Shantaram полностью

‘I love him, my boy, because he is a mooring post in this city. Thousands of people find safety by tying their lives to his. I love him because he has the task, where other men do not even have the dream, of changing the whole world. I worry that he puts too much time and effort and money into that cause, and I have disagreed with him many times about it, but I love him for his devotion to it. And most of all, I love him because he is the only man I ever met-he is the only man you will ever meet-who can answer the three big questions.’

‘There are only three big questions?’ I asked, unable to keep the sarcasm from my voice.

‘Yes,’ he answered equably. ‘Where did we come from? Why are we here? Where are we going? Those are the three big questions. And if you love him, Lin, my young friend, if you love him, he will tell you these secrets, as well. He will tell you the meaning of life. And when you hear him speak, when you listen to him, you will know that what he says is true. And no-one else you will ever meet will answer these three questions for you. I know. I have travelled the Earth many times over. I have asked all the great teachers. Before I met Abdel Khader Khan, and joined my life to his, as his brother, I spent a fortune-several fortunes-seeking out the famous seers and mystics and renowned scientists. None of them ever answered the three big questions. Then I met Khaderbhai. He answered the questions for me. And I have loved him, as my brother, my soul’s brother, ever since that day. I have served him from that day until the little minute that we share. He will tell you. The meaning of life! He will solve the mystery for you.’

Ghani’s voice was a new current in the wide, strong river that carried me: the river of the city and its fifteen million lives. His thick, brown hair was streaked with grey, and smudged completely white at the temples. His moustache, more grey than brown, rested on finely sculptured, almost feminine lips. A heavy gold chain gleamed at his neck in the afternoon light, and matched the gold that flashed in his eyes. And as we stared at one another in that yearning silence, tears began to fill the redrimmed cups of his eyes.

I couldn’t doubt the real depth of his feeling, but I couldn’t fully understand it, either. Then a door opened behind us, and Ghani’s round face dissolved into its usual mask of facetious affability. We both turned to see Khaderbhai enter with Tariq.

‘Lin!’ he said, with his hands resting on the boy’s shoulders. ‘Tariq has been telling us how much he learned with you in the last three months.’

Three months. At first I’d thought it impossible to endure the boy’s company for three days. Yet three months had passed too swiftly; and when the time came to bring him home, I’d returned him to his uncle against the wishes of my heart. I knew that I would miss him. He was a good boy. He would be a fine man-the kind of man I once had tried, and failed, to be.

‘He’d still be with us, if you hadn’t sent for him,’ I replied. There was a hint of reproach in my tone. It seemed to me a cruel arbitrariness that, without warning, had put the boy with me for months and had taken him away just as suddenly.

‘Tariq completed his training at our Koranic school during the last two years, and now he has improved his English, with you. It is time for him to take his place at college, and I think he is very well prepared.’

Khaderbhai’s tone was gentle and patient. The affectionate and slightly amused smile in his eyes held me as firmly as his strong hands held the shoulders of the solemn, unsmiling boy standing in front of him.

‘You know, Lin,’ he said softly, ‘we have a saying, in the Pashto language, and the meaning of it is that you are not a man until you give your love, truly and freely, to a child. And you are not a good man until you earn the love, truly and freely, of a child in return.’

‘Tariq’s okay,’ I said, standing to shake hands and take my leave. ‘He’s a good kid, and I’ll miss him.’

I wasn’t the only one who would miss him. He was a favourite with Qasim Ali Hussein. The head man had visited the boy often, and had taken him on his rounds of the slum. Jeetendra and Radha had spoiled him with their affection. Johnny Cigar and Prabaker had teased him good-naturedly, and they’d included him in their weekly cricket game. Even Abdullah had developed an emotional regard for the child. After the Night of the Wild Dogs, he’d visited Tariq twice every week to teach him the arts of fighting with sticks, scarves, and bare hands. I saw them often, during those months, their silhouettes carved on the horizon like figures from a shadow-play as they practised on the one small strip of sandy beach near the slum.