Londonstani. Gautam Malkani

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      I turned my back to the other guys an stared back out across the landing at the Kareena Kapoor poster. I carried on staring at it even as Amit started takin the mick. Stop dreamin, Jas. You couldn’t pull a nympho. Fuckin Seema mohti Patel is outta your league. That kind a thing. Still, I carried on staring, thankful that I weren’t a gimp into that whole Britpop/R.E.M. scene no more cos if I was I’d probly still be wearin skintight Levi’s 501s stead a my baggy Evisu’s. Skintight jeans hurt at times like this. Even Hardjit’s bedroom-door handle pointed upwards at the poster it shared a door with, though that was probly cos it’d been fixed upside down in another one a his dad’s drunken DIY moments.

       Rudeboy Rule #6:

      Although desi ladies should dress like Bollywood actresses, under no circumstances should desi men try to dress like their male co-stars. Bollywood actors are the only desi men on Planet Earth who’re allowed to wear skintight jeans. Watchin em carry it off as they carry the heroine outta the fountain during the soaked, see-through sari scene is just one more reason to sit through more Bollywood movies than you currently do. Must really fuckin hurt em though.

      Finally, Amit grabbed my arm, yanking me from Kareena Kapoor’s soft arms an then draggin me outta Bollywood altogether.—Kareena Kapoor ain’t nothin special, he goes,—none a dem Bollywood bitches is. It all make-up, innit. Even Aishwarya Rai ain’t all dat. Jus like I told’chyu boys earlier, I ain’t caring how many beauty contests all a dese bitches won. My bum is buffer’n dem.

      —Yeh, OK, Amit, we heard it all before, I give it, all pissed off as if my mum had just woken me up from a wet dream before it’d actually become one.—Let me guess, you pulled someone fitter than her last week, right?

      Sayin that turned out to be a bad, bad, fuckin bad move on my part cos Amit goes an retaliates by tellin Hardjit how I’d been pervin over Samira Ahmed earlier that day.

      —You shoulda seen him, he goes.—Afta we park’d up by Hounslow West, innit. Had his tongue hangin out da car window when she got off da bus.

      —Fuck’s sake, Jas, goes Hardjit,—I ain’t caring how much u fancy a piece a her ass, u stay da fuck away from her. Dat bitch b trouble, u get me?

      —Look, man, all I did was tell Amit that she’s fit, that’s all, bruv.

      —No dat ain’t all, bruv. How many times I’ma gots 2 tell u she fuckin bad news? Shudn’t even b finkin bout her, fuck sayin shit bout her.

      —Look, Hardjit, just cos she’s Muslim. I in’t sayin I wanna marry her, I’m jus sayin she’s fit. Wat’s wrong with that? You’re being racist, man. An anyway, the fact that she’s Muslim means it’d be even harder for me to get anywhere with her even if I wanted to, which I don’t. So what’s the big fuckin deal?

      —Muslim ain’t got nuffink 2 do wid nuffink, Jas. Everyting u sayin got shit 2 do wid shit. Dere b Sikh n Hindu girls who act like hos n I stay da fuck away from dem too. Bottom line, da bitch is a ho n u best stay clear—less u want me 2 pull out yo tongue wid dese tweezers.

      —OK, whatever, man. But it in’t right to call her a ho.

      —I aksed u 2 shut da fuck up, Jas, I don’t wanna hear u sayin shit bout her or shit bout any shit no more, u get me? U seen dat bitch in action when she surround’d by munde? Trust me, I’m da expert. She a muthafuckin ho.

      Ravi was even quicker to agree with Hardjit an Amit than he usually was. I should’ve buckled as well, but that would’ve contravened my sense a chivalry an shit. An so I carried on standin up for her, carried on defendin her ways. Right up until Hardjit raised his hand as if was gonna give me a thapparh across the face.

       Rudeboy Rule #7:

      It’s Basic Bollywood for Beginners. In situations that involve defending or rescuing a fit lady, you can stand tall with your front intact even if all your crew walk out on you or try an thapparh you. They call it being a hero. An when a lady’s got your hormones bubbling like two different types a toilet cleaner mixed together in a jacuzzi, you got no choice but to be a hero.

      I’d wanted to get off with Samira since the first time I saw her, but I fell for her proply at Ritu Singh’s seventeenth birthday party. Ritu’d only invited me cos I used to help her with her English homework so I’d bought her a book. Her dad’d bought her a VW Golf an she ended up dancin with the keys round her neck before her mum walked up to her an told her she’d ruin her new Swarovski necklace underneath it. Can you imagine havin your mum an dad hangin with all your mates at your seventeenth? Most parents clear the fuck away soon as they’ve taken all their photos, sung ‘Heppi Birday’ an then passed round thookafied slices a birthday cake. But not Ritu’s. Her mum an dad stayed all the way through, right to the end, makin sure there weren’t no troublemakers, ruffians, smokin or underage drinkin. Her dad pretendin like he weren’t really checkin out her friends, her mum mingling as if she was only double her daughter’s age.

      Back then I weren’t that tight with people like Hardjit, Amit or Ravi, so I just hung back with the coconuts who were standin around wonderin how come they weren’t on the dance floor with all the fit people. Even Ritu’s dad was on the dance floor, his blatant wig blatantly slidin outta place. He was dancin bhangra-style to some old-skool hip-hop tune by De La Soul an kept smiling at people who were crackin up at him. Then he kept wiping his thick moustache with his handkerchief an lassoing the sweaty thing around his head until everyone else moved off the floor. Everyone except Samira Ahmed, that is. She never once left the dance floor all the time I was watchin her. An the only time she was dancin without some fitlookin guy was when she was left on the floor with Ritu’s dad. From the way he was lookin at Samira an her tight black dress I knew his wife was gonna pull him away an that was the first an only time I saw Samira Ahmed without other people round her.

      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 СКАЧАТЬ