July 5, 2006
“Desi — self-referential term for the Indian diaspora that refers to people and culture. The Indian version of the term ‘Latino’” —Londonstani
Written in a mix of Indian languages, ebonics, text-message-speak, British slang, and Ali-G-style club-kid doggerel, the voice of Gautam Malkani’s novel Londonstani (Penguin 2006) comes across like a romp through adolescent Anglophonic fantasies of cinematic macho-Saxon badass, from A Clockwork Orange to Trainspotting and Shaun of the Dead or even Sexy Beast, but with random knotty bits of Indo-Pakistani lingo to curry the mix with ethnic asides. Part generic juvenile adventure story and pop-multi-culti product of globalization, the book works best so far at striking poses in the style of “designer desiness,” as Malkani’s narrator calls it.
“I still use the word rudeboy cos it’s been around 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” (Londonstani 5).
This reminds of both the Afro-Brit punk who wants to go rudeboy in Sid and Nancy and the typical sub-cultural breakdowns, like stoner versus rocker versus preppie, in movies from The Breakfast Club to Dude, Where’s My Car?. But the concept of “designer desi” suggests also a sort of “ghetto fabulousness” that seems informed equally by the outrageous, astral-pimp poses of a Kanye West or Andre 3000 plus Daddy Yankee holding his crotch in one hand and his gold-nameplate chingón-bling in the other.
“U a Paki jus like me. Even tho u b listenin to U2 or someshit. Are u 2 scared 2 look at us?” (Londonstani 21).
I’m most intrigued by the formulation of “desi” through a sense of Latino culture and diaspora. I first turned on to “desi” when I discovered Punjabi and Hindi DJ house-music mixes on Devon Avenue, like TS Soundz, sold in cheap cassettes with pixilated covers, one featuring the Taj Mahal blown up by a giant UFO, called “Hindipendence Day,” and another with homeboy DJs in buffalo stances, throwing signs and rocking turbans.
But it wasn’t just the music and a whole new lexicon of “hip” found in a bootleg-video store — the looks I would get from merchants, who would eventually ask if I was “desi,” seemed to bring me into the fold of my would-be Indo-Paki peoples. I’ve used this ethnic confusion, from time to time, to get the spicier food and the deferential looks of young desis in saris on Devon.
I would blend in and Pakicize myself, if it weren’t for the fact that a language I don’t know and a homeland-village I’ve never been to will be invoked at some point. Even so, when I tell the waiter or cashier that I’ve never been to Bombay, they look at me with a smile that says, “bullshit, desi!” Like they don’t believe me.
And so, I must visit Devon soon and peep the “designer desi garms,” as Malkani puts it, ready with “Wazzup desi?” for all the Asian peoples who, in novels and pop pieces like Londonstani, are upgrading from “coolies” to cool with a little help from MTV and Bollywood.
Posted by Benjamin at July 5, 2006 10:23 PM
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