Chapter 7 Chapter VII

She's a beautiful whore, Prabaker pleaded, and she's fat, and fat in the most vital, vital places.No matter where you grab it, you can hold it full in your hand.You will be very excited and will be very perverted! It's exciting, Prabhu, I said, trying not to smile, but I'm really not interested.We only left the village yesterday and my heart is still there and I'm really not in the mood. It's okay, Baba.As long as you do it, your bad mood will soon turn good, futt︱a︱futt! (really fast!) You may be right, but I still feel the same way when I think about it. But she is very experienced!He begged, those people told me that she had served hundreds of guests in this restaurant alone!I've seen her, I've looked her in the eyes, and I know she's good in bed.

I don't want a whore, Prabhu, no matter how good she is. But just seeing her makes you fall for her. Sorry, Prabhu. But I told them you're going to see her.Just look at it, and you won't lose a piece of meat, Lin Baba. don't want. But if you don't see her, I won't get back the deposit. Did you pay the deposit? Yes, Lin. You pay a deposit and let me sleep with a woman in this hotel? That's right, Lin.He sighed, raised his hands, and then dropped them to his sides, looking helpless.You've been in the village for six months and haven't fucked a woman for six months, so I think you need it.If you don't even want to sneak a look at her, my deposit will be forfeited.

All right!I sighed, imitating his helpless actions, so I went to have a look and let you keep the deposit. I closed the hotel door, locked it, and walked up the wide corridor with him.The Epsara Hotel in Aurangabad, north of Mumbai, is more than a hundred years old and was built to serve another, more glorious era.The hotel rooms are high and spacious, with open-air balconies facing the busy streets. The cornice beams and ceiling rosettes in the rooms have exquisite details; Many holes where pilling has been worn out.Peeling paint, stains on the walls, cheap room rate.Prabaker told me that this was the only place we could have a good night on the way back to Mumbai.

We stopped outside the door of a room on the other side of the floor.Prabaker was shaking with excitement and his eyes were worryingly wide. I knock on the door.Almost immediately, the door opened.A woman in her fifties, wearing a red and yellow sari, was standing at the door, glaring at us viciously.In the room behind her, men in zadoti loincloths and white caps, dressed like peasants from the village of Prabak, were sitting on the floor eating dal, rice and laksa in generous portions . The woman walked into the corridor and knocked the door behind her.He looked steadily at Prabaker.Prabaker was a full head and shoulders shorter than her, and he responded to her vicious stare with the submissive look of a school bully's little henchman.

Did you see that, Lin?He whispered, still looking at her, am I right? What I saw was a big, plain-looking face with a bulbous nose and thin, disdainfully pursed lips that made her mouth look like a clam on a stick.The powder on her face and neck, as thick as a Japanese geisha, gave her the scruffy look of a villain. Prabaker spoke to the woman in Marathi. Show him! She then pulled the sari up, revealing a big fat belly.She picked up a pound or two of flesh with her stubby fingers and squeezed harder, looking at me with one eyebrow raised, for my admiration. Prabaker groaned softly, eyes widening.

Then the woman suddenly looked angry, looked left and right in the corridor, and then lifted her blouse a few centimeters, revealing her long and thin drooping breasts.She grabbed the tits and threw them up and down at me several times, while winking at me with a strange, puzzling expression.My unfounded guess was that it was probably a malicious, contemptuous sneer. Prabaker's eyes widened, his mouth opened, and he gasped. Covering her tits, the woman jerked her head from side to side, flinging her long black hair, which was braided, to her chest.She grasped the braid with both hands, and began to pinch the bottom of it with her fingers, as if it was half-used toothpaste.As she squeezed, a thick layer of coconut oil accumulated on her fingers, dripping from the ends of her braids onto the frayed and whitish carpet.

