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September before that we’d both started sixth form, which was the first time I’d had lessons with girls since primary school. Did I ever get the seat next to Samira? Did I fuck. It weren’t even as if everyone in the lesson liked her, it’s just that those that did really did. At the same time, those that din’t really din’t. An Hardjit was one a those that din’t. Kids back in the sixth form reacted in ways you couldn’t predict when it came to Samira Ahmed. Din’t matter whether they were Muslim like her, Sikh like Hardjit or Hindu like Amit. Some Muslims, Sikhs an Hindus wanted to shag her, other Muslims, Sikhs an Hindus wanted to smack her. Generally, the more hardcore they were, the more likely that they’d have beef with her. This was odd, seeing as how she mostly hung around with hardcore desis. Matter a fact, it weren’t till I started kickin round with Hardjit an his crew in upper sixth that I started seeing Samira Ahmed more an more outside a school. Afternoon bhangra gigs, Treaty Centre library, Edward’s bar in Ealing Broadway, proper desi events in Hammersmith. First time I ever spoke to her proply was at this desi gig Hardjit’d taken me to cos all fifteen boys from RDB were doing a live set. That stands for Rhythm, Dhol an Bass in case you don’t know, they’re like the So Solid Crew a desi beats. They’d just started playin the opening track from The Lick an all the guys charged towards the dance floor. That’s when I met her proply. Or more like she met me. Straight up, started talkin. To me. An I in’t lyin, what she was sayin had got nothin to do with school or books or me helpin her with homework. She’d just come off 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 (#ulink_c8cedf0b-1c09-5ef8-a51b-e57401c6a012)

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 a lemon an some crushed ice made by their top-a-the-range fridge. We could’ve done without the red chilli sauce, though, an I’m positive we din’t look like we needed frilly pink paper doilies.

—Shukriya, Auntyji, we all said like cheerleaders as she placed the tray on the desk. Each a us then gives it another Shukriya as she handed us a mini-plate an then Shukriya again as she put a dollop a that red napalm in it. Gotta respect your elders, innit.

—Koi gal nahi, Hardjit’s mum replied.—You all boys must be verry hungery after college. So much studying, too too hard, I don’t know, poor beycharay.

She shook her head in that special way that only aunties can. Not up an down but not side to side either. More like a wobble, a really jiggly wobble meanin either she really meant what she was sayin or she’d got rolls a rasmalai for neck flab. All that noddin an wobbling made her light blue sari rub against itself so hard it sounded like some old-skool DJ scratchin vinyl. Suddenly, the DJ pumped his amp all the way up to ten as Aunty turned to look at all the cables, the weighing scales an money counter scattered around the laptop on the bed.

—Hardjit, beita, vot is this mess?

—Homework, Mama, we need the laptop.

—Haa? Vot lapdog?

—Laptop. I need his laptop…Mennu CORM-PEW-TAR di zaruraht hai, Mama. For school project.

—Acha, theekh hai. But please, beita, don’t ruffle bedcover. Is made from really real, genuine silk. I got from Aunty Nirmal in Mumbai. Beita, please, why not use desk Papa got for you? Then she started clearin some space on the desk by movin Hardjit’s collection a Hugo Boss aftershaves. He actually bought his own stead a just gettin them as recycled gifts from other relatives. There was a bottle a Hugo Man, Hugo Dark Blue, Boss In Motion, Boss Bottled, the original Boss Number One, Hugo Boss Baldessarini an even a limited edition blue ball a Boss In Motion. While she’s clanging the bottles together, Hardjit says something to us in Urdu slang so that his mum can’t understand. He always said a proper rudeboy shouldn’t just know either Hindi or Panjabi to keep shit secret from goras but also a little Urdu slang to keep shit secret from mums an dads. I’m still workin on my Panjabi, though I reckon I already know more than most coconuts do.

—See, there, see more space, Aunty goes.—Now, why not put laptop here? And, beita, phone me downstairs if you bache are still hungery after. I have plenty more pakoras in freezer.

