Londonstani. Gautam Malkani

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