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 . So begins this epic, mesmerizing first novel by Gregory David Roberts, set in the underworld of contemporary Bombay. Shantaram is narrated by Lin. My favorite book of all time: Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts. It was what finally put me over the edge to travel to India a few years ago. The story is.
|Language:||English, Spanish, Dutch|
|ePub File Size:||15.83 MB|
|PDF File Size:||20.75 MB|
|Distribution:||Free* [*Register to download]|
Shantaram. Shantaram Gregory David Roberts Shantaram Gregory David Roberts INDEX: Book Jacket Information Praise for Shant. Where can we find free ebooks of various novels? 1, Views File formats: ePub, PDF, Kindle, audiobook, mobi, ZIP. Download >>Shantaram: A Novel. Are you a Read PDF Shantaram: A Novel Online book lover??? we have good news for you all. In this website the Shantaram: A Novel PDF Download book we .
So begins this epic, mesmerizing first novel by Gregory David Roberts, set in the underworld of contemporary Bombay. Shantaram is narrated by Lin, an escaped convict with a false passport who flees maximum security prison in Australia for the teeming streets of a city where he can disappear. Accompanied by his guide and faithful friend, Prabaker, the two enter Bombay's hidden society of beggars and gangsters, prostitutes and holy men, soldiers and actors, and Indians and exiles from other countries, who seek in this remarkable place what they cannot find elsewhere. As a hunted man without a home, family, or identity, Lin searches for love and meaning while running a clinic in one of the city's poorest slums, and serving his apprenticeship in the dark arts of the Bombay mafia. The search leads him to war, prison torture, murder, and a series of enigmatic and bloody betrayals. The keys to unlock the mysteries and intrigues that bind Lin are held by two people.
Nonetheless, this polarizing novel has produced a whole range of extra-textual practices that will ensure that it remains in the cultural imagination for years to come.
Meanjin Beecham, Rodney. Australian Book Review : Bennett, Bruce. Bloom, Clive. Bestsellers: Popular Fiction Since Hampshire: Palgrave Macmillan, Bode, Katherine. Broinowski, Alison. Carter, David. Cassin, Ray. Deahl, Rachel. Dixon, Robert. Delany, Paul. Literature, Money and the Market. Hampshire: New York: Palgrave, Fuller, Danielle. Cambridge: Cambridge Scholars P, Gathman, Roger.
Gelder, Ken. London: Routledge, Russell Smith and Monique Rooney. Melbourne: Melbourne UP, Gerster, Robin, ed. Ghosh, Avijit. The Telegraph 23 May Huggan, Graham. Moran, Joe. Star Authors: Literary Celebrity in America. London: Pluto, Menon, Hari. Ness, Patrick. The Telegraph 28 June Neville, Richard.
Play Power. London: Cape, Ommundsen, Wenche. Regal, Joseph. Email to the author. Interview with Anjali Rao. CNN Talk Asia. Rule, Andrew. Sangghvi, Malavika. Summers, Chris. The first is Khader Khan: The second is Karla: Burning slums and five-star hotels, romantic love and prison agonies, criminal wars and Bollywood films, spiritual gurus and mujaheddin guerrillas—-this huge novel has the world of human experience in its reach, and a passionate love for India at its heart.
Based on the life of the author, it is by any measure the debut of an extraordinary voice in literature. Sentenced to nineteen years in prison for a series of armed robberies, he escaped and spent ten of his fugitive years in Bombay—w We want your feedback!
Click here. Is there any problem with smoking a joint here, Prabaker? 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. He paused, licking his lips, then tipped the bottle back a third time. Is so good this whisky, it is making a bad manners on me.
I bought them duty free on the plane. Lindsay, very yes. But if I knew this was my whisky and not yours, I would not have been so generous with my good self in the drinking it up. Lindsay, you are making a mistake.
I say that this very best charras is one hundred rupees, not two. Do you think you could show me to a good, clean restaurant? Lindsay sir! I know such excellent restaurants, with such a wonder of foods, you will be making yourself sick to your stomach with happiness. You gotta be kidding. Like, much later. I joined him, but just as I was about to close the door, the tall young man spoke. The Indians in the city are … well, just be careful, is all.
Prabaker had taken us to the hotel along a wide, tree-lined, and relatively empty avenue that followed a curve of the bay from the tall, stone arch of the Gateway of India Monument. The street at the front of the building was crammed with people and vehicles, however, and the sound of voices, car horns, and commerce was like a storm of rain on wood and metal roofs.
Hundreds of people walked there, or stood in talking groups. Shops, restaurants, and hotels filled the street side by side along its entire length.
Every shop or restaurant featured a smaller sub-shop attached to the front of it. Two or three attendants, seated on folding stools, manned each of those small encroachments on the footpath.
There were Africans, Arabs, Europeans, and Indians. Languages and music changed with every step, and every restaurant spilled a different scent into the boiling air. Men with bullock wagons and handcarts wound their way through heavy traffic to deliver watermelons and sacks of rice, soft drinks and racks of clothes, cigarettes and blocks of ice.
Money was everywhere: it was a centre for the black-market trade in currencies, Prabaker told me, and thick blocks of bank notes were being counted and changing hands openly.
