Shantaram

Four steep flights in a dark and mossy well of stairs, at the rear of a large, sea-front building, brought us to the foyer of the India Guest House. Every floor on the way up had carried a different shield-Apsara Hotel, Star of Asia Guest House, Seashore Hotel-indicating that the one building was actually four separate hotels, each one of them occupying a single floor, and having its own staff, services, and style.

The two young travellers, Prabaker, and I tumbled into the small foyer with our bags and packs. A tall, muscular Indian, wearing a dazzlingly white shirt and a black tie, sat behind a steel desk beside the hallway that led to the guest rooms.

"Welcome," he said, a small, wary smile dimpling his cheeks.

"Welcome, young gentlemen."

"What a dump," my tall companion muttered, looking around him at the flaking paint and laminated wooden partitions.

"This is Mr. Anand," Prabaker interjected quickly. "Best manager of the best hotel in Colaba."

"Shut up, Prabaker!" Mr. Anand growled.

Prabaker smiled the wider.

"See, what a great manager is this Mr. Anand?" he whispered, grinning at me. He then turned his smile to the great manager. "I am bringing three excellent tourists for you, Mr. Anand. Very best customers for the very best hotel, isn't it?"

"I told you to shut up!" Anand snapped.

"How much?" the short Canadian asked.

"Please?" Anand muttered, still glowering at Prabaker.

"Three people, one room, one night, how much?"

"One hundred twenty rupees."

"What!" the shorter one exploded. "Are you kidding me?" "That's too much," his friend added. "C'mon, we're outta here."

"No problem," Anand snapped. "You can go to somewhere else."

They began to gather their bags, but Prabaker stopped them with an anguished cry.

"No! No! This is the very most beautiful of hotels. Please, just see it the room! Please, Mr. Lindsay, just see it the lovely room! Just see it the lovely room!"

There was a momentary pause. The two young men hesitated in the doorway. Anand studied his hotel register, suddenly fascinated by the hand-written entries. Prabaker clutched at my sleeve. I felt some sympathy for the street guide, and I admired Anand's style.

He wasn't going to plead with us, or persuade us to take the room. If we wanted it, we took it on his terms. When he looked up from the register, he met my eyes with a frank and honest stare, one confident man to another. I began to like him.

"I'd like to see it, the lovely room," I said.

"Yes!" Prabaker laughed.

"Okay, here we go!" the Canadians sighed, smiling.

"End of the passage," Anand smiled in return, reaching behind him to take the room key from a rack of hooks. He tossed the key and its heavy brass nameplate across the desk to me. "Last room on the right, my friend."

It was a large room, with three single beds covered by sheets, one window to the seaward side, and a row of windows that looked down upon a busy street. Each of the walls was painted in a different shade of headache-green. The ceiling was laced with cracks. Papery scrolls of paint dangled from the corners. The cement floor sloped downwards, with mysterious lumps and irregular undulations, toward the street windows. Three small plywood side-tables and a battered wooden dressing table with a cracked mirror were the only other pieces of furniture. Previous occupants had left evidence of their tenure: a candle melted into the neck of a Bailey's Irish Cream bottle; a calendar print of a Neapolitan street scene taped to one wall; and two forlorn, shrivelled balloons hanging from the ceiling fan. It was the kind of room that moved people to write their names and other messages on the walls, just as men do in prison cells.

"I'll take it," I decided. "Yes!" Prabaker cried, scurrying away at once toward the foyer.

My companions from the bus looked at one another and laughed.

"I can't be bothered arguin' with this dude. He's crazy."

"I hear ya," the shorter one chuckled. He bent low and sniffed at the sheets before sitting down gingerly on one of the beds.

Prabaker returned with Anand, who carried the heavy hotel register. We entered our details into the book, one at a time, while Anand checked our passports. I paid for a week in advance.

Anand gave the others their passports, but lingered with mine, tapping it against his cheek thoughtfully.

"New Zealand?" he murmured.

"So?" I frowned, wondering if he'd seen or sensed something. I was Australia's most wanted man, escaped from a jail term of twenty years for armed robberies, and a hot new name on th Interpol fugitive list. What does he want? What does he know?

"Hmmm. Okay, New Zealand, New Zealand, you must be wanting something for smoke, some lot of beer, some bottles whisky, change money, business girls, good parties. You want to buy something, you tell me, na?"

He snapped the passport back into my hand and left the room, glaring malevolently at Prabaker. The guide cringed away from him in the doorway, cowering and smiling happily at the same time.