Shantaram: A Novel

by Gregory David Roberts

  ‘I’m with you.’

  ‘At the moment, most of our ways of defining the unit of morality are similar in their intentions, but they differ in their details. So the priests of one nation bless their soldiers as they march to war, and the imams of another country bless their soldiers as they march out to meet them. And everybody who is involved in the killing, says that he has God on his side. There is no objective and universally acceptable definition of good and evil. And until we have one, we will go on justifying our own actions, while condemning the actions of the others.’

  ‘And you’re putting the physics of the universe up as a kind of platinum-iridium bar?’

  ‘Well, I do think that our definition is closer, in its precision, to the photon-second measure than it is to the platinum-iridium bar, but the point is essentially correct. I think that when we look for an objective way to measure good and evil, a way that all people can accept as reasonable, we can do no better than to study the way that the universe works, and its nature—the quality that defines the entire history of it—the fact that it is constantly moving towards greater complexity. We can do no better than to use the nature of the universe itself. And all the holy texts, from all the great religions, tell us to do this. The Holy Koran, for example, is often telling us, instructing us, to study the planets and the stars to find truth and meaning.’

  ‘I still have to ask the question, why use this fact about the tendency toward complexity, and not some other fact? Isn’t it still arbitrary? Isn’t it still a matter of choice as to which fact you choose to use as the basis for your morality? I’m not trying to be obtuse here—I really think it still seems quite arbitrary.’

  ‘I understand your doubt,’ Khader smiled, raising his eyes to the seasky horizon for a moment. ‘I, too, felt very sceptical when I first began along this road. But I am now convinced that there is no better way to think of good and evil, at this time. That is not to say that it will always be the best definition. With the measure of the metre, as well, there will be another, slightly better way to measure it, in the future. As a matter of fact, the current best definition uses the distance travelled by a photon of light in a vacuum, as if nothing happens in a vacuum. But we know that all sorts of things are happening in a vacuum. There are many, many reactions taking place in a vacuum, all of the time. I am sure that in the future an even better way to measure the metre will be found. But, at the moment, it is the best way that we have. And with morality, the fact of the tendency toward complexity—that the whole universe is doing this all the time, and always has—is the best way we have to be objective about good and evil. We use that fact, rather than any other, because it is the largest fact about the universe. It is the one fact that involves the whole universe, throughout the whole of its history. If you can give me a better way to be objective about good and evil, and to involve all the people of all the faiths, and all the non-believers, and the whole history of the whole universe, then I would be very, very happy to hear it.’

  ‘Okay. Okay. So the universe is moving along toward God, or toward some Ultimate Complexity. Anything that helps it along is good. Anything that holds it back is evil. That still leaves me with the problem of who judges the evil. How do we know? How do we tell whether any one thing we do will get us there or hold us back?’

  ‘A good question,’ Khader said, standing and brushing the creases from his loose, linen trousers and his knee-length, white cotton shirt. ‘In fact, it is the right question. And at the right time, I will give you a good answer.’

  He turned away from me to face the three fishermen, who’d stood with him and were waiting attentively. For a moment, I teased myself with the conceit that I’d stumped him with my question. But that prideful hope dissolved as I watched him talk with the barefoot fishermen. There was such apodictic certitude in Khader’s every pronouncement, such a decisive, incontrovertible assurance in the man, that it informed and composed even his stillnesses and silences. I knew that there was an answer to my question. I knew that he would give it to me when he judged the time to be right.

  Standing near him, I eavesdropped on his conversation. He asked them if they had any complaints, if there was any bullying of the poor men on the dock. When they told him there was none, just at that time, he asked them about the available work, and if the jobs were fairly distributed among those with greatest need. Reassured on that point as well, he asked them about their families and their children. The last of their conversation was about the work on Sassoon Dock’s fishing fleet. They told him about the mountainous, stormy waves, the fragile boats, the friends made at sea, and the friends lost at sea. He told them about the one and only time he’d sailed the deep water, during a violent storm, in one of the long, wooden fishing boats. He told them how he’d tied himself to the boat, and how fervently he’d prayed until they’d sighted land. They laughed, and then tried to touch his feet in a respectful goodbye, but he lifted them by the shoulders and shook hands with them, one by one. When he parted from them, they walked away with their backs straight and their heads high.

