Gregory David Roberts. Shantaram. NERI POZZA. ROMANZO. «Un capolavoro un romanzo che tocca la mente e il cuore, che. 'A publishing phenomenon' Sunday TimesIt took me a long time and most of the world to learn what I know about love and fate and the choices we make, but the . Gregory David Roberts Shantaram Vol 1 PDF - Read book online for free. 2 volume.
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 Gregory David Roberts - Shantaram vol kaz-news.info - Ebook download as PDF File .pdf) or read book online. Answered Jul 31, Here you can get it directly ⇩. ⇰ File formats: ePub, PDF, Kindle, audiobook, mobi, ZIP. Download >>Shantaram: A Novel. k views. Shantaram. A Novel. By Gregory David Roberts. ISBN ISBN About this Guide. The following author biography and.
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It took me a long time and most of the world to learn what I know about love and fate and the choices we make, but the heart of it came to me in an instant, while I was chained to a wall and being tortured. Shantaram is a novel based on the life of the author, Gregory David Roberts. In Roberts was sentenced to nineteen years imprisonment as punishment for a series of robberies of building-society branches, credit unions, and shops he had committed while addicted to heroin.
In July he escaped from Victoria's maximum-security prison in broad daylight, thereby becoming one of Australia's most wanted men for what turned out to be the next ten years. For most of this period he lived in Bombay. He set up a free health clinic in the slums, acted in Bollywood movies, worked for the Bombay mafia as a forger, counterfeiter, and smuggler and, as a gun-runner, resupplied a unit of mujaheddin guerrilla fighters in Afghanistan.
This is the setting of Shantaram. Apart from having this highly unusual personal background, Greg Roberts is a very gifted writer. His book is a blend of vivid dialogue, unforgettable characters, amazing adventures, and superb evocations of Indian life. It can be read as a vast, extended thriller, as well as a superbly written meditation on the nature of good and evil.
It is a compelling tale of a hunted man who had lost everything - his home, his family, and his soul - and came to find his humanity while living at the wildest edge of experience.
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Gregory David Roberts retired from public life in to devote time to his family and new writing projects. A kind of wonder possessed me. I began to look beyond the immensity of the slum societies, and to see the people who lived within them.
A woman stooped to brush forward the black satin psalm of her hair. Another bathed her children with water from a copper dish. A man led three goats with red ribbons tied to the collars at their throats.
Another man shaved himself at a cracked mirror. Children played everywhere. Men carried water in buckets. Men made repairs to one of the huts. And everywhere that I looked, people smiled and laughed.
The bus stopped in a stutter of traffic, and a man emerged from one of the huts near my window. He was a foreigner, as pale-skinned as any of the new arrivals on the bus, and dressed only in a wrap-around sheet of hibiscus-patterned cotton. He stretched, yawned, and scratched unselfconsciously at his naked belly. There was a definitive, bovine placidity in his face and posture.
I found myself envying that contentment, and the smiles of greeting he drew from a group of people who walked past him to the road.
The bus jerked into motion once more, and I lost sight of the man.
But that image of him changed everything in my attitude to the slums. Seeing him there, a man as alien to the place as I was, let me picture myself in that world. What had seemed unimaginably strange and remote from my experience suddenly became possible, and comprehensible, and, finally, fascinating. I looked at the people, then, and I saw how busy they were—how much industry and energy described their lives.
Occasional sudden glimpses inside the huts revealed the astonishing cleanliness of that poverty: the spotless floors, and glistening metal pots in neat, tapering towers.
And half an hour after the bus ride began, I smiled for the first time. He was Canadian, the maple leaf patch on his jacket declared: tall and heavy-set, with pale eyes, and shoulder-length brown hair. His companion looked like a shorter, more compact version of himself; they even wore identical stonewashed jeans, sandals, and soft, calico jackets. I nodded. From here on, it gets a little better. Not so many slums and all. The real India is up near the Himalayas, at Manali, or at the holy city of Varanasi, or down the coast, at Kerala.
You gotta get outta the city to find the real India. Just at that moment, I was what Karla once called the most dangerous and fascinating animal in the world: a brave, hard man, without a plan.
If you want, we can share a room. Maybe it would be better to share a room at first, I thought. Their genuine documents and their easy smiles would smother my false passport. Maybe it would be safer. The bus was moving more slowly, along narrow channels of three- and four-storey buildings. Traffic churned through the streets with wondrous and mysterious efficiency—a ballistic dance of buses, trucks, bicycles, cars, ox-carts, scooters, and people.
The open windows of our battered bus gave us the aromas of spices, perfumes, diesel smoke, and the manure of oxen, in a steamy but not unpleasant mix, and voices rose up everywhere above ripples of unfamiliar music. Every corner carried gigantic posters, advertising Indian films. The supernatural colours of the posters streamed behind the tanned face of the tall Canadian. This is Gotham City, man. This is a great country, but the cities are truly fucked, I gotta say.
They do deals with the cops to bust you and take all your money. Safest thing is to stick together and travel in groups, take my word. A small colony of black, ragged slum huts was strewn upon those rocks like the wreckage of some dark and primitive ship.
The huts were burning. Check that out! The man slipped, and smashed heavily between the large stones.
A woman and a child reached him and smothered the flames with their hands and their own clothes. Other people were trying to contain the fires in their huts, or simply stood, and watched, as their flimsy homes blazed.
The bus driver slowed with other traffic to look at the fire, but then revved the engine and drove on. None of the cars on the busy road stopped. I turned to look through the rear window of the bus until the charred humps of the huts became minute specks, and the brown smoke of the fires was just a whisper of ruin. At the end of the long, seaside boulevard, we made a left turn into a wide street of modern buildings. There were grand hotels, with liveried doormen standing beneath coloured awnings.
