Londonstani. Gautam Malkani

the dance floor an was sayin she din’t like being there when all the rudeboys started jumpin round with their bottles a beer, someone nearly elbowing someone in the face every ten seco nds. She was wearin tight jeans an a shiny white V-neck top. A capital V. In fact, the V was so big that the top had to have a white strap across her cleavage so that it looked more like an upside-down A. It was hard to focus on the words coming out her mouth stead a the letters on her chest—especially other times when she was wearin one a those capital U tops or just a B lyin on its back. Even when she was wearin a closed top, Samira Ahmed was way outta most guys’ leagues. She was probly outta Hardjit’s an Amit’s leagues an she was definitely way outta my league. Trust me, I seen proof a this. In fact, I see proof every day walkin down the street. Guys who’re fitter an tonker an better dressed than me going out with ladies who in’t nearly as fit as Samira. They say all this league system shit was just invented by insecure people as an excuse for being insecure. Damn fuckin right I’m insecure. I’m in a lower league than her, innit. By just accepting this hard fact a life I gradually learnt how to talk to her without slippin into some X-rated daydream bout her jumpin me on honeymoon before we even got to the hotel. Pretty soon it weren’t just bout the way she looked an the way I wanted to spend the rest a my life lookin at her. As well as a fit face, fit body, fit hair, fit way a walkin, fit way a dressin, fit way a smilin, laughin an breathin through her fit mouth, she also had a fit personality. An I mean the word personality in a nice way. Beauty on the inside, inner fitness, that kind a stuff.

      You din’t need to know Samira well to see her inner fitness cos she’d shove it in everyone’s face like it was a Wonderbra. All this ranting an raving that I’d hear in the sixth-form common room, in my dreams an in my daydreams. It weren’t the usual bitchin bout other desis or bollocks bout clothes, jewellery, make-up or film stars. Well, not exactly. I mean the last time I’d heard Samira Ahmed go off on one it actually was bout make-up. But stead a chattin bout some new shade a brown, she was going off on one bout whether it’s right for companies that make make-up an stuff to test their shit on animals. She thinks they should be allowed to, but only in the same way that the stuff is meant to be used by people. So, if a deodorant in’t meant to be sprayed in a person’s eyes, don’t spray it in a monkey’s eyes. I in’t makin all this up just to big Samira up, she honestly really is into her political shit. An I in’t meanin in a poncey, classical-music-an-carpet-slippers way. She even belongs to some group called Amnesty International, where she does someshit to do with women’s rights in Pakistan. An the only time I ever heard her bitch bout other people’s jewellery was when she went off on one bout Angolan conflict diamonds. An still no flab, no spots, no facial or underarm hair or anything.

      Even when she din’t have something big to say bout something she’d, like, unload onto you with a machine gun a questions, totally violating all them standard desi-girl rules that said all you should do is smile, look pretty, not get too mohti, do what you’re told by your elders an whoever else you’re s’posed to respect an maybe learn advanced as well as basic Indian cookin. She just couldn’t help breakin all a those rules that required desi girls to check themselves all the time, to check what they say an what they do. So while Hardjit an Amit may not’ve known what Amnesty International was, never mind havin a problem with Samira Ahmed belongin to it, they still had beef with her inner fitness cos, by breakin some sets a desi-girl rules an generally being the gorgeous way she was, it became too easy for her to break other rules an slip into being the way they din’t want any desi sister to be—whether she was Muslim, Sikh or Hindu. Take how Samira joked an chatted with guys bout stuff a good desi girl really shouldn’t be jokin an chattin bout. Mrs Ware is such a cow, I overheard her say one time in the sixth-form common room, I hate her lessons. She’s always moaning about this and complaining about that. I bet she’s the sort of woman who even complains while her husband and her are having sex.