  ‘How was your work with Khaled?’ Khader asked me when we walked back through the dock.

  ‘Very good. I like him. I liked working with him. I’d still be with him if you hadn’t put me to work with Madjid.’

  ‘And how is that? How is it, with our Madjid?’

  I hesitated. Karla once said that men reveal what they think when they look away, and what they feel when they hesitate. With women, she said, it’s the other way around.

  ‘I’m learning what I need to know. He’s a good teacher.’

  ‘But … you made a more personal connection with Khaled Ansari, isn’t it so?’

  It was true. Khaled was angry, and there was a part of his heart that was always hate-filled, but I liked him. Madjid was kind and patient and generous with me, yet I had no feeling for him at all beyond a vague, premonitory unease. After four months in the black-market currency business, Khaderbhai had decided that I should learn the gold-smuggling trade, and he’d sent me to Madjid Rhustem. In his house overlooking the sea, among the affluent elite at Juhu, I’d discovered the many ways in which gold was smuggled into India. Khaled’s formula of greed and control applied to the trade in gold. Strictly enforced government controls on the import of gold crashed head-on with India’s insatiable demand for the yellow metal.

  Grey-haired Madjid controlled Khader’s substantial gold imports, and had been running the business for almost ten years. With inexhaustible forbearance, he’d taught me everything that he thought I needed to know about gold and the smuggler’s arts. His dark eyes had stared at me from beneath his bushy grey brows, hour after hour in the lessons. Although he commanded a large number of strong men, and could be ruthless with them when it was required, his rheumy eyes only ever showed me kindness. Still, I felt nothing for him but that bodeful uneasiness. When I left his house, after any lesson, a sense of relief flooded into me: a relief that washed the sound of his voice and the sight of his face from my mind, just as water might wash a stain from my hands.

  ‘No. There’s no connection. But he’s a good teacher, as I say.’

  ‘Linbaba,’ Khader replied, his deep voice rumbling over the name that the slum-dwellers used, ‘I like you.’

  My face flushed with emotion. It was as if my own father had said the last three words to me. And my own father never did. The power that those simple words had—the power that Khader had over me—made me realise how neatly and completely he’d come to fill the father’s role in my life. In my innermost, secret heart, a small boy that I used to be was wishing that Khader was my father—my real father.

  ‘How’s Tariq?’ I asked him.

  ‘Tariq is very well, nushkur Allah.’ Thanks be to God.

  ‘I miss him. He’s a great kid,’ I said. Missing him, I missed my own daughter. I missed my family. I missed my friends.

  ‘He misses you, too,’ Khader said slowly, and with what seemed to be regret. ‘Tell me, Lin, what d
o you want? Why are you here? What do you really want here, in Bombay?’

  We were approaching his parked car. Nazeer ran ahead on his short, thick legs to open the doors and start the engine. Khader and I stood close together, holding a stare.

  ‘I want to be free,’ I said.

  ‘But you are free,’ he replied.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Are you talking about Australia?’

  ‘Yes. Not only that. But mostly that.’

  ‘Don’t worry’ he said. ‘Nothing will ever harm you in Bombay. I give you my word. No harm will come to you, now, while you wear my name on the medal around your neck and while you work for me. You are safe here, Inshallah.’

  He held both my hands in his and murmured a blessing, just as he’d done with the owner of the Saurabh. I walked him to his car, watching as he stooped to sit. Someone had daubed the name Sapna on a grubby wall nearby. The paint was reasonably fresh, no more than a week old. If Khader had noticed, he gave no indication of it. Nazeer slammed the door, and ran around to the other side of the car.