You know, Lin, Prabaker said vaguely, gaping at the dripping oil, looking hungry and almost horrified, his right foot even started tapping the carpet, if you don't want to sleep with this woman if if you really don't Then I can use that deposit myself. See you in the room, Prabhu.I said, smiling politely at the woman.I bowed slightly to her and returned to the room with her growl of contempt. I think I can use this gap to update my Marathi dictionary.There are about 600 everyday words listed in the list.When I was in Sand Village, I wrote down the words and phrases that the villagers told me on slips of paper, and then copied them into a solid diary for future reference.I spread out the few scraps of paper I had recently copied on the desk, and was about to start transcribing them into the journal.Just then, the door flung open, and Prabaker swaggered into the room.He walked past me without saying a word, and lay back on the bed.It's only been about nine minutes since I left that whore's room.

Whoa, Lin!He moaned happily and grinned at the ceiling, and I was right, she was a seasoned woman. I stared at him, bewildered. real!With an intoxicated expression on his face, he sat up from the bed, swinging his two short legs back and forth.She gave me great value for money and I made her very, very happy.Come!Let's go out!Go eat, drink, and celebrate! If you're sure you still have the stamina.I whispered. Oh Baba, it doesn't take much physical strength there, the place I'm taking you to is so good that you can even sit and drink. As he said, I followed him for about an hour, past the last bus stop, to a shanty on the outskirts of the town.We treat guests and ask the boss to give each guest a glass of wine in the bar, so as to beat the drinkers who are crowded on the narrow stone benches, the dirty drinkers who enjoy themselves without drinking.This is what the Australians call a sly grog shop, that is, a bar without a business license, which supplies spirits with more than the standard alcohol concentration at a price lower than the market price.

The group of customers we broke into included workers, farmers, and a group of ordinary gangsters.They all wore angry, depressed expressions.Talks little, or not at all.The violently contorted faces made them even more ugly when they drank the terrible moonshine.They grunted, moaned in pain and vomited every time they drank a glass.When Prabaker and I joined them, we pinched our noses, tipped our heads back, poured the nasty agrochemical liquid into our mouths, and drank it all in one gulp.It was only with a strong determination that we had the courage to drink that venom into our stomachs.After we were conscious enough, we ordered another glass with great reluctance, and poured the gut-piercing wine down our stomachs again.

It was really too bad to drink, and everyone looked like they were struggling.Some people couldn't take it anymore, sneaked away and lost the battle; some people wavered, but were encouraged by the pained faces of drinking friends around them, and persevered.Holding his fifth glass of spirits, Prabaker hesitated for a long time.I think he's going to admit he can't, but at the end he takes a deep breath and gulps down the glass.Then, a man threw the wine glass aside, stood up, walked to the center of the shabby little room, and sang out of tune loudly.Each of us shouted excitedly, and everyone knew that they were drunk.

