we’re only chattin bullshit or just fantasising or someshit. Problem is, you in’t allowed to fantasise bout Bollywood actresses cos he reckons they’re s’posed to be all pure an everything. You in’t allowed to fantasise bout someone real in case Hardjit thinks you’re being serious bout them an you in’t allowed to fantasise bout someone famous cos chances are they’re a Bollywood actress. You in’t allowed to fantasise bout blatant sluts like porn stars cos desi girls in’t meant to be into that kind a thing. An you in’t allowed to fantasise outside your own race, like when Ravi goes on bout Page Three models, glamour girls an lap dancers. Those kindsa ladies get Hardjit so vexed that when he calls them bitches he don’t just mean they’re female. But right now Ravi’s only fantasising bout fantasising. That’s the way Ravi is. Sometimes if you allow him to just carry on, his gandahness can even get funny. Like when he got us kicked outta B&Q in Brentford by actually using one a the toilet bowls in the bathroom showroom.

—Jus imagine it, man, goes Ravi,—imagine if Aunty n Uncle picked up some bedtime Bollywood readin, innit, n out fell some topless gori woman wearin lacy black chuddies n suspenders, innit. Again, Hardjit just let Ravi carry on:—Or maybe jus a black thong, innit. Maybe it’d even help yo mum n dad, you know, get jiggy wid it.

Hardjit shot him a look, but still without sayin nothin or doing nothin or smackin nothin.—Help em make such a rumble in da jungle dat dey break da fuckin bed, innit, Ravi goes,—maybe even yo dad cud stop takin his Viagra.

The boy was well into red rag an bull territory now, as Mr Ashwood used to say. I guess Hardjit must’ve been too busy thinkin bout something else. Tomorrow’s fight, today’s fones, yesterday’s fuck. If everyone who dissed him was as lucky as Ravi right now, the ER bit a Ealing Hospital wouldn’t be so busy all the time. Stead a coming back proply with his fists, Hardjit just gives it,—Yeh n maybe ma dad can give his Viagra 2 u innit cos u clearly needin it, u fuckin sexually frustrated sex maniac.

—Safe, bruv. But I’m da mack already, innit. I only needs Viagra if ma bitch wanna cum forty times a nite steada thirty. An anyway, ma bitch is so fine I ain’t needin no Playboy magazines to get ma soldier ready for action, you get me.

—Shut da fuck now, Hardjit gives it.—U best jus shut yo dirrty mouth now, Ravi. Dere ain’t no fuckin Playboys in dere. ‘Sup wid’chyu?

—Yeh, you know wat, bruv, you is right, innit. My bad. Now I’ma got to thinkin, you ain’t gonna b havin no Playboys in here. You’s a desi, innit. You’s gonna b havin copies a Asian Babes! G-strings always look better on some nice Indian butt. At da end a da day, you b wantin yo meat proply cooked not raw, you get me.

Ravi did some more free advertising for Asian Babes before adding:

—Hey, any a you boys heard bout dat new American porn star who’s actually a desi? Dey call her Miss Vagindia. In dis new film she done, right, I heard she wearin nuffink but a bindi. Seriously, no kachhi, no banan, nuffink.

Forget the red rag an bull territory, Ravi may as well have stripped that porn star’s red kachhi off himself an waved it in Hardjit’s face.

Rudeboy Rule #5:

Bout six months ago Hardjit taught me that you couldn’t learn to chat proply if you also din’t know when to stop chattin.—U gots 2 know when 2 shut yo mouth, he’d said.—It da same when u stickin yo tongue down a lady’s throat, u can’t jus go on an on an on, she’ll get bored or fuckin choke, innit.

Ravi was the kind a rudeboy who could never stick to Rudeboy Rule # 5. The trouble with rudeboys like Ravi, by which I mean the sheep kind a rudeboy, is they never realise when they’re lucky. Stead they think it’s some desi skilfulness they got that keeps other people’s fists outta their faces. Just watch em next time you’re in a nice bar or a club or whatever. They reckon they’re being the shit an so they can’t help pushin it.