An with that, Aunty left the room before we could say Shukriya again, scratch-scratch-scratchin all the way downstairs back to her important guest. She’d carefully shut Hardjit’s door behind her as if she knew we’d got more things to lay out on the bed that she din’t want to see. Twenty more things to be precise. Twenty more creases in the silk bedcover. From inside his bedroom, Hardjit’s door looked a lot less attractive. He’d stuck the Kareena Kapoor poster on the outside a the door cos his mum normly made him leave it open. Now that the door was closed, the view a Kareena had been replaced by a leather jacket an a pair a stripy pyjama bottoms hangin on a stick-on plastic peg that was shaped like Mickey Mouse’s nose. Some num-chuckers were wrapped around the door handle an the Adidas tracksuit top that normly hung over them to stop them rattling had slipped off into that dusty bit a carpet you get behind doors. Along his wall was a Bollywood princess hall a fame. Aishwarya, Raveena, Sushmita, Kareena again, Shilpa, Aishwarya again, an Rani. They were all there. Well, tiny little headshots a them anyway. He’d saved most a the wall space for a full-body shot a Arnold Schwarzenegger wearin just a headband an kachha as Conan the Barbarian an his poster a Bruce Lee’s bare torso from The Big Boss.

That afternoon, though, the fit Bollywood faces on the walls were nowhere near as gorgeous as the twenty fit fones laid out on the bed. Side by side like Ferraris an Maseratis in the car park a your dreams. There was a Nokia 6610 in there, a Motorola V300, a Sony Ericsson T630, a Nokia 8310 an also a couple a Samsung E700s. Serious merchandise for them days, even for a G like Davinder. Amit got to work on the fones, unblocking them an makin them untraceable. Pluggin them into his laptop like he was some film star deactivating a bomb. Red, blue, green? Just make up your fuckin mind an cut a fuckin wire. That left the rest a us sittin around, Hardjit flipping between MTV Base and the B4U desi music channel. I think bout maybe playin on Hardjit’s PlayStation2, but pluggin it into his flat-screen bedroom TV would mean I’d have to disconnect either the DVD player, video player, Sky Plus box or the Scart socket that lets him pump his TV through his hi-fi speakers. Fuck that. I in’t lyin, it was like Dixons in his bedroom. He’d even sorted himself out with an Apple iMac an a little fridge for his bodybuilding protein shakes. The only reason he needed to go downstairs was to use the hob, washing machine or microwave an even then only if his mum was sick. Matter a fact, all a us lot were pretty sorted in our bedrooms if you counted the Xbox Amit shared with his older brother Arun an which he’d probly get to keep when Arun got married later this year. Ravi’s set-up was pretty much the same as Hardjit’s an I had my cable TV an Nintendo GameCube. For some a us, the TV an DVD came before the PC an games console, for others it was the other way round. Either way, it started with havin your own fone.

I decide to start checkin out the luvvy-duvvy text messages an any other shit stored on the handsets before they got erased. Sometimes you’d find nuff dirrty texts but mostly it’d be stuff like ‘Thnx 4 yr msg’ or ‘I luv u 2 babe xx’. A couple a weeks back I remember readin one that said ‘Susy, reprt 2 my office 2 hv knickers removd’, but today’s fones all had pretty tame texts. Ravi’s sittin beside me, muckin around with one a the new Samsung E700s. It was a fone he already knew well cos he’d got his own E700 by legally upgrading his old Nokia 6310 a few weeks back. Ravi’d got three handsets in total, his others being a Nokia 8310 an a Nokia 7210. All three handsets worked on the same network, but his dad only paid the bill for one a them, the one he seemed to use the most. After the first a the E700s was unblocked, wiped clean an given a new identity, he decided it’d be a very hilariously funny thing to do to hide pornographic pictures in one a the fone’s data folders. He made sure they weren’t too well hidden, though, so that one day they’d pop up an surprise the fone’s new owner or, even better, the new owner’s new girlfriend. I guess he sent the pictures from his own E700 to the unblocked one. If he’d just kept his trap shut bout it, it might’ve been worth all his effort. But no, he had to boast bout it. To me, to Amit an, yes the fuckin thick-as-shit khota, even to Hardjit.

—Bhanchod, Amit goes, laughin an givin Ravi a high-five when he saw the porn he’d hidden in the fone.—We shud stick some whorehouse’s fone numba in there as well, store it like a business card. I started laughin too, even though I hadn’t actually seen it. Mostly I just wanted to help Hardjit see the funny side stead a developing his usual allergic reaction to Ravi’s pervertedness. Then, as if answering my plea, Hardjit started laughin too. A big Bollywood laughter moment this. Ha ha. Hah hah haha. Hah hahahaha. An just like all them Bollywood laughs, it turned out to be just another classic Hardjit front. Make your foe feel comfortable before makin them uncomfortable, just for effect or someshit.—Show me da fuckin fone, Ravi, or I break yo fuckin face.