One by one we went up and sang.First, the Indian national anthem that moved people to tears, followed by religious worship songs.Someone sang repetitive, catchy Hindi love songs, paired with poignant gazals.The two burly waiters saw that the atmosphere of the scene had changed from drunk to intoxicated, so they put down the wine plate and glasses, and sat down on the stools on both sides of the door.They smiled happily, nodded, shook their heads from side to side, and hugged the long and thick wooden sticks affectionately in their thick arms.When everyone sang, everyone clapped and cheered, and when it was my turn, I somehow sang the old Kinks song "You Really Gone Me": Miss, you really annoy me, I can't sleep because of you I was drunk enough to teach Prabaker, and he was drunk enough to learn this tune: Really, God is my witness, you are a hot girl! And you really, really, freaked me out, that's all. We were still singing as we walked the dark, deserted road back to town.A white ambassador [Note: Ambassado, a car manufactured by India's Hindustan Motor Company. ] Slowly drove past us, turned around, and we were still singing.When the car passed us again, turned around again, stopped on the shoulder of the road, and blocked us, we were still singing.Four men got out of the car, one of whom stayed in the driver's seat.The tallest man grabbed my shirt and yelled at me in a commanding tone of Marathi. What are you doing?I drunkenly answered him in Marathi. Another man stepped in from the side, stretched out his short right hand, and punched me, causing my head to throw back suddenly.Soon, I was punched in the mouth and nose again.I staggered back, unsteady on one foot.I fell to the ground, and at the same time I saw Prabaker spread his arms and lunge at the four men, trying to block them.I woke up with a start, gathered my energy and rushed over.Luckily, I hit him hard with a right hook and a top-down right elbow (two of the most powerful moves in any street melee).Next to me, Prabaker fell down for a moment, and jumped up immediately, but he received a violent punch, which made his eyes stare, and he was lying on the ground.I tried to stand near him and protect him with my legs, but I lost my balance and staggered down.Punches and kicks rained down and I covered my head and stomach and heard a faint voice in my head say I got it I got it Those men pushed me to the ground, and one of them searched my pocket very skillfully.Drunk and wounded, I felt vaguely the blackness of the figures looming over me, and then I heard another voice, Prabaker's, and I recognized some of his pleas, and his contemptuous curses.He denounced this group of people for beating and looting foreigners. A foreigner who came to their country and did not harm them at all is really a disgrace to the country and Indians.He cursed impassionedly, calling them cowards, cursing Mahatma Gandhi, Buddha, the Hindu god Krishna, Mother Teresa, Bollywood movie star Amita.Baji Khan is a coward.As a result, it turned out to be effective.The leader of the group came over and squatted down next to me.Drunk, I tried to stand up and fight again, but the others pushed me down and pinned me to the ground.i got it i got it The man leaned down and stared into my eyes.The expression is cold and indifferent, just like me.He opened my torn shirt and stuffed things: my passport and watch. They stood, gave Prabaker a last savage look of unfathomable hatred, and climbed into the car.The door slammed shut and the car sped away, kicking up sand and pebbles on top of us. After Prabaker confirmed that I was not seriously injured, he began to whine and cry, feeling extremely sad.He beat himself up over and over again for taking me to this remote bar and getting himself and me drunk.He said with all his heart that if he could, he would transfer all my injuries to him.He prided himself on being the best street guide in Mumbai, and now that sign has been smashed.His unreserved love for his country, Bharat Mataji (Mother India), was now hit harder than any body could bear. There was only one thing to do, Lin, while I was washing my face in the washbasin in the big white-tiled bathroom of the hotel, he said, when you get back to Bombay, you have to send a telegram to your family and friends and ask them to send another Come on, you have to go to your New Zealand embassy to complain about the emergency. I dried my face, leaned against the washbasin, and looked at myself in the mirror.Not seriously hurt.One eye socket started to turn black, and the nose was swollen, but not broken.The lips were chapped and swollen, and there were several large patches of skin on the cheeks and jaw from the kick.That's luck, and in my experience, it's not usually this easy.I grew up in a violent, criminal area where working-class gangs fought each other and killed each other, with no mercy for solitary birds like me who refused to join their side.And then, jail time.Nobody beat me the worst than the uniformed guys on the state pay to policing the law and order, prison guards.When I was beaten on the street, I remembered the sound I knew was the sound of being beaten by the prison guards, my own voice.In my memory, I was held down by three or four police officers from the punishment unit, and two or three