Gregory David Roberts - Shantaram

Tariq tugged at my wrists with both hands, pulling me to a stop.

He pointed at the entrance to the mosque, and then to the tower above it, where loudspeakers amplified the voice of the muezzin.

I shook my head, and told him we had no time. He planted his feet and tugged harder at my wrist. I told him in Hindi and Marathi that I wasn't a Muslim, and I didn't want to enter the mosque. He was adamant, straining to drag me toward the doorway until the veins stood out at his temples. At last he broke free from my grip and scampered up the steps of the mosque. Kicking his sandals aside, he darted inside before I could stop him.

Frustrated and wavering, I hesitated at the large, open archway of the mosque. I knew that it was permitted for non-believers to enter.

People of any faith may enter any mosque and pray, or meditate, or simply admire and wonder. But I knew that the Muslims regarded themselves as a minority under siege in the predominantly Hindu city. Violent confrontations between religionists were common enough. Prabaker warned me, once, that clashes had occurred between militant Hindus and Muslims outside that very mosque.

I had no idea what to do. I was certain there were other exits, and if the boy decided to run off there would be little chance of finding him. A throbbing dread drummed in my heart at the thought that I might have to return to Khaderbhai and tell him I'd lost his nephew, not a hundred metres from where he'd entrusted the boy to me.

Just as I made up my mind to go inside and search the mosque, Tariq came into view, passing from right to left across the huge, ornately tiled vestibule. His hands, feet, and head were wet, and it seemed that he'd washed himself hurriedly. Leaning as far into the entrance as I dared, I saw the boy take up a position at the rear of a group of men, and begin his prayers.

I sat down on an empty push-cart, and smoked a cigarette. To my great relief, Tariq emerged after a few minutes, collected his sandals, and came over to join me. Standing very close to me, he looked up into my face and gave me a smile-frown; one of those splendidly contradictory expressions that only children seem to master, as if he were afraid and happy at the same time.

"Zuhr! Zuhr!" he said, indicating that it was the time of the noon prayer. His voice was remarkably firm for such a small child. "I am thank you for God. Are you thank you for God, Linbaba?"

I knelt on one knee in front of him, and seized his arms. He winced, but I didn't relax the grip. My eyes were angry. I knew that my face looked hard and perhaps even cruel.

"Don't you ever do that again!" I snapped at him, in Hindi.

"Don't you ever run away from me again!"

He frowned at me, defiant and afraid. Then his young face hardened into the mask we use to fight back tears. I saw his eyes fill, and one tear escaped to roll down his flushed cheek. I stood, and took a step away from him. Glancing around me, I saw that a few men and women had stopped on the street to stare at us. Their expressions were grave, although not yet alarmed. I reached out to offer the boy an open palm. He put his hand in mine, reluctantly, and I struck out along the street toward the nearest taxi stand.

I turned once to look over my shoulder, and saw that the people were following us with their eyes. My heart was beating fast. A viscid mix of emotions boiled in me, but I knew that most of it was rage, and most of the anger was at myself. I stopped, and the boy stopped with me. I breathed deeply for a few moments, fighting for reasonable control. When I looked down at him, Tariq was staring at me intently with his head cocked to one side.

"I'm sorry I got angry with you, Tariq," I said calmly, repeating the words in Hindi. "I won't do it again. But please, please don't run away from me like that. It makes me very scared and worried."

The boy grinned at me. It was the first real smile he gave me. I was startled to see that it was very similar to Prabaker's lunar disk of a smile.

"Oh, God help me," I said, sighing all the way from the core of my bones. "Not another one."

"Yes, okay very much!" Tariq agreed, shaking my hand with gymnastic enthusiasm. "God help you, and me, all day, please!"

"When will she be back?"

"How should I know? Not long, maybe. She said to wait."

"I don't know. It's getting late. I gotta get this kid home to bed."

"Whatever. It's all the same to me, Jack. She said to wait, that's all."

I glanced at Tariq. He didn't look tired, but I knew he had to be getting sleepy. I decided that a rest was a good idea before the walk home. We kicked off our shoes and entered Karla's house, closing the street door behind us. I found some chilled water in the large, old-fashioned refrigerator. Tariq accepted a glass, and sat down on a pile of cushions to flip through a copy of India Today magazine.

Lisa was in Karla's bedroom, sitting on the bed with her knees drawn up. She was wearing a red silk pyjama jacket, and nothing else. A patch of her blonde pubic hair was visible, and I glimpsed reflexively over my shoulder to make sure that the boy couldn't see into the room. She cradled a bottle of Jack Daniels in her folded arms. Her long curly hair was tied up into a lopsided bun. She was staring at me with an expression of calculated appraisal, one eye almost closed. It reminded me of the look that marksmen concentrate on their targets in a firing range.

"So where'd ya get the kid?"

I sat on a straight-backed chair, straddling it, so that my forearms could rest on the back.

"I sort of inherited him. I'm doing someone a favour."

"A favour?" she asked, as if the word was a euphemism for some kind of infection.

"Yeah. A friend of mine asked me to teach the kid a little English."

"So, what's he doing here? Why isn't he at home?"

"I'm supposed to keep him with me. That's how he's supposed to learn."

"You mean keep him with you all the time? Everywhere you go?" "That's the deal. But I'm hoping to give him back after two days.

I don't know how I got talked into it in the first place, really."

She laughed out loud. It wasn't a pleasant sound. The state she was in gave it a forced and almost vicious edge. Still, the heart of it was rich and full, and I thought it might've been a nice laugh, once. She took a swig from the bottle, exposing one round breast with the movement.

"I don't like kids," she said proudly, as if she was announcing that she'd just received some distinguished award. She took another long drink. The bottle was half full. I realised that she was early drunk, in that squall of coherence before slurred speech and clumsiness and collapse.

"Look, I just want to get my clothes," I muttered, looking around the bedroom for them. "I'll pick them up, and come back and see Karla another time."

"I'll make you a deal, Gilbert."

"The name's Lin," I insisted, although that, too, was a false name.

"I'll make you a deal, Lin. I'll tell you where your clothes are, if you agree to put them on here, in front of me."

We didn't like each other. We stared across the kind of bristling hostility that's sometimes as good as, or better than, mutual attraction.

"Assuming you can handle it," I drawled, grinning in spite of myself, "what's in it for me?"

She laughed again, and it was stronger, and more honest.

"You're all right, Lin. Get me some water, will ya? The more of this stuff I drink, the goddamn thirstier I get."

On my way to the small kitchen, I checked on Tariq. The boy had fallen asleep. His head was tipped back onto the cushions, and his mouth was open. One hand was curled up under his chin, and the other still grasped weakly at the magazine. I removed it, and covered him with a light woollen shawl that was hanging from a set of hooks. He didn't stir, and seemed to be deep in sleep. In the kitchen I took a bottle of chilled water from the refrigerator, snatched up two tumblers, and returned to the bedroom.