Gregory David Roberts - Shantaram

More significantly, they used their inexhaustible, opiate-based income streams to hire new men: mercenaries who were paid well to fight dirty and to fight hard. Little by little, those gangs expanded their territories in turf wars that left a few of the toughest men dead, many more wounded, and cops all over the city lighting incense sticks to give thanks for their luck.

With similarly high profits derived from the new and insatiable market for imported, hard-core pornographic videos, some of the rival councils had accumulated enough money to acquire that ultimate status symbol for any criminal gang: a hoard of guns.

Envious of the wealth amassed by such gangs, infuriated by their territorial gains, and wary of their growing power, some of Salman Mustaan's men urged him to change his policy. First among those critical voices was that of Sanjay, Salman's oldest and closest friend.

"You should meet with Chuha," Sanjay said earnestly as he, Farid, Salman, and I drank chai at a little shop on Maulana Azad Road near the brilliant, green mirages of the Mahalaxmi Racecourse. He was talking about Ashok Chandrashekar, an influential strong-arm man in the Walidlalla gang. He'd used Ashok's nickname, Chuha, meaning the Rat.

"I've met with the fucker, yaar," Salman sighed. "I meet him all the time. Every time one of his guys tries to squeeze out a corner of our territory, I meet with Chuha to set it straight.

Every time our guys get in a fight with his guys, and give them a solid pasting, I meet with Chuha. Every time he makes an offer to join our council to his, I meet with him. I know the fucker too well. That's the problem."

The Walidlalla council held a contiguous border with our own.

Relations between the gangs were generally respectful but not cordial. Walid, the leader of the rival council, had been a close friend of Khaderbhai and, with him, was one of the original founders of the council system. Although Walid had led his council into the heroin and pornography trade that he, like Khaderbhai, had once despised, he'd also insisted that no conflict with Salman's council should occur. Chuha, his second in command, had ambitions that strained at the leash of Walid's control. Those ambitions led to disputes and even battles between the gangs, and all too often forced Salman to meet with the Rat at stiffly formal dinners held on neutral ground in a suite at a five-star hotel.

"No, but you haven't really talked to him, one on one like, about the money we can make. If you did, Salman brother, I know you'd find out he talks a lot of sense. He's making crores out of the fuckin' garad, man. The junkies can't get enough of the shit. He has to bring it in by fuckin' train. And the blue movies thing, man-it's going crazy. I swear! It's a fuckin' deadly business, yaar. He's making five hundred copies of every movie, and selling them for five hundred each. That's two-and-a-half lakhs, Salman, for every fuckin' blue movie! If you could make money like that by killing people, India's population problem would be solved in a month! You should just talk to him, Salman brother."

"I don't like him," Salman declared. "And I don't trust him, either. One of these days, I think I'll have to finish the madachudh once and for all. That's not a very promising way to start up a business, na?"

"If it comes to that, I'll kill the gandu for you, brother, and it will be my pleasure. But up to then, like, before we actually have to _kill him, we can still make a lot of money with him."

"I don't think so."

Sanjay looked around the table for support, and finally appealed to me.

"Come on, Lin. What do you think?"

"It's council business, Sanju," I replied, smiling at his earnestness. "It's got nothing to do with me."

"But that's why I'm asking you, Linbaba. You can give us an independent point of view, like. You know Chuha. And you know how much money there is in the heroin. He's got some good money ideas, don't you think so?"

"Arrey, don't ask him!" Farid cut in. "Not unless you want the truth."

"No, go on," Sanjay persisted, the gleam in his eyes brightening.

He liked me, and he knew that I liked him. "Tell me the truth.

What do you think of him?"

I glanced around at Salman and he nodded, just as Khader might've done.

"I think Chuha's the kind of guy who gives violent crime a bad name," I said. Salman and Farid spluttered their tea, laughing, and then mopped at themselves with their handkerchiefs.

"Okay," Sanjay frowned, his eyes still gleaming. "So, what... exactly... don't you like about him?"

I glanced again at Salman. He grinned back at me, raising his eyebrows and the palms of his hands in a Don't look at me gesture.

"Chuha's a stand-over man," I replied. "And I don't like stand over men."

"He's a what?"

"A stand-over man, Sanjay. He beats up on men he knows can't fight back, and takes whatever he wants from them. In my country, we call those guys stand-over men because they really do stand over little guys and steal from them."

Sanjay looked at Farid and Salman with a blank expression of confused innocence.

"I don't see the problem," he said.

"No, I know you don't have a problem with it. And that's okay. I don't expect everyone to think like me. Fact is, most people don't. And I understand that. I get it. I know that's how a lot of guys make their way. But just because I understand it, that doesn't mean I like it. I met some of them in jail. A couple of them tried to stand over me. I stabbed them. None of the others ever tried it again. The word got around. Try to stand over this guy, and he'll put a hole in you. So they left me alone. And that's just the thing. I would've had more respect for them if they'd kept on trying to stand over me. I wouldn't have stopped fighting them-I still would've cut them up, you know, but I would've respected them more while I did it. Ask the waiter here, Santosh, what he thinks of Chuha. They came in here last week, Chuha and his guys, and slapped him around for fifty bucks."

The word bucks was Bombay slang for rupees. Fifty rupees was the same amount, I knew, that Sanjay customarily tipped waiters and better-than-average cab drivers.

"The guy's a fuckin' millionaire, if you believe his bullshit," I said, "and he stands over a decent working guy like Santosh for fifty bucks. I don't respect that. And in your heart of hearts, Sanjay, I don't think you do, either. I'm not going to do anything about it. That's not my job. Chuha makes his graft by slapping people. I understand that. But if he ever tries to stand over me, I'll cut him. And I tell you, man, I'll enjoy doing it."

There was a little silence while Sanjay pursed his lips, twirled his hand palm upward, and looked from Salman to Farid. Then all three of them burst out laughing.

"You asked him!" Farid giggled.

"Okay, okay," Sanjay conceded. "I asked the wrong guy. Lin is a wild guy, yaar. He gets wild notions. He went to Afghanistan with Khader, man! Why did I ask a guy who's crazy enough to do that?

You ran that clinic in the zhopadpatti, and you never made a fuckin' paise out of it. Remind me of that, Lin brother, if I ever ask you for your business opinion again, na?"

"And another thing," I added, keeping a straight face.

"Eh, Baghwan!" Sanjay cried. "He's got another thing, yet!"

"If you think about the slogans, you'll understand where I'm coming from on this."

"The slogans?" Sanjay protested, provoking his friends to bigger laughter. "What fuckin' slogans, yaar?"

"You know what I mean. The slogan, or the motto, of the Walidlalla gang is Pahiley Shahad, Tab julm. I think I'm right in translating it as First Honey, Then Outrage, or even Atrocity.

Isn't that right? And isn't that what they say to each other as their slogan?"

"Yeah, yeah, that's their thing, man."