  ‘Next week, I want you to start with my friend Ghani on passports,’ Khader said. Nazeer revved the engine, awaiting the instruction to leave. ‘I think you will find the passport business interesting.’

  He was smiling at me as Nazeer drove away, but it was Nazeer’s scowl, behind him, that lingered longest in my mind. The man hated me, it seemed, and sooner or later I would have to settle the matter with him. It was a measure of just how lost and lonely I was, in my exile, that I looked forward to fighting him. He was shorter than I was, but every bit as strong, and perhaps a little heavier. I knew it would be a good fight.

  I filed that future violence away under pending and impending, hailed a cab, and made my way to the Fort area. The commercial district of printers, stationers, warehouses, and light manufacturers, known simply as the Fort, served the office districts that surrounded it. The buildings and narrow streets of the Fort were some of the oldest in the city. The atmosphere of another age, an age of starched and formal courtesies, remained in those law firms, publishing houses, and other cerebral enterprises that had been fortunate enough to boast a Fort address for several decades.

  One of the newer businesses in the Fort was the travel agency owned through proxies by Khaderbhai, and managed by Madjid Rhustem. The agency handled the travel arrangements for thousands of men and women who worked on contracts in the Gulf States. On the legitimate side, the agency organised plane tickets, visas, work permits, and hostel accommodation in the Gulf. On the black-market side, Madjid’s agents arranged for most of the returning workers to wear from one to three hundred grams of our gold, per person, in chains, bracelets, rings, and brooches. The gold arrived in the Gulf ports from many sources. Some of it was obtained in legal bulk purchases. Much of it was stolen. Junkies and pickpockets and housebreakers from all over Europe and Africa stole gold jewellery and then sold it to their drug dealers and fences. A percentage of that gold, stolen in Frankfurt or Johannesburg or London, found its way through black marketeers to the Gulf ports. Khader’s men in Dubai, Abu Dhabi, Bahrain, and every other Gulf capital melted the gold into thick bracelets and chains and brooches. For a small fee, the contract workers wore the gold jewellery on their return to India, and our men collected it from them at the international airport in Bombay.

  Each year, the travel agency in the Fort area handled travel arrangements for at least five thousand contract workers. The gold they carried in was re-worked, when necessary, at a small workshop near the agency and then sold throughout the Zhaveri bazaar, or jewellery market. The profit from that one part of the gold operation was greater than four million American dollars a year, tax free, and Khader’s senior managers were all wealthy, well-respected men.

  I checked in with the staff at the Transact Travel Agency. Madjid was out, but the three managers were busy. When I’d learned how the gold-smuggling operation worked, I suggested that Khader’s agency should computerise its files, and maintain a database on the contract workers who’d successfully completed one mission for us. Khader had approved the suggestion, and the men were busy transferring hard-copy paper files onto the computers. I looked over their work, and was satisfied with their progress. We talked for a while, and when Madjid didn’t return I went to look for him at the small gold workshop nearby.

  Madjid looked up with a smile when I entered the factory, and then concentrated on the scales once more. Gold chains and bracelets, sorted into various grades, were weighed as individual pieces and weighed again in lots. The amounts were entered into a ledger and crossed-checked against a separate ledger kept for sales in the Zhaveri bazaar.

  On that day, not two hours after Khaderbhai had talked to me of good and evil, I watched the heaps of gold chains and heavy home-made bracelets being weighed and catalogued, and I felt myself plunging into a dark mood that I couldn’t shake off. I was glad that Khaderbhai had directed me to leave Madjid and to begin work with Abdul Ghani. The golden-yellow metal that excited so many millions, in India, made me uneasy. I’d enjoyed working with Khaled Ansari and his currencies. I knew that I would enjoy working with Abdul Ghani in the passport business: passports were, after all, the main game for a man on the run. But working with gold in such huge quantities was unsettling. Gold fires the eyes with a different kind and colour of greed. Money’s almost always just a means to an end; but, for many men, gold is an end in itself, and their love for it is the kind of thing that can give love a bad name.