—Sorry, Hardj, I closed da folders now, innit. It’s jus some pictures, blud. Jus for jokes, man.

—Well den, let’s jus open da fuckin folders n let’s jus laugh at da jokes, innit.

From their wrestling on Hardjit’s floor, it weren’t clear which a them actually opened up the pictures. But once they’d been opened one thing was clear. Like a bearded Muslim deciding it’d be a good idea to run up to Tony Blair an innocently ask for his autograph, Ravi’d reckoned it’d be a good idea to use pictures a not just any old porn star, but Miss Vagindia herself. A bearded Muslim wearin combat trousers an a camouflage jacket, barging past the security guards.—Excuse me, Mr Blair, Prime Minister? My name is Osama Hussein. Can please I have your autograph? Just please give me moment, I get pen from my pocket inside jacket.

Ravi’s head just missed the edge a the bed an when he chucked the fone at Hardjit it just missed his face. Even louder than the sound a the fone smashin against the wall was Aunty’s footsteps coming up the stairs.—Vot is this? Vot is this? she screamed. Man, did she have the rage or what.—Vot is going on? You all boys know I have guest in the house. Why all this tamasha?

—Sorry, Mama, I just got carried away playin around, Hardjit said.

—Carried? By whom?

—Carried away.

—Huh? Vot are you talking, Harjit? Who in whole world can carry you?

—No, not carry me, Mama…Oh forget it, Mama. It was nothin, I promise. We’ll be quiet now.

—Forget? I make you bache pakoras and samosas and you embarrass me in front of my guest with this, this…ruffian behaviour. Is this the way I bring you up? Like fighter-cock badmarsh ruffian? And already I tell you, no toys on bed.

Aunty started clearin up the glasses and plates, massaging her spine as she bent over, sayin things like Hai hai an Give me strength. Then she started givin it her usual shit, askin what had gone wrong in the world that young bache like us showed such a lack of respect for their elders.

—Ravi, Jas, your mamas will be ashamed of you if they know what you do in my house. All the time playing the fool in my house. Always. Play the fool. Good, good, verry good. Fail your exams, live on the street. Verry good.

She was doing that wobbly thing with her neck again, her sari makin the scratchin sound as she then pointed her guns, bazookas an thermonuclear missiles at Amit.

—And you! You too, Amit, vot I should tell your mama, huh? That you come to my house, eat my fresh-fried pakoras and act like council estate ruffian from the street?

—Aunty, I din’t do nothin. Those two were fightin. I was just sittin here.

—Hahn hahn, ji ji. Sitting on silk bedcover. Wait, I tell your mama.

This weren’t just tough talk on Aunty’s part cos she was really tight with Amit’s mum. She was tight with all our mums, but she an Amit’s mum were like sisters. Called each other Bhainji, shared the pickin an droppin from school, wore their best jewellery to each other’s satsangs. They’d even tried to convince their husbands to go into business together one time, become one big happy family. Hardjit’s mum figured his dad could make better bucks than he already did running nine twenty-four-hour local convenience shops in partnership with two a his cousins. Amit’s mum thought her husband could do better than the aeroplane catering business he ran with his brothers in Heston. Things hadn’t been the same since they lost the contract with Air India or whatever. In the end, though, both men stayed in their businesses by promising their wives rapid, five-year expansion plans. An now it was Amit’s turn to plead with Hardjit’s mum—who’d already taken out her mobile as if she was bout to dial his mum. But a course she was only pretendin to dial. How much a this whole Rottweiler routine was just pretend it was hard to tell. That’s the way with her. She’d play it as sweet as an angel’s fairy godmother but if you pissed her off you were as good as dog’s diarrhoea on those silk bedcovers. Fucked: that’s what we were.

The only way to dodge Hardjit’s mum’s nastiness was to never cross her in the first place, which might sound like simple advice but it in’t easy to follow cos it’s really easy to cross her. It’s like as if she’s addicted to being offended. All her friends seem to have this same addiction, especially this one hairy-faced auntyji who was always round there complaining bout this shit or that shit. If holdin a grudge was an Olympic sport they’d all have even more gold to decorate their wrinkly bodies with. They’d play it in teams, especially at wedding receptions. You’d see them there, all sittin together with their fake smiles like rows a substitutes on the bench.

