Читать книгу The Bandit of Kabul - Jerry Beisler - Страница 9

Chapter Two

“Hark, now hear the sailors cry Smell the sea and feel the sky Let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic.”

“INTO THE MYSTIC,” VAN MORRISON

A threat of war hissed through Bombay. The world powers had ludicrously allowed the creation of an East and West Pakistan with thousands of square miles of India in between.

We checked into the Ambassador Hotel, then went to fight the lines to buy railroad tickets “towards Kathmandu.”

Everything got hazy that first night in Bombay. We ran into our would-be best man, Alejandro, and he asked us if we had ever been to an opium parlor. “Your honeymoon night in Bombay … why not?”

“We go to ‘vice’ part of the city. Anything goes … for centuries,” Alejandro emphasized, “for centuries!” Alejandro further explained that “the deal was to visit the O dens in the Sokologie Square part of Bombay but, above all, to avoid spending many days there.”

“Come, I’ll take you down there,” he said “and we must go now and you must start to say the following mantra: ‘I will not stay more than 8 hours, I will not stay more than 8 hours’ because the masters of the pipe will continue to offer to refill your pipe until there is no money left. Some people have actually started to get their mail there,” he further cautioned.

“We’re headed to the mountains and safety tomorrow,” we replied in unison.

When we entered the opium den we caused quite a stir. Seeing a beautiful blonde woman such as Rebecca always caught some local attention. The docents of the den spread new newspaper on the floor and gave us a tin can for a pillow. Squatting next to us and filling the long opium pipe with small balls of “O,” these den walas instructed us to take big, full drags on the pipe. Like every drug in my experience, the first-time use is the best-time use and I was quickly transported to blue lagoons, red sails and golden sunrises. We were offered tea and soft drinks and, of course, many opportunities to refill our pipes. Now and then the Alejandro warning – “no more than 8 hours” – would occasionally bounce cross the bucolic scenery that I was enjoying in my head. Rebecca and I agreed it was time to go. Alejandro refused and we left.

We were astonished to find ourselves greeted by a brand new day – It was six in the morning and the city of Bombay was rocking. We walked into the breaking day across the Square and saw thousands of prostitutes stacked in tiny cages six stories high in building after building. Everywhere small cooking fires shed an eerie glow on the teaming populace, each soul eking out a bitter survival in scenes that rivaled everything I recalled from reading “Dante’s Inferno.” We could not have been farther from our small, conservative, hometowns. It felt as if I had just looked into a strange mirror. Everything looks back at you differently. I had walked through a door of perception. A time shift. The teaming masses of Asia were now a “reality.”

We missed the train and awoke after twenty-four hours of delirium to receive humankind’s most horrific notice of reality. India and Pakistan were at war. Bombay was under blackout with the threat of Pakistani air force bombing. The entire populace seemed to be in a wild, patriotic panic. Lawlessness and civil chaos were breaking out in the streets. Bombay was within striking distance of the Pakistani air force and all seaports and airports were closed. The only safe move was inland, and fast.