He looked at Johnny, his eyes and his mouth wide open, and his hands raised in expectation. Johnny glowered at him, but the frown quickly softened into a broad smile, and he turned his attention to me.
"We made a decision for you," Johnny Cigar declared. "You will live with us. You are Prabaker's good friend. There is a place for you."
"Yes, Lin!" Prabaker added quickly. "One family is leaving tomorrow. And then, the day after tomorrow, that house will be yours."
"But... but..." I stammered, flattered by the generous gesture, and yet horrified at the thought of life in the slum. I remembered my one visit to Prabaker's slum only too well. The smell of the open latrines, the heart-breaking poverty, the cramp and mill of people, thousands upon thousands of people-it was a kind of hell, in my memory, a new metaphor that stood for the worst, or almost the worst, that could happen.
"No problem, Lin," Prabaker laughed. "You will be too happy with us, you will see. And you know, you're looking like a different fellow now, it is true, but after a few months with us you will look exactly the same as everyone else there. People will think you are already living in the slum for years and years and years. You will see."
"It is a place for you," Raju said, reaching out slowly to touch my arm. "A safe place, until you can save your money. _Our hotel is free."
The others laughed at that, and I joined them, inspired by their optimism and enthusiasm. The slum was filthy and crowded beyond imagining, but it was free, and there were no C-Forms for the residents. It would give me time to think, I knew, and time to plan.
"I... well... thanks, Prabu. Thanks, Johnny. Thanks, Raju. I accept your offer. I'm very grateful. Thank you."
"No problem," Johnny Cigar replied, shaking my hand, and meeting my eye with a determined, penetrating stare.
I didn't know then that Johnny and Raju had been sent by the head man of the slum, Qasim Ali Hussein, to look me over. In my ignorance and self-centeredness, I'd recoiled at the thought of the terrible conditions of the slum, and accepted their offer reluctantly. I didn't know that the huts were in much demand, and that there was a long list of families waiting for a place. I couldn't know, then, that offering a place to me meant that a family in need had missed out on a home. As the last step in making that decision, Qasim Ali Hussein had sent Raju and Johnny to my hotel. Raju's task was to determine whether I could live with them. Johnny's task was to make sure that they could live with me. All I knew, on the first night of our meeting, was that Johnny's handshake was honest enough to build a friendship on, and Raju's sad smile had more acceptance and trust in it than I deserved.
"Okay, Lin," Prabaker grinned. "Day after tomorrow, we come to pick up your many things, and your good self also, in the late of afternoon."
"Thanks, Prabu. Okay. But wait! Day after tomorrow-won't that ... won't that mess up our appointment?"
"Appointment? What for an appointment, Linbaba?"
"The... the... Standing Babas," I replied lamely.
The Standing Babas, a legendary cloister of mad, inspired monks, ran a hashish den in suburban Byculla. Prabaker had taken me there as part of his dark tour of the city, months before. On the way back to Bombay from the village, I'd made him promise to take me there again, with Karla. I knew she'd never been to the den, and I knew she was fascinated by the stories she'd heard of it.
Raising the matter then, in the face of their hospitable offer, was ungrateful, but I didn't want to miss the chance to impress her with the visit.
"Oh yes, Lin, no problem. We can still make a visit to those Standing Babas, with the Miss Karla, and after that we will collect up all your things. I will see you here, day after tomorrow at three o'clock afternoon. I am so happy you are going to be a slum-living fellow with us, Lin! So happy!"
He walked out of the foyer and descended the stairwell. I watched him join the lights and traffic stirring on the noisy street, three floors below. Worries waned and receded. I had a way to make a little money. I had a safe place to stay. And then, as if that safety allowed them to, my thoughts wound and spiralled along the streets and alleys to Karla. I found myself thinking of her apartment, of her ground-floor windows, those tall French doors that looked out on the cobbled lane, not five minutes away from my hotel. But the doors I pictured in my mind stayed shut.
And as I tried, and failed, to form an image of her face, her eyes, I suddenly realised that if I became a slum-dweller, if I lived in those squalid, squirming acres, I might lose her; I probably would lose her. I knew that if I fell that far, as I saw it then, my shame would keep me from her as completely and mercilessly as a prison wall.
