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 .
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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.
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. Gregory David Roberts retired from public life in to devote time to his family and new writing projects.
The Mountain Shadow , sequel to Shantaram , is available now. We want your feedback! Click here. Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts ebook. Subjects Fiction Literature. See all Editorial Reviews. Product details File Size: Not Enabled. Would you like to tell us about a lower price?
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Share your thoughts with other customers. Write a customer review. Customer images. See all customer images. Read reviews that mention ever read gregory david well written david roberts books i have ever beautifully written highly recommend must read long time thought provoking true story johnny depp indian culture page turner really enjoyed even though want it to end every page australian prison well worth. Top Reviews Most recent Top Reviews. There was a problem filtering reviews right now.
Please try again later. Kindle Edition Verified download. The books plot, twists, and pace would make a great book in itself but it would have to be shorter.
It is over pages. What caught me is without trying to shove it down your throat is the Author's love of people. Good, bad, ugly, beautiful, extremely poor, extremely rich, strange, and even straight out hell types of people. The author and main character who who portrays himself as no pillar of society seems to have an intense love of humans and human nature.
Not only are the characters and what they do complex but no matter how deep or shallow they are in crime ranging from petty scammers to murderers and even torturers, in by far most cases he pulls the good out of them and demonstrates that even though people get themselves in these situations regularly, that we consider heinous crimes, there is actually good in them that may be hidden deep but is in every human being. It not only did its job of entertaining, but got me to thinking philosophically about people when I was not reading it.
Anybody that knows me would not consider me a philosophical thinker. That is why I rated the mood as thoughtful though it works up to to being every bit as much suspenseful. It is an incredible book that starts out interesting and moved on to the point where if I could manage to put it down by midnight I couldn't wait to get myself back to reading it.
I read the book twice. After the first time I went to Southeast Asia, not including India which is the setting of the book, but once to Thailand and twice to Nepal. I really enjoyed the people and some of them could make me laugh harder than I ever have in my life.
But they were always trying to pull petty scams. Then when I got back from my third trip I read Shantaram the second time and it put things into perspective. They assume we are all rich while the poorest of them live in plywood and cardboard houses with plastic scraps held down by rocks for a roof.
So what is it for the Americans who likely paid over 2K Just to get there and back to get suckered in a petty scam. I really liked them other than having to be wary of the scam at any time. But that was all part of the some of the best experiences i had in my life. In addition when I saw how many people were poor and how they lived, I just considered it a donation to charity that can't be written off. Big Deal. Those were the best experiences I ever had.
I picked up this book after seeing it in airport bookstores for years, and honestly had fairly low expectations, so it sat unread on my kindle for a couple of years.
But I was very surprised and found that I liked this book a lot. I won't pretend that I can add much to the more than 2, other reviews at this point, but I did want to contribute a five star rating and a few reasons why I liked the book: Having been to India a few times, I'd kind of written the place off, but Shantaram's Bombay is an utterly fascinating, exotic place full of fascinating, exotic characters.
I loved this book, the story. I know nothing about India but now I know a lot about the soul of the people. This story is so personal and full of color and depth of character.
Nothing was boring and each little story within the main story of the book was interesting and worthy. Each was a new learning experience. We learn as Lin learns. It is satisfying. There is no way you can truly understand Lin, his choices, love of danger and hold on constant living in a hyper warp life.
Spoiling for a fight, living on adrenalin. He is exhausting and exhilarating. A wonderful read. I will read the sequel. This was a very interesting book that should be about half the length.
A partially fictional autobiography, Shantaram provides a fascinating look into India several decades ago, following the title character in his journey as he breaks out of jail in Australia, travels to India, lives in a slum, rises to the top levels of the Mafia, and travels to Afghanistan during the war with Russia.
There are quite a few passages, however, of his musings, ramblings, or discussions of philosophy that could have been shortened to promote reader's interest. It's worth reading, but some pages may benefit from skimming over. It has been yesrs since I've read a book by such a descriptive writer. He is rapidly becoming a favorite of mine. This book was recommended to me by my daughter. She read a passage and I was hooked, immediately downloading.
It's not a book you pick up if you have t or 20 minutes to read. You want to curl up for an evening or an afternoon being transported back to India. I watched as my backpack and travel bag were lifted to the top of a bus, and dumped onto a pile of luggage with precise and nonchalant violence, and decided to keep the guitar in my hands. I took a place on the bench seat at the back of the bus, and was joined there by two long-haired travellers.
The bus filled quickly with a mix of Indians and foreigners, most of them young, and travelling as inexpensively as possible. When the bus was close to full, the driver turned in his seat, scowled at us menacingly, spat a jet of vivid red betel juice through the open doorway, and announced our imminent departure.
Our conductor, riding on the bottom step of the bus, cursed them with artful animosity. The journey from the airport to the city began on a wide, modern motorway, lined with shrubs and trees. It was much like the neat, pragmatic landscape that surrounded the international airport in my home city, Melbourne.
The familiarity lulled me into a complacency that was so profoundly shattered, at the first narrowing of the road, that the contrast and its effect seemed calculated.
For the first sight of the slums, as the many lanes of the motorway became one, and the trees disappeared, clutched at my heart with talons of shame. Like brown and black dunes, the acres of slums rolled away from the roadside, and met the horizon with dirty heat-haze mirages.
The miserable shelters were patched together from rags, scraps of plastic and paper, reed mats, and bamboo sticks. They slumped together, attached one to another, and with narrow lanes winding between them. Nothing in the enormous sprawl of it rose much above the height of a man.
It seemed impossible that a modern airport, full of prosperous and purposeful travellers, was only kilometres away from those crushed and cindered dreams.
My first impression was that some catastrophe had taken place, and that the slums were refugee camps for the shambling survivors.
I learned, months later, that they were survivors, of course, those slum-dwellers: the catastrophes that had driven them to the slums from their villages were poverty, famine, and bloodshed. And five thousand new survivors arrived in the city every week, week after week, year after year. As the kilometres wound past, as the hundreds of people in those slums became thousands, and tens of thousands, my spirit writhed. I felt defiled by my own health and the money in my pockets. Still, that first encounter with the ragged misery of the slum, heartbreak all the way to the horizon, cut into my eyes.
For a time, I ran onto the knives. Then the smoulders of shame and guilt flamed into anger, became fist-tightening rage at the unfairness of it: What kind of a government, I thought, what kind of a system allows suffering like this? But the slums went on, kilometre after kilometre, relieved only by the awful contrast of the thriving businesses and crumbling, moss-covered apartment buildings of the comparatively affluent. 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.
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.
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.