police officers beat me severely with fists, batons, and boots.Of course, being beaten by people like them is always more unbearable, because we regard them as good people.We understand and admit to being beaten by bad people; but when good people handcuff you to the wall, kick you and kick you in turn, until your bones are broken, you feel that you should not respond every day, that the ground is not working, and you feel that the whole The system, the whole world, is dark.Then, there was a scream.Others, other prisoners, screamed every night. I gazed into my mirrored eyes, thinking about Prabaker's proposal.It is impossible to contact the New Zealand embassy, ​​not any embassy.It was impossible to contact family or friends because the police were watching them, waiting for me to contact them and give away my whereabouts.No relatives, no support, no money, the robbers took the only money I had.But I am aware of the irony of this incident: I never imagined that a fugitive armed robber would be robbed of all his money.Remember what Carla told me before heading to the village?Don't drink a drop of alcohol on the way I have no money in New Zealand, Prabhu, I told him on the way back to the hotel room, no family, no friends, no embassy could help. No money? Absolutely not. You can't raise money?Can't find it anywhere? right!I replied, put the few belongings I had in my backpack. This is very troublesome, Lin, sorry, speaking in front of your scarred face. I know.You think, can I sell my watch to the hotel manager? OK Lin, I think it's ok.This watch is very high-end, but I don't think he will give us a good price.When encountering this kind of thing, the Indian businessman will put his professional creed in the back pocket of his trousers, and he will kill the price very low. It doesn't matter.I answered, buttoning the backpack.As long as it is enough to pay the rent and buy the night train ticket back to Mumbai you mentioned.That's it, pack your things and let's go. It was very, very, very troublesome, and as we closed the door and walked down the hallway to check out, he said, Lin, in India, it's no fun without money, I mean it. The worry that made him purse his lips and frown had not disappeared all the way back to Bombay.The money from the sale of the watch paid for the housing in Aurangabad, and the rest was only enough to stay another two or three days at the Indian Hotel in Mumbai.After putting my things in my favorite room, I walked Prabaker back into the hotel's small foyer, trying, but failing, to restore his radiant smile. Watch mine, I'll let you shake off the unpleasantness.He said, solemn and serious.Just wait and see, Lin.I will give you happy results. I watched him go up the stairs and then heard the manager Anand speaking to me in friendly Marathi. I turned and smiled and chatted with him in Marathi.After six months of living in the village, I can already speak simple everyday colloquial phrases, questions and sentences.It was nothing, but Anand was clearly pleased and surprised.After listening for a few minutes, he called another manager and all the housekeeping staff to listen to me speak in their language.After hearing this, they all showed expressions of surprise and joy.They have seen foreigners who can speak some Hindi, even very good Hindi, but never a foreigner who can converse with them in their beloved Marathi. They asked me about Sand, a village they had never heard of.We talked about the daily life they knew so well when they were back home, often embellished in memory.After the conversation was over, I went back to the room, and just as I closed the door, there was a tentative knock on the door. Sorry to bother you.The speaker was a tall, thin foreigner, probably German or Swiss.He had a long face and a pointed chin, a lock of beard, and blond hair pulled back in a thick braid.I heard you talking to the manager and the housekeeper earlier uh I think you must have been in india a long time and na ja we just arrived today my girlfriend and I we want to buy some marijuana.Do you know where you can get marijuana glue without getting ripped off or having trouble with the police? Of course I know.That night, I also helped them exchange money on the black market so that they would not be cheated.The German with the beard and his girlfriend were happy with the deal and paid me a commission.The black market dealers, Prabaker's friends, the street eyeliners, were happy that I brought them new clients and paid me a commission too.I knew that on every street in Colaba there were other foreigners trying to get their hands on drugs.A casual conversation in Marathi with Anand and the customer service staff, overheard by the German boyfriend and girlfriend, pointed me to a way to survive in this city. But the more pressing issue is my tourist visa.When Anand checked out my housing, he reminded me that my visa had expired.In Mumbai, each hotel has to take out the registration form of foreign tenants, fill in the foreigner's name and passport number, and indicate the date of validity of the visa.The registration form is called Form C, and the police will come and check it from time to time.It is a felony in India to stay in the country after the visa expires.Jail terms sometimes weighed up to two years, and