"What are you doing here in Goa, Karla? Why did you leave?"

"It would make more sense to ask why you stay there."

"I've got my reasons."

"Exactly. And I had my reasons for leaving."

She turned her head to watch a lone, distant figure on the beach.

It seemed to be a wandering holy man, carrying a long staff. I watched her watching the holy man, and I wanted to ask her again, to find out what had driven her from Bombay, but the set of her features was so tense that I decided to wait.

"How much do you know about my stint at Arthur Road?" I asked.

She flinched, or perhaps it was a shiver in response to the breeze from the sea. She was wearing a loose, yellow singlet top, and a green lungi. Her bare feet were buried in the sand, and she hugged her knees.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, the cops picked me up the night I left your place to meet Ulla. They got me, right after I left you. What did you think happened to me when I didn't come back?"

"I didn't know, that night. I couldn't guess."

"Did you think I... did you think I just ditched you?"

She paused, frowning pensively.

"At first, I did think that. Something like that. And I think I hated you. Then I started asking around. When I found out you didn't even come back to the slum clinic, and that nobody saw you, I thought you must've been... doing something... important."

"Important," I laughed. It wasn't a good laugh. It was bitter, and angry. I tried to push those feelings away. "I'm sorry, Karla. I couldn't get a message out. I couldn't let you know. I was out of my mind with worry that you... that... you'd hate me, for leaving you like that."

"When I heard about it-that you were in the jail-it kind of broke my heart. It was a very bad time for me. This... business, I was doing... it was starting to go wrong. It was so wrong, so bad, Lin, that I think I'll never come back from it. And then, I heard about you. And I was so... well... everything changed, just like that. Everything."

I couldn't understand what she'd said. I was sure it was important, and I wanted to ask her more, but the lone figure was only a few metres away, and he approached us with slow, dignified steps. The moment was lost.

He was indeed a holy man. Tall, lean, and tanned to a dark, earth-brown, he wore a loincloth and was adorned with dozens of necklaces, amulets, and decorative bracelets. His hair was matted in dreadlocks that reached to his waist. Balancing the long staff against his shoulder, he clasped his hands together in a greeting and a blessing. We greeted him in turn, and invited him to sit with us.

"Do you have any charras?" he asked, in Hindi. "I would like to smoke on this beautiful night."

I fished a lump of charras from my pocket, and tossed it to him, with a filter cigarette.

"The Bhagwan's blessing be upon your kindness," he intoned.

"And a blessing of the Bhagwan upon you also," Karla replied in perfect Hindi. "We are very happy to see a devotee of the Lord Shiva at this full moon."

He grinned, showing gaps in his teeth, and set to preparing a chillum. When the clay pipe was ready, he raised his palms to gain our attention.

"Now, before we smoke, I want to give you a gift in return," he said. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, we understand," I said, smiling to match the light in his eyes.

"Good. I give you both a blessing. My blessing will always stay with you. I give you this blessing in this way..."

He raised his arms above his head, and then bent over on his knees, touching his forehead to the sand, with his arms outstretched. Kneeling upright again and raising his hands, he repeated the gesture several times while mumbling indistinct words.

Eventually, he sat back on his feet, smiled the gap-toothed smile at us, and nodded for me to light the pipe. We smoked in silence.

When the pipe was finished, I refused to accept the return of the lump of charras. Acknowledging the gift with a solemn bow of his head, the holy man stood to leave. As we looked up at him, he slowly raised his staff to point it at the almost full moon. At once, we saw and understood what he meant-the pattern on the surface of the moon, that in some cultures is called the rabbit, suddenly looked to both of us like a kneeling figure raising his arms in prayer. Chuckling happily, the sadhu walked away along the gentle dunes.

"I love you, Karla," I said when we were alone again. "I loved you the first second I saw you. I think I've loved you for as long as there's been love in the world. I love your voice. I love your face. I love your hands. I love everything you do, and I love the way you do everything. It feels like magic when you touch me. I love the way your mind works, and the things you say.

And even though it's all true, all that, I don't really understand it, and I can't explain it-to you or to myself. I just love you. I just love you with all my heart. You do what God should do: you give me a reason to live. You give me a reason to love the world."

She kissed me, and our bodies settled together on the yielding sand. She clasped her hands in mine, and with our arms outstretched above our heads we made love while the praying moon seduced the sea, luring the waves to crash and crumble on the charmed, unfailing shore.

And for a week, then, we played at being tourists in Goa. We visited all the beaches on the coast of the Arabian Sea, from Chapora to Cape Rama. We slept for two nights on the white gold wonder of Colva Beach. We inspected all the churches in the Old Goa settlement. The Festival of St. Francis Xavier, held on the anniversary of the saint's death, every year, bound us in immense crowds of happy, hysterical pilgrims. The streets were thronged with people in their Sunday-best clothes. Merchants and street stall operators came from all over the territory. Processions of the blind, the lame, and the afflicted, hoping for a miracle, rambled toward the basilica of the saint. Xavier, a Spanish monk, was one of the seven original Jesuits in the order founded by his friend Ignatius Loyola. Xavier died in 1552. He was just forty six years old, but his spectacular proselytising missions to India, and what was then called the Far East, established his enduring legend. After numerous burials and disinterments, the much-exhumed body of St. Francis was finally installed in the Basilica of Bom Jesus, in Goa, in the early seventeenth century.

Still remarkably-some would say miraculously-well preserved, the body was exposed to public view once in every ten years.

While seemingly immune to decay, the saint's body had suffered various amputations and subtractions over the centuries. A Portuguese woman had bitten off one of the saint's toes, in the sixteenth century, in the hope of keeping it as a relic. Parts of the right hand had been sent to religious centres, as had chunks of the holy intestines. Karla and I offered outrageously extravagant bribes to the caretakers of the basilica, laughing all the while, but they steadfastly refused to allow us a peek at the venerable corpse.

"Why did you do the robberies?" she asked me on one of those warm nights of satin sky and rolling, mellisonant surf.

"I told you. My marriage broke up, and I lost my daughter. I cracked up, and got into drugs. Then I did the robberies to feed my heroin habit."

"No, I mean why robberies? Why not something else?"

It was a good question, and one that no-one in the justice system - cops, lawyers, judge, psychiatrist, or prison governors-had ever asked me.

"I've thought about it. I've thought about it a lot. It sounds weird, I know, but I think TV had a lot to do with it. Every hero on TV had a gun. And there was something... brave... about armed robbery. I know there really isn't anything brave about it - it's a gutless thing to do, scaring people with a gun-but it seemed the bravest way to steal money, then. I couldn't bring myself to hit old ladies over the head and steal their handbags, or break into people's private houses. Robbery seemed fair, somehow, as if I took a fair chance, every time I did it, of being shot dead-by the people I robbed, or by the cops."