This book sat on a shelf at home, while I was in India for six months. My mother's friend, who was to accompany her on their own trip to India, gave it to me. Theirs was an exhausting package tour of North India. Mine was a more leisurely six months, the first two days of which were in Bombay. I was overwhelmed by the heat, filth, poverty, snakes, and culture shock in the brief time I spent in Colaba, and I was out of there heading to Goa on the Konkani Express as soon as was possible. Had I gone to Bombay later in my trip, I might have enjoyed it more. I wish that I had read this book before arriving, because I despised Bombay, and this book has me wanting to take another look.

Shantaram documents the escape of a convicted junkie and stick-up man in Australia, and his flight to Bombay, where he learns Hindi, Marathi and Urdu, moves to a slum, becomes a doctor, joins the Mafia, undergoes months of torture at Arthur Road Prison, acts in Bollywood, and fights in Afghanistan.

The story is fascinating, and is a testament to the strength of human will. More than the story itself though, what is impressive about this book is the language. The language is beautiful. He made me smell India, feel India, all over again.

Read this book. It is one of the finest books I have ever read.