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Londonstani
Gautam Malkani
‘Londonstani’, Gautam Malkani's electrifying debut, reveals a Britain that has never before been explored in the novel: a country of young Asians and white boys (desis and goras) trying to work out a place for themselves in the shadow of the divergent cultures of their parents’ generation.Set close to the Heathrow feed roads of Hounslow, Malkani shows us the lives of a gang of four young men: Hardjit the ring leader, a Sikh, violent, determined his caste stay pure; Ravi, determinedly tactless, a sheep following the herd; Amit, whose brother Arun is struggling to win the approval of his mother for the Hindu girl he has chosen to marry; and Jas who tells us of his journey with these three, desperate to win their approval, desperate too for Samira, a Muslim girl, which in this story can only have bad consequences. Together they cruise the streets in Amit's enhanced Beemer, making a little money changing the electronic fingerprints on stolen mobile phones, a scam that leads them into more dangerous waters.Funny, crude, disturbing, written in the vibrant language of its protagonists – a mix of slang, Bollywood, texting, Hindu and bastardised gangsta rap – ‘Londonstani’ is about many things: tribalism, aggressive masculinity, integration, cross-cultural chirpsing techniques, the urban scene seeping into the mainstream, bling bling economics, 'complicated family-related shit'. It is one of the most surprising British novels of recent years.
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 (#u8de02a27-8006-5fe2-a427-d96c28183ff9)
Title Page (#u68a1c75f-d572-56d6-becd-15d2677a4121)
Dedication (#u05b388b9-7fe3-5e6e-9af7-b91b82bbe951)
Praise (#u5cdfd5ea-7b31-5965-a828-a1da9bf524ee)
PART ONE: PAKI (#u13560430-694b-5225-8ea9-3aa38eb56207)
1 (#u966c0fd7-800b-5d9a-aec9-57c0d9c0e690)
2 (#u7dbee0dc-32e7-5cbb-811f-33251068613e)
3 (#u690bea2d-5825-5723-83f4-09cdfebbed59)
4 (#u399eb959-ac23-5bfe-bd85-3c4dcbea992d)
5 (#u354ec777-f54b-5686-a383-868393f6aefa)
6 (#u6bab7dc1-ae38-5787-b7e9-4689492a53b4)
7 (#u688229f6-6406-5523-87a3-02609c024c07)
8 (#u0efe07aa-e14f-5d20-ab3f-7cadeed1115f)
9 (#litres_trial_promo)
10 (#litres_trial_promo)
11 (#litres_trial_promo)
PART TWO: SHER (#litres_trial_promo)
12 (#litres_trial_promo)
13 (#litres_trial_promo)
14 (#litres_trial_promo)
15 (#litres_trial_promo)
16 (#litres_trial_promo)
17 (#litres_trial_promo)
18 (#litres_trial_promo)
19 (#litres_trial_promo)
20 (#litres_trial_promo)
21 (#litres_trial_promo)
PART THREE: DESI (#litres_trial_promo)
22 (#litres_trial_promo)
23 (#litres_trial_promo)
24 (#litres_trial_promo)
25 (#litres_trial_promo)
26 (#litres_trial_promo)
27 (#litres_trial_promo)
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS (#litres_trial_promo)
E-book Extra (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
PART ONE: PAKI (#ulink_ae1abd1c-bfd6-5c2d-ac1f-4140aac62a8a)
1 (#ulink_c5acad2c-c878-5a08-8693-a8815f69706f)
—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.