  I left Madjid for the last time, telling him that Khaderbhai had other work for me. I didn’t volunteer the information that I was set to begin work with Abdul Ghani in the passport business. Madjid and Ghani were both members of Khader’s mafia council. I was sure they knew the substance of every decision affecting me before I knew it myself. We shook hands. He pulled me toward him in a clumsy, stiff-armed attempt at a hug. He smiled, and wished me luck. It was a false smile, but there wasn’t any malice in it. Madjid Rhustem was simply the kind of man who thought that smiling was an act of will. I thanked him for his patience, but I didn’t return the smile.

  When I made my last round of the jewellers at the Zhaveri bazaar, there was a quivering, agitated restlessness in me. It was the random anger that attaches itself to a sense of futility: the wide-eyed, fist-clenching anxiety that flares up often in a wasted life. I should’ve been happy, or at least happier. I had Khader’s assurance of safety. I was making good money. I worked every day with hoards of gold a metre high. I was about to learn everything I needed to know about the passport business. I could buy whatever I wanted. I was fit and healthy and free. I should’ve been happier.

  Happiness is a myth, Karla once said. It was invented to make us buy things. And as her words rippled on the stream of my dark feelings, as I remembered her face and her voice, I thought that maybe she was right, after all. Then I recalled those moments, earlier that day, when Khaderbhai had spoken to me as if he was speaking to his son. And there’d been happiness in that; I couldn’t deny it. But it wasn’t enough: true, and profound, and somehow pure as that feeling had been, it wasn’t strong enough to lift my spirits.

  My training session with Abdullah that day was intense. He accepted my taciturn mood, and we worked through the strenuous exercise-routine in silence. After a shower, he offered to give me a ride to my apartment on his motorcycle. We cruised along August Kranti Marg on our way inland from the coast at Breach Candy. We had no helmets, and the breeze of hot dry air streaming through our hair and loose silk shirts was a river of wind. Abdullah’s attention was suddenly taken by a group of men standing together outside a cafe. I guessed them to be Iranian, as he was. He wheeled the bike around, and pulled up about thirty metres from them.

  ‘You stay here with the bike,’ he said, killing the engine and kicking out the side stand. We both climbed off. He never took his eyes off the group. ‘If there is any trouble, you take the bike, and leave.’

  He strolled along the footpath toward the m
en, pulling his long black hair into a ponytail and removing his watch as he walked. I snatched the keys from the ignition of the bike, and set out after him. One of the men saw Abdullah and recognised him just as he approached. He gave a warning of some kind. The other men turned quickly. The fight started without a word. They swung wildly, flailing at him, and crashing into one another in their frenzy to land a punch on him. Abdullah stood his ground, covering his head with his fists held tightly to his temples. His elbows protected his body. When the fury of their initial attack abated, he struck out left and right, connecting with every punch. I ran up and joined him, dragging a man from his back. I tripped the man, forcing him against the straight edge of my leg until he fell. He tried to twist free of my grip, and dragged me down with him. I landed sideways to his body, with my knee on his chest, and punched him in the groin. He started to get up, and I swung round to hit him again, four or five times, on the cheek and the hinge of his jaw. He rolled over onto his side, and curled his knees into his chest.

  I looked up to see Abdullah drive off one of his attackers with a textbook right cross that splattered the man’s nose in a sudden explosion of blood. I jumped up to put my back against Abdullah’s, and shaped up in a karate stance. The three men who remained standing backed off, unsure of themselves. When Abdullah made a charge at them, shouting at the top of his voice, they turned and ran. I looked at Abdullah. He shook his head. We let them go.

  The Indian crowd that had gathered to watch the fight followed us with their eyes while we walked back to the bike. I knew that if we’d fought Indians—from any part of India, and any ethnic, religious, or class divide—the whole street would’ve joined in against us. Since the fight was between foreigners, the people were curious and even excited, but they had no desire to get involved. As we rode past them, heading for Colaba, they began to disperse.