Near them were exclusive restaurants, garlanded with courtyard gardens. Sunlight flashed on the polished glass and brass facades of airline offices and other businesses.
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Street stalls sheltered from the morning sunlight beneath broad umbrellas. The Indian men walking there were dressed in hard shoes and western business suits, and the women wore expensive silk. They looked purposeful and sober, their expressions grave as they bustled to and from the large office buildings. The contrast between the familiar and the exceptional was everywhere around me.
A bullock cart was drawn up beside a modern sports car at a traffic signal. A man squatted to relieve himself behind the discreet shelter of a satellite dish. An electric forklift truck was being used to unload goods from an ancient wooden cart with wooden wheels.
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The impression was of a plodding, indefatigable, and distant past that had crashed intact, through barriers of time, into its own future. I liked it. The last stop. The shorter man even removed his watch, and it, too, joined the currency, passport, and other valuables in the marsupial pouch of his underpants. He caught my eye, and smiled. When the bus stopped I was the first to take the steps, but a crowd of people on the footpath prevented me from moving down to the street.
They were touts—street operatives for the various hoteliers, drug dealers, and other businessmen of the city—and they shouted at us in broken English with offers of cheap hotel rooms and bargains to be had.
First among them in the doorway was a small man with a large, almost perfectly round head. He was dressed in a denim shirt and blue cotton trousers. 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. 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.
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. Prabaker shouted at his unruly colleagues, and they retreated a few paces, staring hungrily at our collection of bags and packs. Are you gonna pay this guy?
I mean, I know the way to the hotels. His large, dark brown eyes were studying my face with open amusement. Only God knows what terrible things are happening to you without my good self to guide your body in Bombay! They shrugged, and lifted their packs. It is my job. It is my duty. I am strong in my backs. No problem.
You will see. Lindsay, this is my honour. See the people. Each one of them seized a bag, suitcase, or backpack and trudged off, leading his party into the flak-traffic with brisk determination. 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. Four steep flights in a dark and mossy well of stairs, at the rear of a large, sea-front building, brought us to the foyer of the India Guest House. Every floor on the way up had carried a different shield—Apsara Hotel, Star of Asia Guest House, Seashore Hotel—indicating that the one building was actually four separate hotels, each one of them occupying a single floor, and having its own staff, services, and style.
The two young travellers, Prabaker, and I tumbled into the small foyer with our bags and packs. A tall, muscular Indian, wearing a dazzlingly white shirt and a black tie, sat behind a steel desk beside the hallway that led to the guest rooms.
Anand growled. Prabaker smiled the wider. He then turned his smile to the great manager. This is the very most beautiful of hotels. Please, just see it the room! Please, Mr. Lindsay, just see it the lovely room!
Just see it the lovely room! The two young men hesitated in the doorway. Anand studied his hotel register, suddenly fascinated by the hand-written entries. Prabaker clutched at my sleeve. If we wanted it, we took it on his terms. When he looked up from the register, he met my eyes with a frank and honest stare, one confident man to another. I began to like him. He tossed the key and its heavy brass nameplate across the desk to me.
Each of the walls was painted in a different shade of headache-green. The ceiling was laced with cracks. Papery scrolls of paint dangled from the corners. The cement floor sloped downwards, with mysterious lumps and irregular undulations, toward the street windows.
Three small plywood side-tables and a battered wooden dressing table with a cracked mirror were the only other pieces of furniture. It was the kind of room that moved people to write their names and other messages on the walls, just as men do in prison cells. My companions from the bus looked at one another and laughed. He bent low and sniffed at the sheets before sitting down gingerly on one of the beds.
Prabaker returned with Anand, who carried the heavy hotel register. We entered our details into the book, one at a time, while Anand checked our passports. I paid for a week in advance. Anand gave the others their passports, but lingered with mine, tapping it against his cheek thoughtfully. What does he want? What does he know? Okay, New Zealand, New Zealand, you must be wanting something for smoke, some lot of beer, some bottles whisky, change money, business girls, good parties. You want to download something, you tell me, na?
The guide cringed away from him in the doorway, cowering and smiling happily at the same time. 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. I just want enough for a smoke. You want to download? 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. 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.
I was on the run. I had no home and no country. 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.
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?
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Except the fighting. Fighting is not good manners at India Guest House. Anand is not liking it, if the people are dying here. What is he talking about dying?
The taller man took it, and puffed it alight. For you no problem, with your so beautiful big fat bodies. When I returned it to him, he puffed at it with obvious pleasure, and passed it to the Canadians once more.
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. Prabaker passed it to me, and I broke the ten-gram lump into two pieces, throwing one half to one of my roommates.
Something for the train ride to Poona tomorrow. Crazy, but all right. The little rituals—the smoke and the drink of whisky—were important to me. 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. He tipped his head backward and poured a measure of whisky into his mouth, without touching the bottle to his lips.
Oh, yes.Michael Connelly. A hand grabbed at my arm. Vicious Circle. I felt an almost irresistible urge to take her hand and place it flat against my chest, near my heart.
Shantaram - Gregory David Roberts. Mules carry contraband across a border control for a smuggler. He tipped his head backward and poured a measure of whisky into his mouth, without touching the bottle to his lips.
Papery scrolls of paint dangled from the corners. I was chained on three continents, beaten, stabbed, and starved. Painful as their lives were, they were free to live them in the same gardens and avenues as the rich and powerful.
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