Hardjit’s mum din’t give us all a bollocking for too long though, probly cos she figured the doilies an teacups downstairs were becoming emptier than the ones she was clearin up here. So she picked up the silver tray an, scratch-scratch-scratch, went back down to her guest as quickly as she’d come up in the first place. This time slammin the door so hard that the num-chuckers nearly slipped off the handle. They carried on swinging against the door for the whole three hundred hours it took for someone to say something. It was Ravi.—Shit, we bust’d da fone, he said as he picked the pieces a the smashed-up E700 off the floor.

—Uh, I don’t fuckin fink so, Ravi, u da one wat bust da fuckin fone, goes Hardjit, puffing out his chest an clenchin both his fists before rememberin his mother’s words bout the noise an backin down again like she was still in the room, holdin a gun to his bollocks or someshit.—Look, Ravi, he said calmly,—u da one who threw it across da room pretendin u was playin fuckin cricket wid it. So u da one wat’s gonna find us a new one cos no fuckin way I’ma tell Davinder we broke one a his fones.

—C’mon, bruv, man, how’ma get a new E700?

—Dat’s easy enuf, bruv. We just take yours, innit.

—Uh-uh. No way. Ma mum jus upgraded to dis last month. Dey won’t give her no more upgrades if we tell dem it got bust so soon.

—Well, I guess u’ll jus have 2 find one, innit.

—I know what, why don’t we ask Jas to gets one from his dad’s warehouse, innit? Da man’s bound to have E700s in stock.

Before I can even protest Hardjit comes out with,—Why da fuck shud Jas call on a family favour 4? It ain’t his bad, it yo bad so u sort it. Best make it quick time tho, cos we gots 2 give dese fones back 2 Davinder by Friday.

As Ravi stood there with his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, weighing up his options as if he had any, one a the mobiles on the bed suddenly started ringin. This should’ve made us jump cos the cops can track em if they’re pickin up a signal. But we all knew it was just Ravi’s mum callin one a Ravi’s Nokias. We knew this for two reasons. Firstly, his parents had one a them old mobile tariffs that was free after seven o’clock an rang on the dot if he weren’t back by then. Secondly, we all knew it was his mum cos Ravi’d got different ringtones for different people. She’d want to know why her son weren’t back from school yet. Was he shaming her by talkin to short-skirted kurhiyaan at the bus garage or had he just been kidnapped?

Amit’s parents, who lived three houses down from Ravi, would be gettin all worried too. We usually tried to get home before our dads got back from work so as not to give our mums another excuse to look at the kitchen clock an call us. But what happens when your dad works from home? Ravi’s dad had been offerin financial advice from behind an IBM Thinkpad in the living room for as long as I could remember. He made good bucks by it too, an best thing was he din’t have to commute in the traffic or sit there on the tube with all them plebs who can’t afford a decent car an the even plebier pricks who offer to stand up so that other plebs can sit down.

—Hahn, Mama, Ravi goes into his fone,—detention nahi hai, cricket club vich si…Hahn, Mama, OK, I’ll tell Amit…Hahn, eggs and naan bread from Budgens. OK, Mum, see you, bye. He closed his fone an turned to Amit.—I gots to chip now n yo mum wants you back quick time. Sound to me like it urgent.

—Oh fuck, Amit gives it,—I forgot we got anotha a dem family committee meetings bout ma brother’s wedding.

—I give you a lift, blud, goes Ravi.—Also, you gotta get eggs n naan on da way. Jas, lift to da tube station, right?

Before we left, Ravi tried to turn his mum’s polyphonic ringtone into a bell he could be saved by. But let’s face it, that weren’t ever gonna happen with the theme tune to Jaws.

—Hardj, man, fuck’s sake. How’ma jus find anotha E700, man?

—Not ma problem, bruv. Same way Davinder jus found all a dese.

—I thought you said we din’t jack fones, man. Dat ain’t where we at in da supply chain, you says.

—Yeh, but I ain’t ever said we b bowlin muthafuckin fones round like dey b fuckin cricket balls either, did I? Dat means dat 2moro, afta ma fight wid Tariq, u best not even show me yo face till u jack’d us a new E700 or I’ma mash u up like u mash’d up da fone.

It still seemed early cos we’d bunked off college most a the day. That really fucks up your sense a time. Like them nightclubs that hold bhangra gigs at two in the afternoon cos they know it’s the only time some desi mums’ll let their daughters go out. Not only was it still daylight as we left Hardjit’s house, but his little sister had only just arrived back from after-school netball practice. Hardjit’s mum was standin in the porch, arms folded, waitin for her. Waitin an watchin as her daughter got her big bag a netball kit from her friend’s mum’s car boot an said bye, bye an bye to her three netball buddies.