There were beggars and jugglers and acrobats, snake charmers and musicians and astrologers, palmists and pimps and pushers. And the street was filthy. Trash tumbled from the windows above without warning, and garbage was heaped in piles on the pavement or the roadway, where fat, fearless rats slithered to feast. Most prominent on the street, to my eyes, were the many crippled and diseased beggars.
Every kind of illness, disability, and hardship paraded there, stood at the doorways of restaurants and shops, or approached people on the street with professionally plaintive cries.
Like the first sight of the slums from the windows of the bus, that glimpse of the suffering street brought a hot shame to my healthy face. But as Prabaker led me on through the roistering crowd, he drew my attention to other images of those beggars that softened the awful caricature presented by the performance of their piteousness. One group of beggars sat in a doorway, playing cards, some blind men and their friends enjoyed a meal of fish and rice, and laughing children took turns to ride with a legless man on his little trolley.
Prabaker was stealing sideways glances at my face as we walked. To my eyes, the city was beautiful. It was wild and exciting. Buildings that were British Raj-romantic stood side to side with modern, mirrored business towers. The haphazard slouch of neglected tenements crumbled into lavish displays of market vegetables and silks. I heard music from every shop and passing taxi. The colours were vibrant.
The fragrances were dizzyingly delicious. Above all else, Bombay was free—exhilaratingly free. I saw that liberated, unconstrained spirit wherever I looked, and I found myself responding to it with the whole of my heart.
No-one drove the beggars from the streets. No-one banished the slum-dwellers. Painful as their lives were, they were free to live them in the same gardens and avenues as the rich and powerful. They were free. The city was free. I loved it. Yet I was a little unnerved by the density of purposes, the carnival of needs and greeds, the sheer intensity of the pleading and the scheming on the street. I spoke none of the languages I heard. I knew nothing of the cultures there, clothed in robes and saris and turbans.
But I smiled, and smiling was easy, no matter how strange and disorienting the street seemed to be. I was a fugitive. I was a wanted man, a hunted man, with a price on my head. And I was still one step ahead of them. I was free. Every free minute is a short story with a happy ending.
I noticed that he was well known on the street, that he was greeted frequently and with considerable warmth by a wide range of people. I will take you to the best restaurant, and with the finest Maharashtra foods.
You will enjoy, no problem. All the Bombay guides like me eat their foods there. This place is so good, they only have to pay the police half of usual baksheesh money. So good they are. But first, let me get it Indian cigarette for you, and for me also. Here, we stop now. On the table there was a large brass tray, carrying several small silver dishes.
The dishes contained shredded coconut, spices, and an assortment of unidentifiable pastes. A bucket beside the card table was filled with spear-shaped leaves, floating in water.
The cigarette seller was drying the leaves, smearing them with various pastes, filling them with ground dates, coconut, betel, and spices, and rolling them into small packages.
The many customers crowded around his stall purchased the leaves as fast as his dexterous hands could fill them. Prabaker pressed close to the man, waiting for a chance to make his order. Craning my neck to watch him through the thicket of customers, I moved closer toward the edge of the footpath. As I took a step down onto the road, I heard an urgent shout.
She was slender, with black, shoulder-length hair, and pale skin. She was wearing silk pants, bound tightly at the ankles, black low-heeled shoes, a loose cotton shirt, and a large, long silk shawl. She wore the shawl backwards, with the double-mane of the liquid fabric twirling and fluttering at her back. All her clothes were in different shades of green. The clue to everything a man should love and fear in her was there, right from the start, in the ironic smile that primed and swelled the archery of her full lips.
There was pride in that smile, and confidence in the set of her fine nose. Without understanding why, I knew beyond question that a lot of people would mistake her pride for arrogance, and confuse her confidence with impassivity.
My eyes were lost, swimming, floating free in the shimmering lagoon of her steady, even stare. Her eyes were large and spectacularly green.
It was the green that trees are, in vivid dreams. It was the green that the sea would be, if the sea were perfect. Her hand was still resting in the curve of my arm, near the elbow.
I felt an almost irresistible urge to take her hand and place it flat against my chest, near my heart. Then she spoke. I leaned toward her, looking behind her to the left and then to the right.
One of them—a handsome, athletic man in his mid-twenties—stepped to the road and called to her. Come on, yaar! She turned and waved to him, then held out her hand to shake mine with a grip that was firm, but emotionally indeterminable.
Her smile was just as ambiguous.
Come to think of it, that might just be the most personal question anyone ever asked me. They were all Indians, all young, and dressed in the clean, fashionably western clothes of the middle class. They laughed often and leaned against one another familiarly, but no-one touched Karla.
She seemed to project an aura that was attractive and inviolable at the same time. Her voice, in that language and in that conversation, was surprisingly deep and sonorous; the hairs on my arms tingled in response to the sound of it. The voice, Afghan matchmakers say, is more than half of love. No need for buying whole packet of cigarettes here. Just one cigarette, you can buy only. And no need for buying it any matches.
Prabaker blew the ash from the end of it, exposing a little orange ember of fire, which he used to puff his cigarette alight. What are they chewing in those leaves?