"A great man. A great manager," Prabaker gushed, when Anand was gone.
"You get a lot of New Zealanders here, Prabaker?"
"Not so many, Mr. Lindsay. Oh, but very fine fellows they are.
Laughing, smoking, drinking, having sexes with women, all in the night, and then more laughing, smoking, and drinking."
"U-huh. I don't suppose you'd happen to know where I could get some hashish, Prabaker?"
"Noooo problem! I can get it one tola, one kilo, ten kilos, even I know where it is a full warehouse..."
"I don't need a warehouse full of hash. I just want enough for a smoke."
"Just it happens I have it one tola, ten grams, the best Afghan charras, in my pocket. You want to buy?"
"How much?"
"Two hundred rupees," he suggested, hopefully. I guessed that it was less than half that price. But two hundred rupees-about twelve dollars American, in those years-was one- tenth of the price in Australia. I tossed a packet of tobacco and cigarette papers to him. "Okay. Roll up a joint and we'll try it out. If I like it, I'll buy it."
My two roommates were stretched out on their parallel beds. They looked at one another and exchanged similar expressions, raising their foreheads in sedimentary wrinkles and pursing their lips as Prabaker pulled the piece of hashish from his pocket. They stared with fascination and dread while the little guide knelt to make the joint on the dusty surface of the dressing table.
"Are you sure this is a good idea, man?"
"Yeah, they could be settin' us up for a drug bust or somethin'!"
"I think I feel okay about Prabaker. I don't think we'll get busted," I replied, unrolling my travel blanket and spreading it out on the bed beneath the long windows. There was a ledge on the window sill, and I began to place my keepsakes, trinkets, and lucky charms there-a black stone given to me by a child in New Zealand, a petrified snail shell one friend had found, and a bracelet of hawk's claws made by another. I was on the run. I had no home and no country. My bags were filled with things that friends had given me: a huge first-aid kit that they'd pooled their money to buy for me, drawings, poems, shells, feathers.
Even the clothes I wore and the boots on my feet were gifts that friends had given me. Every object was significant; in my hunted exile, the windowsill had become my home, and the talismans were my nation.
"By all means, guys, if you don't feel safe, take a walk or wait outside for a while. I'll come and get you, after I have a smoke.
It's just that I promised some friends of mine that if I ever got to India, the first thing I'd do is smoke some hash, and think of them. I mean to keep that promise. Besides, the manager seemed pretty cool about it to me. Is there any problem with smoking a joint here, Prabaker?"
"Smoking, drinking, dancing, music, sexy business, no problem here," Prabaker assured us, grinning happily and looking up momentarily from his task. "Everything is allow no problem here.
Except the fighting. Fighting is not good manners at India Guest House."
"You see? No problem."
"And dying," Prabaker added, with a thoughtful wag of his round head. "Mr. Anand is not liking it, if the people are dying here."
"Say what? What is he talking about dying?"
"Is he fuckin' serious? Who the fuck is dyin' here? _Jesus!"
"No problem dying, baba," Prabaker soothed, offering the distraught Canadians his neatly rolled joint. The taller man took it, and puffed it alight. "Not many people are dying here in India Guest House, and mostly only junkies, you know, with the skinny faces. For you no problem, with your so beautiful big fat bodies."
His smile was disarmingly charming as he brought the joint to me.
When I returned it to him, he puffed at it with obvious pleasure, and passed it to the Canadians once more.
"Is good charras, yes?"
"It's real good," the taller man said. His smile was warm and generous-the big, open-hearted smile that the long years since then have taught me to associate with Canada and Canadians.
"I'll take it," I said. Prabaker passed it to me, and I broke the ten-gram lump into two pieces, throwing one half to one of my roommates. "Here. Something for the train ride to Poona tomorrow."
"Thanks, man," he answered, showing the piece to his friend.
"Say, you're all right. Crazy, but all right."
I pulled a bottle of whisky from my pack and cracked the seal. It was another ritual, another promise to a friend in New Zealand, a girl who'd asked me to have a drink and think of her if I managed to smuggle myself safely into India with my false passport. The little rituals-the smoke and the drink of whisky-were important to me. I was sure that I'd lost those friends, just as I'd lost my family, and every friend I'd ever known, when I'd escaped from prison. I was sure, somehow, that I would never see them again. I was alone in the world, with no hope of return, and my whole life was held in memories, talismans, and pledges of love.
I was about to take a sip from the bottle, but an impulse made me offer it to Prabaker first.
