"We are here," he whispered, reaching out to knock with a complex series of taps and pauses. There was a scrape and clunk as a heavy bolt slid free, and then the door swung open, dazzling us with sudden bright light. Prabaker grasped my sleeve and dragged me with him. "Quickly, Lin. No big rats allowed inside!"
We stepped inside a small chamber, hemmed in by blank walls and lit from high above by a raw silk rectangle of sky. I could hear voices from deeper within the cul-de-sac. A huge man slammed the gate shut. He put his back to it and faced us with a scowl, teeth bared. Prabaker began to talk at once, placating him with soft words and fawning gestures. The man shook his head repeatedly, interjecting regularly to say _no, no, no.
He towered over me. I was standing so close to him that I could feel the breath from his wide nostrils, the sound of it like wind whistling through caves on a rocky shore. His hair was very short, exposing ears as large and nubbled as a boxer's practice mitts. His square face seemed to be animated by more strong muscle tissue than the average man has in his back. His chest, as wide as I was from shoulder to shoulder, rose and fell with each breath, and rested upon an immense belly.
The fine dagger-line of his moustache accentuated his scowl, and he looked at me with such undiluted loathing that a little prayer unfurled itself in my mind. Please God, don't make me fight this man.
He raised the palms of his hands to stop Prabaker's wheedling cajolery. They were huge hands, gnarled and calloused enough to scrape the barnacles off the side of a dry-docked oil tanker.
"He says we are not allowed inside," Prabaker explained.
"Well," I replied, reaching past the man and attempting with unforced enthusiasm to open the door, "you can't say we didn't try."
"No, no, Lin!" Prabaker stopped me. "We must argue with him about this matter."
The big man folded his arms, stretching the seams of his khaki shirt with little ripples of sound.
"I don't think that's such a good idea," I mumbled, under a tight smile.
"Certainly it is!" Prabaker insisted. "Tourists are not allowed here, or to any of the other people-markets, but I have told him that you are not one of these tourist fellows. I have told him that you have learned the Marathi language. He does not believe me. That is our problem only. He doesn't believe any foreigner will speak Marathi. You must for that reason speak it a little Marathi for him. You will see. He will allow us inside."
"I only know about twenty words of Marathi, Prabu."
"No problem twenty words, baba. Just make a begin. You will see.
Tell him your name."
"My name?"
"Yes, like I taught it to you. Not in Hindi, but in Marathi.
Okay, just begin..."
"Ah, ah, maza nao Lin ahey," I muttered, uncertainly. My name is Lin.
"Baapree!" the big man gasped, his eyes wide with genuine surprise. Good Lord!
Encouraged, I tried a few more of the phrases Prabaker had taught me during the last few weeks.
"Maza Desh New Zealand ahey. Ata me Colabala rahella ahey." My country is New Zealand. I am living in Colaba now.
"_Kai _garam _mad'chud!" he roared, smiling for the first time.
The phrase literally means, What a hot motherfucker! It's so frequently and inventively applied in conversation, however, that it can be loosely translated as Son of a gun!
The giant grasped my shoulder, squeezing it with amiable severity.
I ran through the range of my Marathi phrases, beginning with the first words I'd asked Prabaker to teach me-I love your country very much-and concluding with a request I was often forced to make in restaurants, but which must've seemed spectacularly inappropriate in the little alcove: Please turn off the fan, while I am eating my soup...
"Enough now, baba," Prabaker gurgled through his wide grin. When I fell silent, the big man spoke swiftly and exuberantly.
Prabaker translated for him, nodding and gesturing expressively with his hands. "He says he is Bombay policeman, and his name is Vinod."
"He's a cop?"
"Oh yes, Lin. A police-cop, he is."
"Do the cops run this place?"
"Oh, no. This is part-time work only. He says he is so very, very happy to meet you...
"He says you are the first gora he ever met who can speak Marathi ...
"He says some foreigners speak Hindi, but nobody foreigner can speak Marathi...
"He says Marathi is his language. His native place is Pune...
"He says they speak it a very pure Marathi in Pune, and you must go there to hear it...
"He says he is too happy! You are like a son to him...
"He says you must come to his house, and eat foods and meet his family...
"He says that will be one hundred rupees."
"What was that?"
"Baksheesh, Lin. To go inside. One hundred rupees, it is. Pay him now."