—Hey relax, blud, goes Ravi again.—You know I’d bruck anyone who bought dat Asian Babes shit too. I jus mouthin off cos I got me a high sex drive, dat’s all, man. I can’t help it if I is a wild fuckin beast. Better’n bein a deep n skinny batty bwoy like Jas here, innit. He probly got a stash a gay porn. Bud Bud Batties or sumfink, innit. Dat’s if there is a mag for batty desis. Wat bout one for lesbian desis, man? If there ain’t one a dem then somebody shud start one cos they’d make big bucks. Desi dykes, bindi’d bisexuals n dat, innit. Bring it on, blud.

It was just a punch on the arm an a follow-through elbow in the ribs. An when it was done, Ravi quietly examined his bruises an Hardjit crouched down by the pile a magazines, flickin through them as if to prove there really were no pornos in there. Then he started readin an article bout Hrithik Roshan’s daily bodybuilding routine, as if the rest a us weren’t even there an as if he hadn’t already read it bout ten times already. This might seem rude seeing as how we were guests in his house, but I guess he knew from the new smells runnin up the stairs that his mum’d already started fryin samosas an makin chai for us.—Dat’s some fly shit, he whispered bout something he’d just read, givin Hrithik Roshan a high-five on the shoulder with his still-clenched fist as he did so. Then he closed the copy a Cineblitz, wiped it with his vest an placed it on top a the pile, leavin the front-cover shot a Hrithik Roshan facing up so that the rest a us could feel skinny, spotty an just generally ugly.

Not being a bunch a desperate fourteen-year-olds, we’d not come over with the ulterior motive a huntin for hidden pornos. We’d come to check something else out. An, as if she’d just heard the commotion on the landing, she an her glorious midriff were out waitin for us, standin round the corner outside bedroom number five, right where she usually did when we came round, dressed in tight, black satin. A desi Catwoman outfit. It was as if her black, shoulderless top had been moulded over the breasts beneath it, so that it weren’t even satin but a thick stripe a that body-paint stuff you hear bout, exposing her midriff, bare hips, bronze collarbone an the soft brown flesh above it that connected her shoulder to her neck. Staring at the three a us from the bedroom door, as if to say, Now which one a you boys is gonna be my man?

Ravi strode up to her, placed his hand over her left breast an proceeded to lick her right breast. Slowly at first, but speedin up after bout six strokes. Well, pretend-lick to be precise. He weren’t bout to ruin Hardjit’s prized poster a Kareena Kapoor by gettin his saliva all over it.

—Fuckin get yo mouth off ma door, u perve, Hardjit said, pullin Ravi away from the poster,—or I’ma glue yo tongue 2 da inside a da door frame n slam dis muthafucka shut. I mean it, Ravi, u best jus ease up on dissin ma shit today b4 I smack u again.

—Safe, bruv, ma bad. But chill, man, I wouldn’t really lick yo poster anyway.

—Fuckin tell me 2 chill, Ravi. D’yu know where u is at, bhanchod? In ma mum n dad’s house. Not some fuckin perve’s sex shop in Soho. We treatin our bitches wid respect, innit.

Amit began to say something, then hesitated, but then had to say it now cos he’d look like a batty boy for stammerin.—Da poster n da door, dey probly already sticky, innit, n I ain’t meanin from glue.

Sayin shit like that was Amit’s privilege in life. If those words had come outta anyone else’s mouth, Hardjit would’ve smacked them for dissin him, dissin his house, dissin his mum’s magazines, dissin the poster he probly got free with one a them magazines an dissin bitches in general. Truth is, we weren’t actually dissin nothin. We were appreciating his poster, like how poncey people do when they go to poncey galleries to check out paintings a sunflowers an shit. I know this cos I seen em do it. We all went to one a them places one time, I in’t lyin, up near Trafalgar Square. Ravi’d wanted to go inside cos he said his mum had suddenly gone all poncey bout famous paintings. She wants some tutty picture a fuckin water lilies, he’d said as we headed straight to the gift shop. We soon managed to get ourselves kicked out by some bitch who wore glasses on the tip a her nose, loads a make-up over her wrinkles an who spoke like she was the Queen’s first cousin or someshit. Seems that you in’t allowed to say things like Check out da size a her melons, not when you’re lookin at a painting which shows a naked woman with big melons. Seems that it in’t no defence if you argue that you din’t even use the word tits. Also, it don’t help if you say, Fuck off, bitch, u jus jealous cos your own melons are saggy wid cobwebs in between them, innit.

