Reading: f*ckin wikid

It’s literary love-in time here in Toronto, with the arrival of over 100 writers participating in the 27th annual International Festival of Authors. There are 10 days of readings, panels and interviews scheduled, and the atmosphere is everything you’d expect from a literary festival sponsored by Starbucks (among others): civilised chatter over filter coffee, or perhaps a green tea; polite reverence, the occasional titter or gasp, and respectful applause.

So Gautam Malkani’s debut, reading from Londonstani , is like a collective happy-slap from the desis of Hounslow. “It’s quite brutal” he explains, before launching into the profanity strewn first chapter:

Serve him right he got his muthafuckin face fuck’d, shudn’t b callin me a paki, innit…

Malkani’s performance is excellent. Tall and slight, and perhaps slightly geekier-looking than you might expect, he speaks with confidence. His voice is that of a typical middle-class South Londoner, but it is flecked here and there with telling traces of his Hounslow upbringing. So even while he is explaining the genesis of the novel, in his Cambridge PhD dissertation on South Asian identity, the rapid-fire desi rudeboy never seems far from the surface.

I’m generally not a fan of readings. I find books are better on my own terms. Just as a book can be interpreted very differently depending on how you approach it (as a course requirement, having found the author’s photo attractive, or unattractive, beach reading, airport fodder, prize winner, classic…), so too with who is reading it to you. An annoyingly nasal voice, obsessive water-sipping, or strange emphasis or inflection can ruin a reading. You then have to factor in the obligatory crying baby, and the over-responsive audience member empathising demonstrably and guffawing at the slightest provocation… More than once I’ve found myself trying hard to pay attention, only to find myself thinking about what I’m having for dinner as the lights go up. Of course, I clap politely. But books play so much better in my head.

With so much talk about the growth of the cult of personality to the detriment of the actual work, readings seem to draw me too much towards the author. Check out my third paragraph. It should be about the book, right?

Malkani’s reading, however, is different. His energetic, almost theatrical performance brings the ’street’ vernacular of the novel to life. The linguistic mashup of hiphop terminology, txt msg spk and Punjabi slang is thrilling and impressive enough on the page, but Malkani’s interpretation takes it even further. Visceral and hugely engaging, the reading unleashes a latent humour I was only half-aware of when I read it myself. I suppose I was too busy marvelling at the linguistic dexterity, the rudeboy panache, and trying like a lame gorra white boy to master the pronunciation in my head (more often than not channelling Richard Madeley’s version of Ali G). The audience is enthralled and laughing hard. I’m disappointed when he finishes.

In just a short excerpt, the reading illuminated the material, hinting in the lives of Jas, Hardjit, Ravi and Amit a story of race, yes, but more than that, a very funny satire of male insecurity and middleclass alienation. As the lights come on and we file out of the hall, the chatter is enthusiastic and discursive, like when you come out of a great film or play. I’m definitely going to read the book again, and I might even go to a few more readings…

A book reading that’s enlightening and hilarious? Now that’s impressive, innit.