You are wanting it cheap and excellent hotels, isn't it?" He stared straight into my eyes, that enormous smile not wavering. There was something in the disk of his smile-a kind of mischievous exuberance, more honest and more excited than mere happiness-that pierced me to the heart. It was the work of a second, the eye contact between us. It was just long enough for me to decide to trust him-the little man with the big smile. I didn't know it then, but it was one of the best decisions of my life.
A number of the passengers, filing off the bus, began beating and swatting at the swarm of touts. The two young Canadians made their way through the crowd unmolested, smiling broadly and equally at the bustling touts and the agitated tourists. Watching them dodge and weave through the crowd, I noticed for the first time how fit and healthy and handsome they were. I decided there and then to accept their offer to share the cost of a room. In their company, the crime of my escape from prison, the crime of my existence in the world, was invisible and inconceivable.
The little guide grabbed my sleeve to lead me away from the fractious group, and toward the back of the bus. The conductor climbed to the roof with simian agility, and flung my backpack and travel bag into my arms. Other bags began tumbling to the pavement in an ominous cadenza of creaks and crashes. As the passengers ran to stop the hard rain of their valuables, the guide led me away again, to a quiet spot a few metres from the bus.
"My name is Prabaker," he stated, in his musically accented English. "What is your good name?"
"My good name is Lindsay," I lied, using the name from my false passport.
"I am Bombay guide. Very excellent first number Bombay guide, I am. All Bombay I know it very well. You want to see everything. I know exactly where is it you will find the most of everything. I can show you even more than everything."
The two young travellers joined us, pursued by a persistent band of ragged touts and guides. Prabaker shouted at his unruly colleagues, and they retreated a few paces, staring hungrily at our collection of bags and packs.
"What I want to see right now," I said, "is a clean, cheap hotel room."
"Certainly, sir!" Prabaker beamed. "I can take you to a cheap hotel, and a very cheap hotel, and a too much cheap hotel, and even such a cheap hotel that nobody in a right minds is ever staying there also."
"Okay, lead on, Prabaker. Let's take a look."
"Hey, wait a minute," the taller of the two young men interjected. "Are you gonna pay this guy? I mean, I know the way to the hotels. No offence to you, buddy-I'm sure you're a good guide and all-but we don't need you."
I looked at Prabaker. His large, dark brown eyes were studying my face with open amusement. I've never known a man who had less hostility in him than Prabaker Kharre: he was incapable of raising his voice or his hand in anger, and I sensed something of that even then, in the first minutes with him.
"Do I need you, Prabaker?" I asked him, my expression mock- serious.
"Oh, yes!" he cried in reply. "You are so very needing me, I am almost crying with your situation! Only God knows what terrible things are happening to you without my good self to guide your body in Bombay!"
"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.
