Gregory David Roberts - Shantaram

Everyone knew about the bribes that were paid and taken. Everyone knew about the warning phone calls. Everyone profited, and everyone was well pleased. The worst thing about corruption as a system of governance, Didier once said, is that it works so well.

The headwaiter, a young Maharashtrian, hurried up to the car and nodded energetically as our driver ordered for us. Abdullah got out of the car, and walked to the long, crowded take-away counter. I watched him. He walked with an athlete's touchy grace.

He was taller than most of the other young men around him, and there was a striking, heads-up confidence in his bearing. His black hair was long at the back, reaching almost to his shoulders. He wore simple, inexpensive clothes-soft black shoes, black trousers, and a white silk shirt-but they suited him well, and he carried them with a certain martial elegance. His body was well muscled, and he looked to be about twenty-eight years old.

He turned toward the car, and I caught sight of his face. It was a handsome face, calm and composed. I knew the source of that composure. I'd seen the swift and lethal way he'd moved to disarm the swordsman at the den of the Standing Babas.

A few customers and all of the counter staff recognised Abdullah, and talked, smiled, or joked as he ordered cigarettes and paan.

Their gestures were exaggerated. Their laughter was louder than it had been moments before. They crowded against one another, and reached out to touch him often. It seemed that they were almost desperate to be liked by him, even just to be noticed by him. But there was hesitancy as well-a kind of reluctance-as if, despite everything in their talk and smiles, they didn't really like or trust him. It was also very clear that they were afraid of him.

The waiter returned, and passed our food and drinks to the driver. He lingered at the open window beside Khaderbhai, his eyes pleading to speak.

"Your father, Ramesh, he is well?" Khader asked him.

"Yes, bhai, he is well. But... but... I have a problem," the young waiter answered, in Hindi. He tugged nervously at the edge of his moustache.

Khaderbhai frowned, and stared hard into the worried face.

"What kind of problem are you having, Ramesh?"

"It's... it's my landlord, bhai. There is... there will be an eviction. I, we, my family, we are paying double rent already.

But the landlord... the landlord is greedy, and he wants to evict us."

Khader nodded thoughtfully. Drawing encouragement from his silence, Ramesh plunged on in rapid Hindi.

"It's not just my family, bhai. All the families in the building are to be evicted. We have tried everything, made very good offers, but the landlord will not listen to us. He has goondas, and those gangsters have made threats, and even done some beatings. My own father was beaten. I am ashamed that I have not killed that landlord, bhai, but I know that this would only bring more trouble on my family and the other families in the building.

I told my very honoured father that we should tell you, and that you would protect us. But my father is too proud. You know him.

And he loves you, bhai. He will not disturb your peace to ask for help. He will be very angry if he knows that I spoke of our trouble in this way. But when I saw you tonight, my lord Khaderbhai, I thought that... that the Bhagwan had brought you here to me. I... I am very sorry to disturb you..." He fell silent, swallowing hard. His fingers were white in their grip on his metal tray.

"We will see what can be done about your problems, Ramu,"

Khaderbhai said slowly. The affectionate diminutive of the name Ramesh, Ramu, provoked a wide, child's smile on the young face.

"You will come and see me tomorrow, at two o'clock sharp. We will talk further. We will help you, Inshallah. Oh, and Ramu-there will be no need to speak to your father about this, until the problem, Inshallah, has been solved."

Ramesh looked as though he wanted to seize Khader's hand and kiss it, but he simply bowed and backed away, muttering his thanks.

Abdullah and the driver had ordered plates of fruit salad and coconut yoghurt, and they ate with noisy appreciation when the four of us were alone. Khaderbhai and I had ordered only mango- flavoured lassi. As we sipped the iced drinks, another visitor came to the window of the car. It was the chief officer of the Haji Ali police post.

"A great honour to see you again, Khaderji," he said, his face writhing into a grimace that was either a reaction to stomach cramp, or an oily smile. He spoke Hindi with the strong accent of some dialect, and I found it difficult to understand. He asked after Khaderbhai's family, and then made some reference to business interests.

Abdullah put his empty plate down on the front seat, and drew a packet, wrapped in newspapers, from under the seat. He passed it across to Khader, who opened a corner of the packet to reveal a thick bundle of hundred-rupee notes, and then passed it casually through the window to the cop. It was done so openly, and even ostentatiously, that I felt sure it was important to Khader that everyone within a hundred metres would see the bribe made and taken.

The cop scrunched the parcel into the front of his shirt, and leaned aside to spit twice noisily, for luck. He came close to the window once more, and began to speak in a quick, urgent murmur. I caught the words body and bargain, and something about the Thief Bazaar, but I couldn't make sense of it. Khader silenced him with a raised hand. Abdullah looked from Khader to me, and then broke into a boyish grin.

"Come with me, Mr. Lin," he said quietly. "We will see the mosque, isn't it?"

As we got out of the car I heard the cop say loudly, The gora speaks Hindi? Bhagwan save us from foreigners! We walked to a deserted spot on the sea wall. The mosque, at Haji Ali, was built upon a small, flat island that was connected to the mainland by a stone path, three hundred and thirty-three steps long. From dawn to dusk, the tide permitting, that broad pathway was thronged with pilgrims and tourists. At high tide, the path was completely submerged, and deep waters isolated the island. Seen from the retaining wall on the road beside the sea, the mosque at night seemed like a great moored ship. Brass lanterns, throwing green and yellow light, swung from brackets on the marble walls. In the moonlight, the teardrop arches and rounded contours glowed white and became the sails of that mystic ship, and the minarets were so many towering spars.

On that night, the swollen, flattened, yellow moon-known in the slum as a grieving moon-hovered hypnotic-full, above the mosque.

There was a breeze from the sea, but the air was warm and humid.

Swarms of bats flying overhead, along the lines of electrical wires, thousands of them, were like musical notes on a strip of sheet music. A very small girl, awake past her bedtime and still selling ribbons of jasmine flowers, came up to us and gave Abdullah a garland. He reached into his pocket to give her some money, but she refused, laughing, and walked away singing the chorus of a song from a popular Hindi movie.

"There is no act of faith more beautiful than the generosity of the very poor," Abdullah said, in his quiet tone. I had the impression that he never raised his voice above that softness.

"You speak English very well," I commented, genuinely impressed by the sophisticated thought and the way he'd expressed it.

"No, I don't speak well. I knew a woman, and she taught me those words," he replied. I waited for more, and he hesitated, looking out over the sea, but when he spoke again it was to change the subject. "Tell me, Mr. Lin, that time at the den of the Standing Babas, when that man was coming for you with a sword-what would you have done if I was not there?"

"I would've fought him."