And I buried them, too many of those men, and grieved their stories and their lives into my own.īut my story doesn't begin with them, or with the mafia: it goes back to that first day in Bombay. They were better men than I am, most of them: better men whose lives were crunched up in mistakes, and thrown away by the wrong second of someone else's hate, or love, or indifference. And I survived, while other men around me died.
I was chained on three continents, beaten, stabbed, and starved. I worked as a gunrunner, a smuggler, and a counterfeiter. Luck ran with me and flew with me across the world to India, where I joined the Bombay mafia.
When I escaped from that prison, over the front wall, between two gun-towers, I became my country's most wanted man. 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. In my case, it's a long story, and a crowded one.
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