Shantaram полностью

‘I’m not having many,’ I replied, trying hard to recall. ‘It’s weird, you know, but I’ve had nightmares for a long time-pretty much since the escape from jail. Nightmares about being caught, or fighting to stop them catching me. But since we’ve been up here, I don’t know if it’s the thin air, or being so damn tired and cold when I get to sleep, or maybe just worry about the war, but I’m not having those nightmares. Not here. I’ve had a couple of good dreams, in fact.’

‘Go on.’

I didn’t want to go on: the dreams had been about Karla.

‘Just… happy dreams, about being in love.’

‘Good,’ he murmured, nodding several times, and taking his hand from my shoulder. He seemed satisfied with my reply, but his expression was downcast and almost grim. ‘I, too, have had dreams here. I dreamed about the Prophet. We Muslims, you know, we are not supposed to tell anyone, if we dream about the Prophet. It is a very good thing, a very wonderful thing, and quite common among the faithful, but we are forbidden to tell what we have dreamed.’

‘Why?’ I asked, shivering in the cold.

‘It is because we are strictly forbidden to describe the features of the Prophet, or to talk about him as someone who is seen. This was the Prophet’s own wish, so that no man or woman would adore him, or take any of their devotions away from God. That is why there are no images of the Prophet-no drawings, or paintings, or statues. But I did dream of him. And I am not a very good Muslim, am I? Because I am telling you about my dream. He was on foot, walking somewhere. I rode up behind him on my horse-it was a perfect, beautiful white horse-and although I didn’t see his face, I knew it was him. So I got down from my horse, and gave it to him. And my face was lowered, out of respect, all the time. But at last, I lifted my eyes to see him riding away into the light of the setting sun. That was my dream.’

He was calm, but I knew him well enough to see the dejection that hooded his eyes. And there was something else, something so new and strange that it took me a few moments to realise what it was: fear. Abdel Khader Khan was afraid, and I felt my own skin creep and tighten in response. It was unimaginable. Until that moment I’d truly believed that Khaderbhai was afraid of nothing. Unnerved and worried, I moved to change the subject.

‘Khaderji, I know I’m changing the subject, but can you answer this question for me? I’ve been thinking about something you said a while ago. You said that life and consciousness and all that other stuff comes from light, at the Big Bang. Are you saying that light is God?’

‘No,’ he answered, and that sudden, fearful depression lifted from his features, driven off by a look that I could only read as a loving smile. ‘I do not think that light is God. I think it is possible, and it is reasonable to say, that light is the language of God. Light may be the way that God speaks to the universe, and to us.’

I congratulated myself on the successful change of theme and mood by standing up. I stamped my feet and slapped at my sides to get the blood moving. Khader joined me and we began the short walk back to the camp, blowing warmth into our frozen hands.

‘This is a strange light, speaking about light,’ I puffed. ‘The sun shines, but it’s a cold sun. There’s no warmth in it, and you feel stranded between the cold sun and the even colder shadows.’

‘Beached there in tangles of flicker…’ Khader quoted, and I snapped my head around so quickly that I felt a twinge of pain in my neck.

‘What did you say?’

‘It was a quote,’ Khader replied slowly, sensing how important it was to me. ‘It is a line from a poem.’

I pulled my wallet from my pocket, reached into it, and took out a folded paper. The page was so creased and rubbed by wear that when I opened it the fold-lines showed gaps and tears. It was Karla’s poem: the one I’d copied from her journal, two years before, when I went to her apartment with Tariq on the Night of the Wild Dogs. I’d carried it with me ever since. In Arthur Road Prison the officers had taken the page from me and torn it into pieces. When Vikram bribed my way out of the prison I wrote it out again from memory, and I carried it with me every day, everywhere I went. Karla’s poem.

‘This poem,’ I said excitedly, holding the tattered, fluttering sheet out for him to see. ‘It was written by a woman. A woman named Karla Saaranen. The woman you sent to Guptaji’s place with Nazeer to… to get me out of there. I’m amazed that you know it. It’s incredible.’

‘No, Lin,’ he answered evenly. ‘The poem was written by a Sufi poet named Sadiq Khan. I know his poems by heart, many of them. He is my favourite poet. And he is Karla’s favourite poet also.’

The words were ice around my heart.

‘Karla’s favourite poet?’

‘I do believe so.’

‘Just how well… how well do you know Karla?’

‘I know her very well.’