‘Oh, yes!’ he cried in reply. ‘You are so very needing me, I am almost
‘I’ll pay him,’ I told my companions. They shrugged, and lifted their packs. ‘Okay. Let’s go, Prabaker.’
I began to lift my pack, but Prabaker grabbed at it swiftly.
‘I am carrying it your luggages,’ he insisted politely.
‘No, that’s okay. I’m fine.’
The huge smile faded to a pleading frown.
‘Please, sir. It is my job. It is my duty. I am strong in my backs. No problem. You will see.’
All my instincts revolted at the idea.
‘No, really…’
‘Please, Mr. Lindsay, this is my honour. See the people.’
Prabaker gestured with his upturned palm to those touts and guides who’d managed to secure customers from among the tourists. Each one of them seized a bag, suitcase, or backpack and trudged off, leading his party into the flak-traffic with brisk determination.
‘Yeah, well, all right…’ I muttered, deferring to his judgment. It was just the first of countless capitulations that would, in time, come to define our relationship. The smile stretched his round face once more, and he grappled with the backpack, working the straps onto his shoulders with my help. The pack was heavy, forcing him to thrust his neck out, lean over, and launch himself forward into a trundling gait. My longer steps brought me up level with him, and I looked into his straining face. I felt like the white bwana, reducing him to my beast of burden, and I hated it.
But he laughed, that small Indian man. He chattered about Bombay and the sights to be seen, pointing out landmarks as we walked. He spoke with deferential amiability to the two Canadians. He smiled, and called out greetings to acquaintances as he passed them. And he was strong, much stronger than he looked: he never paused or faltered in his step throughout the fifteen-minute journey to the hotel.
Four steep flights in a dark and mossy well of stairs, at the rear of a large, sea-front building, brought us to the foyer of the India Guest House. Every floor on the way up had carried a different shield-Apsara Hotel, Star of Asia Guest House, Seashore Hotel-indicating that the one building was actually four separate hotels, each one of them occupying a single floor, and having its own staff, services, and style.
The two young travellers, Prabaker, and I tumbled into the small foyer with our bags and packs. A tall, muscular Indian, wearing a dazzlingly white shirt and a black tie, sat behind a steel desk beside the hallway that led to the guest rooms.
‘Welcome,’ he said, a small, wary smile dimpling his cheeks. ‘Welcome, young gentlemen.’
‘What a dump,’ my tall companion muttered, looking around him at the flaking paint and laminated wooden partitions.
‘This is Mr. Anand,’ Prabaker interjected quickly. ‘Best manager of the best hotel in Colaba.’
‘Shut up, Prabaker!’ Mr. Anand growled.
Prabaker smiled the wider.
‘See, what a great manager is this Mr. Anand?’ he whispered, grinning at me. He then turned his smile to the great manager. ‘I am bringing three excellent tourists for you, Mr. Anand. Very best customers for the very best hotel, isn’t it?’
‘I told you to shut up!’ Anand snapped.
‘How much?’ the short Canadian asked.
‘Please?’ Anand muttered, still glowering at Prabaker.
‘Three people, one room, one night, how much?’
‘One hundred twenty rupees.’
‘
‘That’s too much,’ his friend added. ‘C’mon, we’re outta here.’
‘No problem,’ Anand snapped. ‘You can go to somewhere else.’
They began to gather their bags, but Prabaker stopped them with an anguished cry.
‘No! No! This is the very most beautiful of hotels. Please, just see it the room! Please, Mr. Lindsay, just see it the lovely room! Just see it the lovely room!’
There was a momentary pause. The two young men hesitated in the doorway. Anand studied his hotel register, suddenly fascinated by the hand-written entries. Prabaker clutched at my sleeve. I felt some sympathy for the street guide, and I admired Anand’s style. He wasn’t going to plead with us, or persuade us to take the room. If we wanted it, we took it on his terms. When he looked up from the register, he met my eyes with a frank and honest stare, one confident man to another. I began to like him.
‘I’d like to see it, the lovely room,’ I said.
‘Yes!’ Prabaker laughed.
‘Okay, here we go!’ the Canadians sighed, smiling.
‘End of the passage,’ Anand smiled in return, reaching behind him to take the room key from a rack of hooks. He tossed the key and its heavy brass nameplate across the desk to me. ‘Last room on the right, my friend.’