Anyway, if you ask me, posters a Bollywood babes are better to look at than them poncey paintings. Matter a fact, I reckon they’re better than posters a fit goris like Kate Moss or Caprice or fit kaalis like Beyoncé Knowles or Halle Berry. Indian women (I know I should say bitches stead a women to keep things proper but I’m still workin on it) are different. Bollywood babes are obviously not black or white so in’t bootylicious or waifs. They’re somewhere in between. Midriffs. Hardjit’s dad once explained his theory bout all this when he caught me staring at a picture a Kate Moss in the paper one time.—Jas, my boy. No waste your time with all these skinny kurhiyaan, he’d said.—I’m like uncle to you. As your uncle I tell to you this: If she thin, that means she not eating. She is sick with this anoraks-yar disease. An if she not eat, she not do cooking. So then what’s the use is she?

I remember noddin politely, tryin to think a something to say, before Hardjit’s dad continued:—See this young kurhi in newspaper, Jas, I say she look like drug addict. I know how these girls are, I tell you. Look at her. I know she not even clean the house. Why she show off her belly button to whole wide world when she not even have belly in first place?

—There’s nothin wrong with being slim, Mr Johal, I go.—It doesn’t mean she does drugs.

—No, no, young man, nothing wrong with slim. I not say she should look mohti and pregnant. But this girl in newspaper, she starving to death.

Even though Hardjit’s dad was chattin some blatant shit bout ladies, at least the man was chattin bout ladies. Only time my own dad ever talks to me bout women is if he’s got an important female customer or supplier or whatever. An that’s hardly ever seeing as how he mostly does business with businessmen.

—All these kurhiyaan they all look like drug addicts, goes Hardjit’s dad again,—I know what I’m saying. Delinquent drug addicts. I know what I’m saying. I’m like uncle to you. My father, before he die, he telled to me, you keep your eye on bellies of well-portioned kurhiyaan and you get good portions in your own stomach.

I remember I wanted to disagree with Hardjit’s dad again, outta respect for Kate Moss an women generally. But Hardjit’s mum was standin right beside him givin me two good reasons to hold my tongue. Firstly, she was noddin in agreement with everything he’d just said. Secondly, it would’ve been disrespectful to her if I disagreed with her husband in front a her.

6

We were huddled in the king-sized bathroom between bedrooms number four an five. Hardjit’d got one a his urges to go shape his facial hair in the big magnifying mirror above the sink. There was always a couple a hairs that the beard trimmer missed an if Hardjit din’t pluck em or scissor em they’d totally fuck up the outline a his goatee. It was the same with the lines he’d cut through his left eyebrow like three Adidas stripes. The jacuzzi an shower cubicle in this bathroom had never worked as well as the other two they’d got, not even before his dad’s fuck-up with the plumbing. So, depending on which member a his family was lookin into the mirror, this bathroom was only used for shaping, shaving, plucking or waxing facial hair.

I turned my back to the other guys an stared back out across the landing at the Kareena Kapoor poster. I carried on staring at it even as Amit started takin the mick. Stop dreamin, Jas. You couldn’t pull a nympho. Fuckin Seema mohti Patel is outta your league. That kind a thing. Still, I carried on staring, thankful that I weren’t a gimp into that whole Britpop/R.E.M. scene no more cos if I was I’d probly still be wearin skintight Levi’s 501s stead a my baggy Evisu’s. Skintight jeans hurt at times like this. Even Hardjit’s bedroom-door handle pointed upwards at the poster it shared a door with, though that was probly cos it’d been fixed upside down in another one a his dad’s drunken DIY moments.

Rudeboy Rule #6:

Although desi ladies should dress like Bollywood actresses, under no circumstances should desi men try to dress like their male co-stars. Bollywood actors are the only desi men on Planet Earth who’re allowed to wear skintight jeans. Watchin em carry it off as they carry the heroine outta the fountain during the soaked, see-through sari scene is just one more reason to sit through more Bollywood movies than you currently do. Must really fuckin hurt em though.

Finally, Amit grabbed my arm, yanking me from Kareena Kapoor’s soft arms an then draggin me outta Bollywood altogether.—Kareena Kapoor ain’t nothin special, he goes,—none a dem Bollywood bitches is. It all make-up, innit. Even Aishwarya Rai ain’t all dat. Jus like I told’chyu boys earlier, I ain’t caring how many beauty contests all a dese bitches won. My bum is buffer’n dem.

