Free The Mountain Shadow by Gregory David Roberts Page A

man, keep your own milking buffalo.’
    ‘O . . . kay.’
    He lit the chillum, took two long puffs, and passed it to me, smoke streaming from his nostrils like steam escaping from fissured stone.
    I smoked and passed the chillum to the gang lieutenant sitting beside me. The animosity of moments before was gone from his smiling eyes. He smoked, passed the chillum along, and then tapped me on the knee.
    ‘Who’s your favourite heroine?’
    ‘From now, or before?’
    ‘From now.’
    ‘Karisma Kapoor.’
    ‘And from before?’
    ‘Smita Patil. What about you?’
    ‘Rekha,’ he sighed. ‘Before and now and always. She’s the queen of everything. Do you have a knife?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘Can I see it, please?’
    I took one of my knives out of its scabbard, and passed it to him. He opened the flick mechanism expertly, and then flipped the long, heavy, brass-handled weapon around his fingers as if it was a flower on a stem.
    ‘Nice knife,’ he said, closing it and handing it back to me. ‘Who made it?’
    ‘Vikrant, in Sassoon Dock,’ I answered, putting the knife away.
    ‘Ah, Vikrant. Good work. You wanna see my knife?’
    ‘Sure,’ I replied, reaching out to take the weapon he offered me.
    My long switchblade knife was made for street fighting. The Cycle Killer’s knife was designed to leave a deep, wide hole, usually in the back. The blade tapered quickly from the wide hilt to the tip. Gouged into the blade were trenches to facilitate the flow of blood. Backward serrations entered a body on the smooth side but ripped the flesh on the outward pull, preventing the wound from spontaneously closing.
    The hilt was a brass semicircle, designed to fit into a closed fist. The knife was used in a punching action, rather than a slash or jab.
    ‘You know,’ I said, as I handed back the weapon, ‘I hope we never, ever fight each other.’
    He grinned widely, putting the knife back into its scabbard.
    ‘Good plan!’ he said. ‘No problem. You and me, we never fight. Okay?’
    He offered me his hand. I hesitated a moment, because gangsters take stuff like that seriously, and I wasn’t sure that I could promise not to fight him, if our gangs became enemies.
    ‘What the hell,’ I said, slapping my palm into his, and closing my fingers in a firm handshake. ‘We never fight. No matter what.’
    He grinned at me again.
    ‘I’m . . . ’ he began in Hindi. ‘I’m sorry about . . . about that comment before.’
    ‘It’s okay.’
    ‘Actually, I like dogs,’ he said. ‘Anyone here will tell you that. I even feed the stray dogs here.’
    ‘It’s okay.’
    ‘Ajay! Tell him how much I like dogs!’
    ‘Very much,’ Ajay said. ‘He loves dogs.’
    ‘If you don’t stop talking about dogs right now,’ Ishmeet said through the sliver of a smile, ‘I’m going to kick you in the neck.’
    Ishmeet turned away from his man, displeasure a crown pressed on his forehead.
    ‘Abdullah,’ he said. ‘You want to talk to me, I think so?’
    Abdullah was about to reply when a crew of ten workingmen entered the courtyard, pulling two long, empty handcarts.
    ‘Make way!’ they shouted. ‘Work is close to God! Workingmen are doing God’s work! We are here for the sacks! Old sacks going out! New sacks coming in! Make way! Work is close to God!’
    With a disregard that might’ve cost other men their lives, the workers ignored the status and comfort of the murderous gang and began pulling sacks from the improvised throne. Deadly Cycle Killers tumbled and stumbled from their places on the pile.
    As quickly as his dignity would allow, Ishmeet scrambled off his vantage point to stand close to Abdullah while the demolition continued. I climbed down with him to join my friends.
    Fardeen, nicknamed the Politician, stood at once and offered his wooden stool to Ishmeet. The leader of the Cycle Killers accepted, sat beside Abdullah, and called importantly for hot chai.
    While we waited for the tea, the workers removed the