Did seeing all a that human warmth inspire Hardjit’s mum to get in on the action an say the same to us? Did it fuck. She was still vexed bout us showin her up in front a her guest. Times like this you’re even more grateful for fones. Means you don’t have to deal with your mates’ parents so much, at least not every time you fone em. It’s like I said with Rudeboy Rule #2: you’ve got your own fone, you call your own shots. Now all they need to invent is that other bit a gear from Star Trek, the one that just beams people wherever the fuck they want to go so they don’t have to deal with this kind a shit. We could just beam ourselves straight back to our own bedrooms, not even have to deal with our own mums.

You should have seen the face Hardjit’s mum made at us as we put on our shoes in the porch. It was the one where she was sayin her ways an standards were so great that even her after-chana-daal farts smelt as sweet as the jalabi an mango pulp she ate for dessert. She was obviously the smell version a deaf or blind cos what the fuck did she know bout what really went on under her nose? What bout the people-pulp made by her own darling son? Would she have made that face if she knew bout all the faces he’d ruined? Or if she knew the truth bout all those days when school or college just happened to finish an afternoon early? Or even bout them daytime bhangra gigs her daughter went to? How could anyone really think gigs in the afternoon made any difference? Daylight robbery is as easy as nite-time robbery for a good-lookin guy who spends enough time fixin his hair an workin out in the gym. Especially when the thing that’s being robbed is some snooty mum’s daughter’s dignity. The blanking Hardjit’s mum was givin us as we left his house was even more blatant cos a the way she exaggerated the hello an hug she gave her daughter. She was rewarded by being told she din’t need to take the netball kit to wash cos it weren’t that dirty. A course, we all still made a point a thankin her again for the pakoras, samosas, chai an Coke. We were rewarded with just enough noddin to ruffle her sari. Scratch-scratch. Gotta respect your elders, innit.

8 (#ulink_8c1670b5-a2ef-540a-b60f-7f9ac521644b)

It was the morning a Hardjit’s big fight an the two a us were kickin bout on the corner a Hounslow High Street an Montague Road. Right outside the Holy Trinity Church. All the other rudeboys hung bout by the bus stop outside WHSmith. All the fit Panjabi girls hung inside the Treaty Centre (where the security guards din’t chuck em out cos apparently it in’t loitering if you’re a fit Panjabi girl). Me, I get the Holy Trinity Church. The place looks more like some school sports hall stead a some church, an in case you’re ever hangin outside long enough to wonder why, there’s a sign tellin its history.

—Bruv? I go to Hardjit.—Bruv, d’you know the original church got burnt down by two schoolboys in 1943? Hardjit’s busy lookin too hard an slick to be hangin round with someone like me. So I try again.—This one here was rebuilt in the 1960s, in the exact same spot.

—No shit, Jas. Does it look like I give a shit? Som’times I’s embarrass’d 2 b hangin round wid’chyu. Why da fuck’d I wanna know bout some church’s history 4? Do I look like a vicar? U da one wat probly likes choirboys.

I tell him he shouldn’t be dissin Christianity, that he should check out his mum during Christmas time. You can tell from the way his eyes kick back that he’s considering this for a minute: the way his mum always sends out Christmas cards with a picture a the Nativity on them. How she even puts up a plastic Christmas tree with an angel on the top, right next to the Buddha statue they got in their living room. She told me it’s cos she believed all the different Gods are all part a the same crew.

—Look, don’t b cussin ma mum, Jas. Least ma mum’s got friends to send cards to. I ain’t jokin wid’chyu, man. U wanna start actin like a coconut then go inside here n start prayin. Betta b prayin dat I don’t break yo ass 4 bein a gimp.

Just before a fight was a pretty good time to be gettin down to some serious prayin. Lord, maketh me victorious in battle or whatever. Then again, maybe that’s bollocks, maybe God don’t cheer people on when they bruck each other. I mean, chanting Om Shanti, Shanti wouldn’t exactly make sense right now cos Shanti means peace. Anyway, whatever the Hindu, Christian, Sikh or Muslim Gods thought bout whatever Hardjit intended to do to Tariq’s face today, the bredren hadn’t come out here to the Holy Trinity Church to say a prayer for victory. He hadn’t come here to pray for forgiveness either an I’m pretty sure he din’t know what irony was so that also weren’t the reason we were hangin round outside a church. We were waitin for Ravi an Amit to show up in the Beemer before we all headed down to Tariq an his crew. Waitin for fuckin ages.