restaurateurs who violated Form C were slapped with hefty police fines. After Anand explained the whole thing to me with a serious face, he tampered with the data on the registration form and let me live in.He likes me.He is from Maharashtra and I am the first foreigner who can speak to him in Marathi.He was more than happy to break the law once for me, but he reminded me that I had to go to the alien registration office at the police station immediately to have my visa extended. I sat in the hotel room, thinking about my options.There's not much to go, and I don't have much money.That's right, I accidentally discovered a way to make money, that is, to be a middleman, a broker, helping foreigners with scruples to deal with black market dealers.But I'm not sure if the money I earn in this line of business is enough for me to live in restaurants and go to restaurants.Sure enough, it wasn't enough for me to buy a plane ticket out of India.Also, my visa had expired, essentially breaking the law.Anand told me that the police would treat visa lapses as mere negligence and extend them without further investigation, but I couldn't gamble my freedom on that.I cannot go to the Alien Registration Office.So I can't change my visa status, and the visa is invalid, and in Mumbai, I can't check into a hotel.Should he go to the police station according to the regulations, or should he hide and flee?I am in a dilemma. I lay on my back in bed, in the dark, listening to the sounds coming from the street downstairs through my window: the Hpa-an vendor calling for a sip of sweetness; Shouts when shown to a crowd of tourists; and music, always music.I was thinking, which nation in this world loves music more than Indians? I couldn't help but think of that village.The memory that I have been avoiding and resisting, came to my mind when the music sounded.The day Prabaker and I left the village, the villagers invited me to stay.They offered to give me a house and a job.During the last three months of living in the village, I specially taught the local school teachers how to speak English.I demonstrated the pronunciation of some English words and helped him correct the strange accents of the schoolchildren's English.Both the teachers and the village council wanted me to stay.It would be a good place to live there, with a place to live and a clear goal. But it is impossible for me to go back to Sand Village.Not then.In cities, people can live well even though they are ignorant of their own personality and soul; if they want to live in villages, people must thoroughly see their own personality and soul.Crime and punishment are imprints that I cannot get rid of at all times.I escaped from prison, but my future was also choked by my escape. If they look hard enough and long enough, sooner or later they will see in my eyes what is choking my future.Paper can't contain fire after all.They thought I was a free person, a peaceful person, and in that village, I experienced real happiness for a certain period of time, but my soul was not clean.What should I do so I don't end up in prison again?what to do?Do you have to kill to avoid prison? I knew the answers to these questions, and knew that I had defiled the village of Sander when I was there.I know every smile they give me, I cheated.Life on the run made every laugh a guilty conscience, every act of love a little bit of abduction. Someone knocked on the door and I said the door was open.Anand came in and said with a look of disgust that Prabaker came to see me and brought two of his friends.I patted Anand on the back, thanked him for his concern with a smile, and we walked to the lobby of the hotel. Ha Lin, Prabaker is all smiles when our eyes meet, I have good news for you!This is my friend Johnny.Cigar, who lived in Zhopadpatti, the slum where we lived, was a very powerful friend.This is Lazi, he is Kasim, the head of the slums.Ali.Hussein's assistant. I shook hands with both of them.JohnnyCigar was almost as tall and stout as I was, and therefore taller and more bulky than the average Indian.I guess he was in his mid-thirties, with a long, straight, wary face.His brown eyes stared straight at me, confident.The thin lips, trimmed in a neat line, enclose the expressive mouth and the resolute chin.The other man, Lazi, was only a little taller than Prabaker and even thinner.A sympathetic sadness could not be erased from the kind face.People who have that kind of grief are also mostly people of principle, uncompromising integrity.Under the thick eyebrows, there is a pair of intelligent black eyes.Those shrewd, focused eyes stare straight at me, but the face droops with fatigue.I guess he was thirty-five, but he looked much older.I fell in love with these two as soon as I saw them. We chatted for a while, and the two new friends asked me about the village of Prabak and my impressions of living there.They also asked about the city, about my favorite places in Mumbai, my favorite things to do.I saw that they were chatting enthusiastically, and it would not end for a while, so I invited them to a nearby restaurant for tea. No, Lin, Prabaker shook his head and declined, we have to leave now.I just want you to meet Johnny and Razi and let them meet you.I think Johnny has something to tell you, right? He looked at