Free The Mountain Shadow by Gregory David Roberts

grain and pulses had been heaped together in a pile twice the height of a man. The sacks formed a small pyramid of thrones, and seated on them at various levels were the Cycle Killers.
    In the topmost improvised throne was Ishmeet, the leader. His long hair had never been cut, according to Sikh religious tradition, but his observance of Sikhism stopped there.
    His hair wasn’t held in a neat turban, but fell freely to his narrow waist. His thin, bare arms were covered in tattoos, depicting his many murders and gang war victories. There were two long, curved knives in decorated scabbards tucked into the belt of his tight jeans.
    ‘ Salaam aleikum ,’ he said lazily, greeting Abdullah as we approached his tower of thrones.
    ‘ Wa aleikum salaam ,’ Abdullah replied.
    ‘Who’s the dog-face you’ve got with you?’ a man sitting close to Ishmeet asked in Hindi, turning his head to spit noisily.
    ‘His name is Lin,’ Abdullah replied calmly. ‘They also call him Shantaram. He was with Khaderbhai, and he speaks Hindi.’
    ‘I don’t care if he speaks Hindi, Punjabi and Malayalam,’ the man responded in Hindi, glaring at me. ‘I don’t care if he can recite poetry, and if he has a dictionary shoved up his arse. I want to know what this dog-face is doing here.’
    ‘I’m guessing you have more experience with dogs than I do,’ I said in Hindi. ‘But I came here in the company of men, not dogs, who know how to show respect.’
    The man flinched and twitched, shaking his head in disbelief. I wasn’t sure if it was because of the challenge I’d thrown, or the fact that a white foreigner had spoken it in the kind of Hindi used by street gangsters.
    ‘This man is also my brother,’ Abdullah said evenly, staring at Ishmeet. ‘And what your man says to him, he says to me.’
    ‘Then why don’t I say it to you, Iranian?’ the man said.
    ‘Why don’t you, by Allah?’ Abdullah replied.
    There was a moment of exquisite calm. Men working to bring sacks of grain, pots of water, boxes of cold drinks, bags of spices and other goods still moved into and out of the courtyard. People still watched from their windows. Children still laughed and played in the shade.
    But in the breathing space between the Cycle Killers and the four of us, a meditation stillness rippled outwards from our beating hearts. It was the deliberate stillness of not reaching for our weapons, the shadow before the flash of sunlight and blood.
    The Cycle Killers were only a word away from war, but they respected and feared Abdullah. I looked into Ishmeet’s smiling eyes, schemed into slits. He was counting the corpses that would lie around his throne of sacks.
    There was no doubt that Abdullah would kill at least three of Ishmeet’s men, and that the rest of us might account for as many again. And although there were twelve Cycle Killers in the courtyard, and several more in the rooms beyond, and although Ishmeet himself might manage to live, the loss would be too great for his gang to survive a revenge attack by our gang.
    Ishmeet’s eyes opened a little wider, crimson betel nut staining his smile.
    ‘Any brother of Abdullah,’ he said, staring directly at me, ‘is a brother of mine. Come. Sit up here, with me. We’ll drink bhang together.’
    I glanced at Abdullah, who nodded to me without taking his eyes off the Cycle Killers. I climbed onto the wide throne of sacks and took a seat a little below Ishmeet, and level with the man who’d insulted me.
    ‘Raja!’ Ishmeet said, calling to a man who was polishing the rows of already gleaming bicycles. ‘Get some chairs!’
    The man moved quickly to provide wooden stools for Abdullah, Fardeen, and Hussein. Others brought the pale green bhang in tall glasses, and also a large chillum.
    I drank the glass of marijuana milk down in gulps, as did Ishmeet. Belching loudly, he winked at me.
    ‘Buffalo milk,’ he said. ‘Fresh pulled. Gives a little extra kick. You want to be a king in this world,