The Mountain Shadow

‘You . . . foreigner,’ he asked, ‘what do you think of Das Rasta?’

‘Ji,’ I said, using the respectful term equivalent to sir, ‘I was wondering how we were able to come in here without a challenge.’

‘We knew you were coming,’ Ishmeet replied smugly, ‘and we knew you were friends, and how many you were. Dilip Uncle, the old man reading the newspaper, do you remember him?’

‘Yeah. We passed right through his house.’

‘Exactly. Dilip Uncle, he has a button on the floor under his chair. The button rings a bell here in the courtyard. From the number of times he presses the button, and for how long, we can tell who is coming, friend or stranger, and how many. And there are many uncles like Dilip, who are the eyes and the ears of Das Rasta.’

‘Not bad,’ I allowed.

‘Your frown is another question, I think.’

‘I was also wondering why this is called Das Rasta, Ten Ways, when I can count only nine ways in and out.’

‘I like you, gora!’ Ishmeet said, using the word that meant white man. ‘Not many have noticed that fact. There are, in truth, ten ways into and out of this place, which is the reason for the name. But one of them is hidden, and only known to those of us who live here. The only way that you could pass through that exit is to become one of us, or be killed by us.’

Abdullah chose the moment to reveal his purpose.

‘I have your money,’ he said, leaning in toward Ishmeet’s well-oiled smile. ‘But there is a matter I must make clear, before I give it to you.’

‘What . . . matter?’

‘A witness,’ Abdullah said, speaking in a tone that was loud enough for me to hear. ‘You have a reputation for being so fast, in your work, that even the Djinn cannot see your blade strike. But in this assignment we gave to you, someone was allowed to see the deed. Someone who made a clear description of your men to the police.’

Ishmeet locked his jaw shut, glanced around quickly at his men, and then looked back at Abdullah. The smile returned slowly, but the teeth were still locked together as if they were holding a knife.

‘We will, of course, kill this witness,’ he hissed. ‘And at no extra charge.’

‘No need for that,’ Abdullah replied. ‘The sergeant who took the statement is one of ours. He thrashed the witness, and convinced him to change his story. But you understand that with a matter such as this, I must speak of it in the name of Sanjay himself. Especially since it is only the second assignment we have given to you.’

‘Jarur,’ Ishmeet hissed again. Certainly. ‘And I can assure you that you will never have to raise the question of witnesses again, for so long as we do business together.’

Ishmeet took Abdullah’s hand in his, held it for a moment, then stood, turned his back, and began to clamber to the top of his new throne of sacks. As he settled himself at the top of the pile once more, he spoke one word.

‘Pankaj!’ he said, speaking to the Cycle Killer who’d been sitting with me.

Fardeen took a package of money from his backpack. He passed it to Abdullah, who handed it on to Pankaj. As the Cycle Killer turned to climb up the pile of sacks he hesitated, and swung his gaze around to face me.

‘You and me, we never fight,’ he grinned, offering his hand once more. ‘Pukkah?’ Correct?

His wide smile and obvious, innocent pleasure in a new friendship would’ve been derided as naïve by the gangsters and outlaws I’d come to know in the Australian prison. But we were in Bombay, and Pankaj’s smile was as sincere as his willingness to fight me had been only minutes before; as sincere as mine.

Until I’d heard Ishmeet use his name, I hadn’t realised that the man I’d traded insults with was the second-in-command of the Cycle Killers, and as feared a knife-man as Ishmeet himself.

‘You and me,’ I said in Hindi, ‘we never fight. No matter what.’

His wicked grin widened, and he scampered athletically up the pile of sacks to give the package to Ishmeet. Abdullah raised his hand to his chest in farewell.

We followed Abdullah out through the labyrinth of lanes, through the living room where Dilip Uncle still sat, reading his newspaper, his foot hovering close to the button set into the floor, and then out into the street.

As we kicked the bikes to life, Abdullah caught my eye. When I met his gaze, his face opened in a rare, wide smile of happiness and exhilaration.

‘That was close!’ he said. ‘Shukran Allah.’

‘Since when did you start subcontracting?’

‘Two weeks ago, while you were in Goa,’ he replied. ‘The lawyer we hired, who betrayed our men to the police, and told them everything he had said in private?’

I nodded, recalling the anger we’d felt at the life sentence the Company men had received, based on their own lawyer’s treacherous information. An appeal of the conviction was pending in the courts, but our men were still in prison.