Johnny, his eyes and mouth were wide open, and he raised his hands in a gesture of expectation.Johnny looked at him with a sullen face, but the displeasure soon softened, turned into a bright smile, and turned his eyes to me. We've decided for you, Johnny announced, that you're moving in with us.You are a good friend of Prabaker, and we have found a place for you. That's right, Lin!Prabaker quickly added that there is a family leaving tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, the house will be yours. But I stammered, horrified at such a well-meaning arrangement, and terrified at the thought of life in the slums.Memories of visiting the slum where Prabaker lived are still vivid.The open-air latrines are full of stench, and life is depressingly poor. Tens of thousands of people live in one place, cramped and messy.As far as I can remember, it was hell, the new symbol of the worst thing in the world, or almost the new symbol of the worst thing. It's all right, Lin, Prabaker laughs, you'll be happy with us, really.Yes, you look different from us now, but after a few months of living with us, you'll be just like anyone out there.People will think you lived in the ghetto for years, really. That's your safe place, Lazi said, slowly reaching out to touch my arm, a safe place, you can move out after you save enough money.Our hotel, accommodation is free. The others laughed at this, and I laughed too, inspired by their optimism and enthusiasm.The slums are unbelievably squalid and crowded, but accommodation is free and there is no need to fill out Form Cs.I know that gives me time to think, time to plan for the future. I thank you, Prabhu.Johnny, Lazi, thanks.I accept your offer, I appreciate it, thank you very much. nothing.JohnnyCigar replied, holding my hand and staring into my eyes with a pair of firm and sharp eyes. Little did I know at the time that Johnny and Razi had been sent by the slum boss, Qasim, to see who I was.Ignorant and self-centered, recoiled at the thought of the harsh conditions of slum living, I reluctantly accepted their gracious invitation.I didn't know that it was hard to find a house in those simple huts, and there were many families waiting in line to live in them.At the time, I didn't know that by giving me a place to stay, it meant having a family in desperate need who would have to wait a little longer for a home of their own.After making this decision, Qasim sent Razi and Johnny to my hotel for final confirmation.Razi's job was to find out if I could live with them, Johnny's job was to figure out if they could live with me.On the night of the first meeting, I only knew that Johnny's handshake was very honest, and he was a friend worth making, while Razi's sad smile had a kind of acceptance and trust that made me ashamed. It's a deal, Lin, Prabaker grinned, and we'll pick up your stuff the day after tomorrow, and it's afternoon. Thanks, Prabhu.no problem.But wait!The day after tomorrow, wouldn't that rush into our original date? about?What about, Lin Baba? That and that stand Baba.I answered weakly. Standing Baba is a monk who practiced devoutly and acted crazily and recklessly. He runs a marijuana den in the suburban Baigula County.Prabaker had taken me there a few months earlier when he was showing me the dark side of Mumbai.On the way back to Bombay from Sander, I asked him to promise to take me one more time, with Kara.I know she has never been to the cannabis den, and I know she will be fascinated by all kinds of deeds in the cannabis den.It's a shame to bring it up at a time when they're so gracious, but I don't want to miss the chance of winning the beauty's admiration with this visit. Indeed, Lin.No problem, we can still go and see those standing Babas, Miss Kara, and then we'll get your luggage.I'll come here to find you, at three o'clock in the afternoon the day after tomorrow.Lin, I'm so glad you're going to be living in the ghetto with us!very happy! He walked out of the hall and down the stairs to the noisy street below the third floor.I watched him walk into the lights and traffic, and my apprehension faded.I have a way to make a little money and a safe place to live.Then, as if in a sense of security, my thoughts zigzag along the streets to Carla.I couldn't help but think of her apartment, of the first-floor windows of her house, with its French doors opening onto a cobbled alley, less than a five-minute walk from my hotel.But the image in my mind came to me that the gate was closed.I tried to picture her face, her eyes, but couldn't, and suddenly realized that I had become a slum dweller.If I lived in that filthy place where I couldn't stay for a moment, I might lose her, all the same.I knew that if I got to that point, my shame would be like a very strong and ruthless prison wall separating me from her. I lie down and sleep in my room.Moving into the ghetto will give me time to work things out.This solution to the visa problem is not pleasant, but quite practical.I felt relieved and optimistic, and I was also very tired.I was supposed to have a good night's sleep, but the dreams that night were violent and disturbing.Didier once told me in a midnight chat that dreams are where wishes and fears meet.He said that when wishes and fears come together, we call them nightmares.