—Yeh, OK, Amit, we heard it all before, I give it, all pissed off as if my mum had just woken me up from a wet dream before it’d actually become one.—Let me guess, you pulled someone fitter than her last week, right?

Sayin that turned out to be a bad, bad, fuckin bad move on my part cos Amit goes an retaliates by tellin Hardjit how I’d been pervin over Samira Ahmed earlier that day.

—You shoulda seen him, he goes.—Afta we park’d up by Hounslow West, innit. Had his tongue hangin out da car window when she got off da bus.

—Fuck’s sake, Jas, goes Hardjit,—I ain’t caring how much u fancy a piece a her ass, u stay da fuck away from her. Dat bitch b trouble, u get me?

—Look, man, all I did was tell Amit that she’s fit, that’s all, bruv.

—No dat ain’t all, bruv. How many times I’ma gots 2 tell u she fuckin bad news? Shudn’t even b finkin bout her, fuck sayin shit bout her.

—Look, Hardjit, just cos she’s Muslim. I in’t sayin I wanna marry her, I’m jus sayin she’s fit. Wat’s wrong with that? You’re being racist, man. An anyway, the fact that she’s Muslim means it’d be even harder for me to get anywhere with her even if I wanted to, which I don’t. So what’s the big fuckin deal?

—Muslim ain’t got nuffink 2 do wid nuffink, Jas. Everyting u sayin got shit 2 do wid shit. Dere b Sikh n Hindu girls who act like hos n I stay da fuck away from dem too. Bottom line, da bitch is a ho n u best stay clear—less u want me 2 pull out yo tongue wid dese tweezers.

—OK, whatever, man. But it in’t right to call her a ho.

—I aksed u 2 shut da fuck up, Jas, I don’t wanna hear u sayin shit bout her or shit bout any shit no more, u get me? U seen dat bitch in action when she surround’d by munde? Trust me, I’m da expert. She a muthafuckin ho.

Ravi was even quicker to agree with Hardjit an Amit than he usually was. I should’ve buckled as well, but that would’ve contravened my sense a chivalry an shit. An so I carried on standin up for her, carried on defendin her ways. Right up until Hardjit raised his hand as if was gonna give me a thapparh across the face.

Rudeboy Rule #7:

It’s Basic Bollywood for Beginners. In situations that involve defending or rescuing a fit lady, you can stand tall with your front intact even if all your crew walk out on you or try an thapparh you. They call it being a hero. An when a lady’s got your hormones bubbling like two different types a toilet cleaner mixed together in a jacuzzi, you got no choice but to be a hero.

I’d wanted to get off with Samira since the first time I saw her, but I fell for her proply at Ritu Singh’s seventeenth birthday party. Ritu’d only invited me cos I used to help her with her English homework so I’d bought her a book. Her dad’d bought her a VW Golf an she ended up dancin with the keys round her neck before her mum walked up to her an told her she’d ruin her new Swarovski necklace underneath it. Can you imagine havin your mum an dad hangin with all your mates at your seventeenth? Most parents clear the fuck away soon as they’ve taken all their photos, sung ‘Heppi Birday’ an then passed round thookafied slices a birthday cake. But not Ritu’s. Her mum an dad stayed all the way through, right to the end, makin sure there weren’t no troublemakers, ruffians, smokin or underage drinkin. Her dad pretendin like he weren’t really checkin out her friends, her mum mingling as if she was only double her daughter’s age.

Back then I weren’t that tight with people like Hardjit, Amit or Ravi, so I just hung back with the coconuts who were standin around wonderin how come they weren’t on the dance floor with all the fit people. Even Ritu’s dad was on the dance floor, his blatant wig blatantly slidin outta place. He was dancin bhangra-style to some old-skool hip-hop tune by De La Soul an kept smiling at people who were crackin up at him. Then he kept wiping his thick moustache with his handkerchief an lassoing the sweaty thing around his head until everyone else moved off the floor. Everyone except Samira Ahmed, that is. She never once left the dance floor all the time I was watchin her. An the only time she was dancin without some fitlookin guy was when she was left on the floor with Ritu’s dad. From the way he was lookin at Samira an her tight black dress I knew his wife was gonna pull him away an that was the first an only time I saw Samira Ahmed without other people round her.