Londonstani. Gautam Malkani

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