While rearranging
the books in my bookcases at Jalgaon, my hands lingered on Shantaram—Gregory
David Roberts’ sprawling 936‑page autobiographical novel. Instantly, a tide of
memory rose within me: the moment I first bought the book in 2004, the long
nights spent reading it, and the echoes of my student days in Mumbai during the
eighties.
Roberts’ life
itself is a narrative of extremes. Once an armed robber who escaped from prison
in Australia, he drifted into Mumbai and lived for years in the slums of Colaba
under the adopted name Shantaram. There he opened a free health clinic,
worked with the underworld and politicians, fell in love, acted in Bollywood,
and even fought alongside mujahideen in Afghanistan. His journey carried him to
Germany, where he was captured and extradited to Australia. After serving his
sentence, he rebuilt his life, founded a small media company, and devoted
himself entirely to writing.
The book is a
testament to endurance. It took him thirteen years to complete, and the first
six years of work—six hundred pages—were destroyed in prison. Yet he persisted,
producing a novel written, as he himself said, in blood and tears.
What draws me
most is his language: lucid yet layered, with sentences so long they seem to
resist comprehension, but once embraced, they touch the heart with startling
clarity. Consider his reflection: “Fate needs accomplices, and the stones in
destiny’s wall are mortared with small and heedless complicities such as those.
I look back, now, and I know that the naming moment (Shantaram), which seemed
so insignificant then, which seemed to demand no more than an arbitrary and
superstitious ‘yes’ or ‘no’, was pivotal in my life.”
His philosophical
commentary transforms incidents into insights. Early in the book, he describes
himself with stark honesty: “I was a revolutionary who lost his ideals in
heroin, a philosopher who lost his integrity in crime, and a poet who lost his
soul in a maximum‑security prison.”
Reading Shantaram
resonates deeply with me because Roberts was in Mumbai during the same years I
lived there. I too glimpsed some of the scenes he describes:
The calm streets
at night, Nariman Point’s necklace illuminating the horizon, the waves and
cool, salty breeze of the Arabian Sea at Girgaon Chowpatty. The Mahalaxmi
Temple, radiant in its silver glow, spreading its spiritual aura. Haji Ali,
standing boldly amidst the waters, its white dome glowing softly against the
night sky. Mahim Church, with its graceful silhouette, inviting quiet
reflection. Bandra’s seaside road, with the iconic Sea Rock Hotel rising tall
against the shimmering waters. And Juhu beach, woven into the fabric of daily
life, brimming with vitality: coconut trees leaning toward the waves, hotels
like Sun‑n‑Sand and Horizon framing the shore, crowds of people engaged in
countless activities. It was a world alive with movement and memory, and all of
it found its way into my books.
Thus, returning
to Shantaram is not simply reading—it is reliving. The novel soothes me,
carrying me back into a world I once inhabited physically, and still inhabit
mentally whenever memories rise from the depths of the heart.
Dr.
Mahendra Ingale @ Jalgaon on June 22, 2026
Author of Value‑Based Leadership
#ValueBasedLeadership #EngineeringHeartBeats
#EngineeringDreamsInspiringSouls #Shantaram #अभियांत्रिकीस्पंदने
