Read Online The Mountain Shadow by Gregory David Roberts - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gregory David Roberts
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beside his bike, and pulled forward to match his pace, he turned his head to look at me. A smile edged serious shadows from his face, and he pulled over to the kerb, followed by Fardeen and Hussein.
I stopped close to him, and we hugged, still sitting on our bikes.
‘ Salaam aleikum ,’ he greeted me warmly.
‘ Wa aleikum salaam wa Rahmatullahi wa Barakatuh. ’ And unto you be Peace, and Allah’s mercy, and His blessings.
Fardeen and Hussein reached out to shake hands.
‘You are going to the meeting, I heard,’ Abdullah said.
‘Yeah. I got the call from Nazeer. I thought you’d be there.’
‘I am indeed going there,’ he declared.
‘Well, you’re taking the long way,’ I laughed, because he was heading in the wrong direction.
‘I have a job to do first. It will not take long. Come with us. It is not far from here, and I believe that you do not know this place, and these people.’
‘Okay,’ I agreed. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To see the Cycle Killers,’ he said. ‘On a matter of Company business.’
I’d never visited the den of the Cycle Killers. I didn’t know much about them. But like every street guy in Bombay, I knew the names of their top two killers, and I knew that they outnumbered the four of us by six or seven to one.
Abdullah kicked his bike to life, waiting for us to kick-start our own bikes, and then led the way out into the brawl of traffic, his back straight, and his head high and proud.
Chapter Six
I ’D SEEN SOME OF THE C YCLE K ILLERS, riding their polished chrome bicycles at suicidal speed through the market streets of the Thieves Bazaar. They were young, and always dressed in the same uniform of brightly coloured, tight-fitting undershirts, known as banyans , white stovepipe jeans, and the latest fashion brand of running shoes.
They all slicked their hair back with perfumed oil, wore ostentatious caste-mark tattoos on their faces to protect them against the evil eye, and covered their own eyes with identical mirror-finish aviator sunglasses, as polished as their silver bicycles.
They were, by general agreement among discriminating criminals, the most efficient knife-men money could buy, surpassed in skill by only one man in the city: Hathoda, the knife master for the Sanjay Company.
Deep within the streets and narrower gullies, clogged with commerce and the clamour for cash, we parked our bikes outside a shop that sold Ayurvedic remedies and silk pouches filled with secret herbs, offering protection against love curses. I wanted to buy one, but Abdullah didn’t let me.
‘A man’s protection is in Allah, honour and duty,’ he growled, his arm around my shoulder. ‘Not in amulets and herbs.’
I made a mental note to go back to the shop, alone, and fell into step with my stern friend.
We entered a shoulder-wide lane, and as the lane darkened, further from the street, Abdullah led us beneath an almost invisible arch bearing the name Bella Vista Towers .
Beyond the arch we found a network of covered lanes that seemed, at one point, to pass through the middle of a private home. The owner of the home, an elderly man wearing a tattered banyan and sitting in an easy chair, was reading a newspaper through over-large optical sunglasses.
He didn’t look up or acknowledge us as we passed through what seemed to be his living room.
We walked on into an even darker lane, turned the last corner in the maze and emerged in a wide, open, sunlit courtyard.
I’d heard of it before: it was called Das Rasta , or Ten Ways . Residential buildings and the many lanes that serviced them surrounded the roughly circular courtyard, open to the sky. It was a private public square.
Residents leaned from windows, looking down into the action of Das Rasta. Some lowered or pulled up baskets of vegetables, cooked food, and other goods. Many more people entered and left the courtyard through wheel-spoke alleys leading to the wider world beyond.
In the centre of the courtyard, sacks of
I stopped close to him, and we hugged, still sitting on our bikes.
‘ Salaam aleikum ,’ he greeted me warmly.
‘ Wa aleikum salaam wa Rahmatullahi wa Barakatuh. ’ And unto you be Peace, and Allah’s mercy, and His blessings.
Fardeen and Hussein reached out to shake hands.
‘You are going to the meeting, I heard,’ Abdullah said.
‘Yeah. I got the call from Nazeer. I thought you’d be there.’
‘I am indeed going there,’ he declared.
‘Well, you’re taking the long way,’ I laughed, because he was heading in the wrong direction.
‘I have a job to do first. It will not take long. Come with us. It is not far from here, and I believe that you do not know this place, and these people.’
‘Okay,’ I agreed. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To see the Cycle Killers,’ he said. ‘On a matter of Company business.’
I’d never visited the den of the Cycle Killers. I didn’t know much about them. But like every street guy in Bombay, I knew the names of their top two killers, and I knew that they outnumbered the four of us by six or seven to one.
Abdullah kicked his bike to life, waiting for us to kick-start our own bikes, and then led the way out into the brawl of traffic, his back straight, and his head high and proud.
Chapter Six
I ’D SEEN SOME OF THE C YCLE K ILLERS, riding their polished chrome bicycles at suicidal speed through the market streets of the Thieves Bazaar. They were young, and always dressed in the same uniform of brightly coloured, tight-fitting undershirts, known as banyans , white stovepipe jeans, and the latest fashion brand of running shoes.
They all slicked their hair back with perfumed oil, wore ostentatious caste-mark tattoos on their faces to protect them against the evil eye, and covered their own eyes with identical mirror-finish aviator sunglasses, as polished as their silver bicycles.
They were, by general agreement among discriminating criminals, the most efficient knife-men money could buy, surpassed in skill by only one man in the city: Hathoda, the knife master for the Sanjay Company.
Deep within the streets and narrower gullies, clogged with commerce and the clamour for cash, we parked our bikes outside a shop that sold Ayurvedic remedies and silk pouches filled with secret herbs, offering protection against love curses. I wanted to buy one, but Abdullah didn’t let me.
‘A man’s protection is in Allah, honour and duty,’ he growled, his arm around my shoulder. ‘Not in amulets and herbs.’
I made a mental note to go back to the shop, alone, and fell into step with my stern friend.
We entered a shoulder-wide lane, and as the lane darkened, further from the street, Abdullah led us beneath an almost invisible arch bearing the name Bella Vista Towers .
Beyond the arch we found a network of covered lanes that seemed, at one point, to pass through the middle of a private home. The owner of the home, an elderly man wearing a tattered banyan and sitting in an easy chair, was reading a newspaper through over-large optical sunglasses.
He didn’t look up or acknowledge us as we passed through what seemed to be his living room.
We walked on into an even darker lane, turned the last corner in the maze and emerged in a wide, open, sunlit courtyard.
I’d heard of it before: it was called Das Rasta , or Ten Ways . Residential buildings and the many lanes that serviced them surrounded the roughly circular courtyard, open to the sky. It was a private public square.
Residents leaned from windows, looking down into the action of Das Rasta. Some lowered or pulled up baskets of vegetables, cooked food, and other goods. Many more people entered and left the courtyard through wheel-spoke alleys leading to the wider world beyond.
In the centre of the courtyard, sacks of
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