Hardjit kept sayin something bout how, in life, you gotta be a man an scrap a lick with fools now an then. That in’t an option, he said. But why you fight them is. Today, Hardjit was gonna teach Tariq a lesson or two for going out with a Sikh girl an then tryin to convert her to Islam. That’s, like, the desi version a someone fuckin your wife. Sikh bredren’re always accusing Muslim guys a tryin to convert their Sikh sisters. Seems that they even got a proper word for it: sisterising. Sometimes the Sikh girls’d start cryin, sayin they’d used brainwashing techniques an that. Sometimes this shit even turned out to be true. Sometimes, though, it was just the girl’s way a dumpin some good-lookin Muslim guy she’d been seeing without gettin killed by her community for seeing him in the first place. The desi version a waking up the next morning an thinkin, Oh fuck, I best say he raped me. It’s not my fault, he brainwashed me into his religion. I said no, please no, but he forced it into me.

Truth is, none a us knew whether the girl that today’s fight was bout was tellin the truth or not. Matter a fact, we din’t even know her name. What we did know was that her parents were dyin a shame, her two older brothers had got a restraining order put on them by the feds an all her cousins lived in Birmingham. So it was up to some other Sikh guy to sort things out, an round here that other Sikh guy normly meant Hardjit. Even Hindu kids called on him when they’d got beef to settle. You know how the people a Gotham City’ve got that Bat signal for whenever they need to call Batman? The homeboys a Hounslow an Southall should have two signals for Hardjit: an Om for when Hindus needed him an a Khanda for when Sikhs needed him. He always used to go on bout how Sikhs an Hindus fought side by side in all them wars. Both got beef with Muslims. Both support India at cricket. Both be listenin to bhangra, even though Sikh bredren clearly dance better to it. He says Sikhs were the warriors a Hinduism one time. Like the SAS but in a religious way too, so more like Jedi Knights. But even though Hardjit said all a this stuff, he din’t like the way his mum had hung up pictures a Hindu Gods on their landing at home next to their pictures a Gurus. But then there in’t no point tryin to talk to your mum or dad bout religion, innit. They don’t know jack bout religion. I seen Hardjit win arguments with his dad by quoting bits a the Guru Granth Sahib that his dad din’t even know—like them hardcore Muslim kids who keep tellin their parents what it says in the Koran.

If Hardjit din’t like his mum’s definition a Sikhism, Amit an his older brother Arun hated their mum’s definition a Hinduism. I remember one time we’d all been round their house during one a their mum’s high-society satsangs. Snuck a peep round the livingroom door a couple a times, watched all the aunties in their pashmina shawls, sittin on the floor, sayin all the usual prayers, singin all the usual bhajans an singin prayers in the form a bhajans. Those a them with bad back problems or diabetes sat on the leather cowhide sofas, which was just as well cos all this sittin on the floor business usually meant some serious strategic crisis for Amit an Arun’s mum. How to help the oldies stand up on their feet again? How to rearrange the furniture? Where to put the cups a masala tea? They couldn’t exactly use their expensive coffee tables with the golden legs cos they’d be too high for those on the floor an’d been moved to the corners a the room for protection anyway. An they couldn’t put the cups on the floor in case one spilt an ruined the expensive silk an satin sheets that’d been laid down especially to protect the carpet.

Arun was chattin to me bout it while Amit, Ravi an Hardjit were playin on their Xbox. He was a safe guy, Arun. Two years older than Amit, but smaller an with no facial hair. He could’ve even been part a the crew but he spent most a his time with this girl he’d got engaged to. He also weren’t exactly a proper rudeboy cos he had these boffiny tendencies, but he weren’t a coconut either. He always wore jeans, a white T-shirt an a biker jacket made a canvas cos he said it made no sense wearin leather if you din’t eat beef. Anyway, while he was dissin the satsang going on downstairs, he told me it’d been even worse in the afternoon, before all his mum’s guests arrived. Apparently she’d done so much screamin an shoutin at him, Amit an their dad to tidy the house an wear socks without holes, that Arun reckoned it was amazing she’d still got a voice left for singin bhajans.