      Another time Samira was askin some other guys whether they reckoned VPL was a turn-off or a turn-on, like as if she was doing undercover underwear market research for a thong company. An if a guy told her what star sign he was, she’d tell him if he was good in bed or not, even though her answer usually made the guy decide he din’t believe in astrology no more anyway. It was as if she needed guys to flirt with her, especially guys who she obviously din’t fancy an who she’d never wanna get with. Like she enjoyed being bounced around naked on the beds inside their heads. Clearly this weren’t exactly halal on her part an so it made some people call her a ho.

      So there I was that afternoon in Hardjit’s house, standin in the bathroom while he shaped his goatee. Defendin Samira once more like it was my duty in life. By the time Hardjit raised his hand to give me a thapparh I figured it was OK to back down cos I’d already made my point. But still Hardjit’d come back, askin me why the fuck I was tryin to be such a hero when she weren’t even there to hear me.—Matter a fact, she probly too busy actin like a ho wid her ho friend Ritu Singh right now, innit. Cos make no mistake, bruv, she a ho. Look at her, man, she fuckin dresses like a ho, like a slut in all her slitty miniskirts.

      —Yeh, blud, I seen her one time wearin a skirt dat look’d more like a belt, Amit gives it.—An wat’s wid her pussyn boots, man? As if any bloke wudn’t wanna laugh n chat n shag wid dat.

      —Thing is, bruv, she don’t even need 2 dress like a ho da way she flirts, Hardjit goes, to Amit now stead a me.—Blokes ain’t exactly havin 2 think hard 2 imagine her wearin no boots, no miniskirt n no nuffink. She loves it, man, she a ho.

      —No, Hardjit, she’s not, I say.—You guys’re makin me feel like fuckin Wyclef Jean sayin this again an again an again, but all this stuff you’re sayin, it don’t make her a ho. For all you know she’s still a virgin. She in’t no slut an she in’t no ho, that in’t fair, guys, an you all know it. In fact, Hardjit, you just put your finger on it just now. She’s a flirt. She’s just an attention-seeker an a flirt. You put your finger right on it.

      —I bet I can put ma finger wherever I want 2 wid her. Dat’s cos she a ho.

      —She’s a flirt.

      —Ho.

      —Flirt.

      —She a slut.

      —Look, I in’t backin down on this. You lot always tellin me to be more assertive an stand up for things I believe in. Well, I’m standin up for her, innit. She’s an attention-seeking flirt who likes it when guys flirt with her so she tries to encourage it, that’s all.

      —Fuck u, Jas, u lairy, lippy little shit, goes Hardjit.—U don’t know wat’chyu chattin bout. Let’s jus all stick wid our own kinds n chat bout sumfink else cos I’m sick a dis shit, a’ight?

      —Fine by me.

      Amit’s still raging, though, so Hardjit tries to make some jokes, calm things down, by givin it,—I reckon maybe Amit’s jus piss’d cos she ain’t never flirt’d wid him, innit.

      —‘Sup, bhanchod?, goes Amit.—Why you linkin up wid Jas now? Why’d I wanna flirt wid Samira anyway? Even if she was da fittest girl in da world, she still a Muslim. You think I’s gonna go out wid a Muslim n let ma dad gimme fifty thapparhs across ma face wid a brick?

      —Safe, Amit. But admit it, u did try n chat her up ages ago, goes Hardjit.—Don’t deny it, bruv, cos I was dere when u was actin all smoove wid her n dat.

      —Fuck you, man. Dat was years ago. I was jus practisin my technique, innit.

       7

      All you need to unblock a mobile fone an change its security code is the proper software on your laptop an the proper kind a data cable. But Amit’s kit, which he kept in one a them flash aluminium briefcases, also included a money counter an some small weighing scales. He was settin it all up on Hardjit’s bed when Hardjit’s mum came in the room with her tied-back silver hair an matchin silver tray full a samosas, pakoras, glasses a Coke an cups a chai. Aunty always made sure her samosas weren’t as hollow as most aunties made them, her pakoras not too oily, her chai not too masalafied an her Coke not too flat an with slices