The Mountain Shadow

‘I’m sorry about your girl,’ he said. ‘It’s a sad business. Must be hell for her family. But don’t let your feelings push you into hasty action. The Company will let you burn, the next time you fuck up.’

I left the mansion and rode to the food stands for office workers at Nariman Point. I was still angry, and hungry. Standing with dozens of others, I ate hot bread rolls, filled with eggs, fried potatoes and spiced vegetables, and drank a pint of milk.

I’d been skipping meals, and ducking sleep. I had to work out. I had to stay sharp. Every street guy in the south would know within hours that I was officially out of the Company. There were a few, with grudges, who’d only held back because I was a Company man. They could come out snapping, when they knew I was a lone wolf.

Half an hour’s ride away on that cold river of truth was a gym, in Worli. Some abandoned mill complexes had been transformed into beauty parlours and health centres. A retired gangster from the Sanjay Company, named Comanche, had set up a gym there as his home and place of business.

He was a friend, a stand-up gangster, and we’d fought with knives against rival gangs together, twice, and been cut both times. That’s stuff you don’t forget.

Comanche was a true independent, allowing members of any mafia Company to exercise in his gym, and cops as well, so long as no-one said a word against the Sanjay Company.

I stripped to jeans and boots, and pushed weight for an hour. Half an hour of shadow boxing gave me a cool-down.

The kids in the gym, all local and poor, were shy at first, although doing the young manhood thing of making sure I clearly understood they weren’t afraid. When they saw that I was okay, they joined in the shadow boxing with me, training hard.

Showered, dressed and refreshed, I looked in the spotted mirror.

My eyes were bright, and clear. Calm settled on me like flakes of autumn. When all else fails, the sign above the mirror said, steel it out.

‘You need a lat machine,’ I said to Comanche, passing him enough money to buy a new lat machine.

Comanche looked at the money.

‘That was an expensive training session,’ he said, frowning.

‘Loved every minute of it. But put a little window in there, yaar. If someone ever forces me to imagine what a snake’s asshole smells like, I now know where to start.’

‘Fuck you,’ he laughed. ‘Seriously, what’s the money for?’

‘I’m hoping you’ll consider it a membership fee.’

‘But Company men are free. You know that.’

‘I’m not with the Company any more, Comanche. I’m freelance, now.’

I hadn’t said it to anyone but a close friend, and after so long in the brotherhood it sounded strange, even in my own ears.

‘What?’

‘I’m out, Comanche.’

‘But, Lin, it’s –’

‘It’s okay. Sanjay’s good with it. Happy, in fact.’

‘Sanjay’s . . . Sanjay’s . . . good with it?’

‘I just came from there, man. He’s good with it.’

‘He is?’

‘My word.’

‘Okay.’

‘But, I’ll need a new place to train, now that I can’t use the Company gym. So, how about it? Will you have me as a member?’

He was confused and afraid, but he was a friend, and he trusted me. His face gradually softened, and he extended his hand.

‘Jarur,’ he said, shaking hands. ‘You’re welcome here. But I have to say, you’d be wiser to leave Bombay, man, under the circumstances.’

‘Maybe, brother,’ I said, walking away. ‘But would She let me go?’

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Karla will be pleased

to accept the company of Shantaram

at 8 pm, in her suite.

It was written in her hand: the precise, fluent script I liked more than any other calligraphic style I’d ever seen. I wanted to keep it, but I was trading punches with a dirty world: if an enemy put his fingers on the note, I’d want to beat him for it.

I sat on the bike, burned the note, and then rode slowly toward Afghan Church to meet with Naveen.

I parked the bike behind a nearby bus stand. When I was with the Sanjay Company, I parked on any footpath in town. As a freelancer, I parked my bike out of sight.

The commemoration nave in the church featured dusty flags and pennants, with stone inscriptions to soldiers lost in two Afghan wars.

It was a military church and a battle chapel, erected as a monument to the fallen. There were still grooves in the pews for unforgotten soldiers to rest their rifles when they prayed, before and after obeying the order to kill Afghans, a people whose language they couldn’t speak, and whose culture they couldn’t understand.

The mournful church was almost empty. An elderly lady was sitting in a rear pew, reading a novel. A man and a boy knelt on the approach to the altar. The circle of stained glass above the altar seemed to float above their heads.

Naveen Adair was examining the brass eagle supporting the Bible stand. He was young, but confident. His hands were behind his back, respectfully, but his step was strong as he paced back and forth: a young man, fully inhabiting the space of his life.

He saw me watching him, and followed me to the deserted garden behind the church.