Desis, blings and rudeboy finesse

This much-hyped novel by Gautam Malkani, centring on the adventures of a group of second generation Asians living in a grim London suburb, is narrated in a spicy expletive-heavy street slang cobbled together from gangsta' rap, text message speak, Cockney and Punjabi. It hurts the senses and pays scant attention to the rules and rigours of the English language. But as anyone living in London will appreciate, it does sound authentic.

'This is how dem bredren r speaking innit', as the protagonists might have put it.

For this Mr Malkani should be praised: he has put on paper a fresh, vibrant vernacular voice and in the process chronicled the lives of communities that have so far been woefully under-represented on London's literary scene. But is this enough to justify the attention Mr Malkani has already received for his debut novel. Described as a "literary sensation" and as the "Asian Irvine Welsh" Malkani was reportedly given a £300,000 advance for the novel and has already, apparently, turned down television serialisation offers in order to wait for a big Hollywood payday.

Not bad going for a Cambridge-educated Financial Times journalist who, one assumes, could scarcely have lived the life he writes about.

The novel - set in the grim London suburb of Hounslow "the car park capital of the world" and adjacent to Heathrow airport - centres on the adventures of a gang of second generation Asian teenagers: Hardjit, the thuggish, muscle-bound leader; Ravi, a sleazy wannabe hustler cruising the streets in his mum's lilac BMW; Amit, whose family are up in arms about his brother's impending wedding to a Hindu girl from a lower caste; and Jas, the once nerdish narrator with a speech defect who is desperately trying to fit in with his flyguy chums.

People are either desis, goras or coconuts -- black on the outside, white on the inside -- and life for Hindu, Muslim, Sikh and white youths is underpinned by the moral code that never the twain shall meet. Hardjit, as the toughest kid in the neighbourhood, regularly sorts out Muslims who dare to date Hindus and vice versa, and whites who don't show enough respect.

The novel begins with an exposition of when Paki can be used. Hardjit explains, inbetween kicks and punches, the social nuances of the term to a white boy he has falsely accused of uttering it.

"It ain't necessary for u 2 b a Pakistani to call a Pakistani a Paki .... Or for u 2 call any Paki a Paki for dat matter. But u gots 2 b call'd a Paki yourself. U gots 2 b, like, an honorary Paki or someshit …Us bredrens who don't come from Pakistan can still b call'd Paki by other bredrens if it means we can call dem Paki in return. But u people ain't allow'd 2 join in, u get me?"

Is that clear?

The youths, who have a nice little earner resetting mobile phones, get drawn into a vortex of criminality once they are introduced to Sanjay, a former pupil at their school who made it in the City but has now turned to major league crime. Although as Hardjit explains: "We in't wannabe badass gangsters or someshit ... We're businessmen innit."

While this plot progresses Jas is embarking on a cross-faith romance with a Muslim girl, Samira, which could get him seriously beaten up by near enough anyone in racially-fragmented Hounslow. Into the mix are thrown the problems faced by Amit's brother getting his mother to accept his lower-caste fiancé and by the end Jas has to deal with death, blackmail and heartbreak.

To be frank, the plot is a farrago of nonsense and too often the characterisation is lazy and cartoonish while the dialogue -- if not submerged in swearing -- can be plodding. The constant dropping of cultural references also becomes tedious. On the plus side however, it is an interesting exploration of a place in London where the "lager louts had more to fear from us lot than us lot to fear from them" and where Asian youths are obsessed with the "bling" of modern life, like fast cars and jewellery, and linguistic dexterity. It is also fascinating to learn about the social mores, or "rudeboy rules" of this generation. Jas narrates at one point: "I still can't attain the right level a rudeboy finesse. If I could I wouldn't be using poncy words like attain and finesse, innit. I'd be sayin' I couldn't keep it real or some shit."

It explores religious conflict and unity as when Jas explains Hardjit's philosophy: "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." There are also some near turns of phrase and even some interesting economic lessons about our informal economy.

Taken in the round it is also a perceptive analysis, on one level, of the fightback from Asian youths who have for too long been treated as second class citizens, and on another level a fascinating rites of passage tale which younger readers, whom one assumes the author is aiming for, will absorb. And, as mentioned earlier, it opens a window onto often invisible London communities.

Additionally there is a end-of-novel twist which certainly jolted me and forced a reassessment of all that has preceded.

Overall, it is an enjoyable, engaging romp; a good first novel with flashes of brilliance.

But because of the hype -- which is always impossible to live up to -- Malkani has been metaphorically elevated to heights he is not yet capable of reaching. He is no Tolstoy but one suspects his voice is going to be one that launches a thousand imitators. Let's just hope literary agents and publishers realise there is more to the lives of second generation Asians living in London than just bling. Let's hope a thousand flowers are allowed to bloom.

David Sanderson is a correspondent for The London Times.