"Yeah? What does Lin mean in Hindi?"

"It's meaning _Penis!" he explained, with a delight that he expected me to share.

"Oh, great. That's just... great."

"Yes very great, very lucky. It is not exactly meaning this, but it is sounding like ling, or lingam, and that is meaning penis."

"Come off it, man," I protested, beginning to walk once more.

"How can I go around calling myself Mr. Penis? Are you kidding me? I can see it now-Oh, hello, pleased to meet you, my name is Penis. No way. Forget it. I think we'll stick to Lindsay."

"No! No! Lin, really I'm telling you, this is a fine name, a very power name, a very lucky, a too lucky name! The people will love this name, when they hear it. Come, I will show you. I want to leave it this bottle of whisky you gave to me, leave it with my friend, Mr. Sanjay. Here, just here in this shop. Just you see how he likes it your name."

A few more paces along the busy street brought us to a small shop with a hand-painted sign over the open door:

RADIO SICK

Electric Repair Enterprises Electrical Sales and Repairs, Sanjay Deshpande Proprietor Sanjay Deshpande was a heavy-set man in his fifties with a halo of grey-white hair, and white, bushy eyebrows. He sat behind a solid wooden counter, surrounded by bomb-blast radios, eviscerated cassette players, and boxes of parts. Prabaker greeted him, chattering in rapid Hindi, and passed the bottle of whisky over the counter. Mr. Deshpande slapped a meaty hand on it, without looking at it, and slid it out of sight on his side of the counter. He took a sheaf of rupee notes from his shirt pocket, peeled off a number, and passed them across with his palm turned downward. Prabaker took the money and slipped it into his pocket with a movement as swift and fluid as the tentacle-grab of a squid. He finished talking, at last, and beckoned me forward.

"This is my very good friend," he informed Mr. Deshpande, patting me on the arm. "He is from New Zealand."

Mr. Deshpande grunted.

"He is just today coming in Bombay. India Guest House, he is staying."

Mr. Deshpande grunted again. He studied me with a vaguely hostile curiosity.

"His name is Lin. Mr. Linbaba," Prabaker said.

"What's his name?" Mr. Deshpande asked.

"Lin," Prabaker grinned. "His name is Linbaba."

Mr. Deshpande raised his impressive eyebrows in a surprised smile.

"Linbaba?"

"Oh, yes!" Prabaker enthused. "Lin. Lin. Very fine fellow, he is also."

Mr. Deshpande extended his hand, and I shook it. We greeted one another, and then Prabaker began to tug at my sleeve, pulling me towards the doorway.

"Linbaba!" Mr. Deshpande called out, as we were about to step into the street. "Welcome in Bombay. You have any Walkman or camera or any ghetto-blasting machine for selling, you come to me, Sanjay Deshpande, at Radio Sick. I am giving best prices."

I nodded, and we left the shop. Prabaker dragged me a few paces further along the street, and then stopped.

"You see, Mr. Lin? You see how he likes it your name?"

"I guess so," I muttered, bewildered as much by his enthusiasm as by the brief exchange with Mr. Deshpande. When I got to know him well enough, when I began to cherish his friendship, I discovered that Prabaker believed with the whole of his heart that his smile made a difference, in people's hearts and in the world. He was right, of course, but it took me a long time to understand that truth, and to accept it.

"What's the baba part, at the end of the name? Lin, I can understand. But what's the Linbaba bit all about?"

"Baba is just a respecting name," Prabaker grinned. "If we put baba up on the back of your name, or on the name of anybody special, it is like meaning the respect we give it to a teacher, or a holy persons, or a very old, old, old-"

"I get it, I get it, but it doesn't make me any more comfortable with it, Prabu, I gotta tell ya. This whole penis thing... I don't know."

"But you did see, Mr. Sanjay Deshpande! You did see how he liked it your name! Look, see how the people love this name. You see now, you look, I will tell it to everybody! Linbaba! Linbaba!

Linbaba!"

He was speaking in a shout, addressing strangers as they passed us on the street.

"All right, Prabu, all right. I take your word for it. Calm down." It was my turn to tug at his sleeve, and move him along the street. "I thought you wanted to _drink the whisky?"

"Ah, yes," he sighed, "was wanting it, and was already drinking it in my mind also. But now, Linbaba, with this money from selling your good present to Mr. Sanjay, I can buy two bottles of very bad and nicely cheap Indian whisky, to enjoy, and plenty of money left for one nice new shirt, red colour, one tola of good charras, tickets for enjoying air condition Hindi picture, and two days of foods. But wait, Linbaba, you are not eating it your paan. You must put it now in the side of your mouth and chew it, before it is getting stale and not good for taste."

"Okay, how do I do it? Like this?"

I put the leaf-wrapped parcel, almost the size of a matchbox, into the side of my mouth between the cheek and the teeth, as I'd seen the others do. Within seconds, a suffusion of aromatic sweetnesses possessed my mouth. The taste was sharp and luscious - honeyed and subtly piquant at the same time. The leaf wrapping began to dissolve, and the solid, crunchy nibbles of shaved betel nut, date, and coconut swirled in the sweet juices.

"You must spit it out some paan now," Prabaker said, staring at my grinding jaws with earnest concentration. "You make like this, see? Spit him out like this."

He spat out a squirt of red juice that landed on the road, a metre away, and formed a palm-sized blotch. It was a precise, expert procedure. Not a speck of the juice remained on his lips.

With his enthusiastic encouragement, I tried to imitate him, but the mouthful of crimson liquid bubbled out of my mouth, left a trail of slobber on my chin and the front of my shirt, and landed with an audible splat on my right boot.

"No problem this shirt," Prabaker frowned, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, and smearing the blood-red fluid deeper into my shirtfront with vigorously ineffective rubbing. "No problem your boots also. I will wipe him just like this, see? I must ask it now, do you like the swimming?" "Swimming?" I asked, swallowing the little paan mixture that was still in my mouth.

"Oh, yes. Swimming. I will take you to Chowpatty beach, so nice beach it is, and there you can practise chewing and spitting and chewing and more spitting the paan, but without so many of all your clothes only, for a good saving on your laundry."

"Listen, about that-going around the city-you work as a guide, right?"

"Oh, yes. Very best Bombay guide, and guiding all India also."

"How much do you charge per day?"

He glanced at me, his cheeks appled in the impish grin I was learning to recognise as the clever under-side of his broad and gentle smile.

"I charge hundred rupees all day," he said.

"Okay..."

"And tourists buy it the lunch."

"Sure."

"And taxi also, tourists pay."

"Of course."

"And Bombay bus tickets, all they pay."

"Yeah."

"And chai, if we drink it on a hot afternoon, for refreshing our good selves."

"U-huh-"

"And sexy girls, if we go there, on a cool night, if we are feeling a big needy swelling in our-"

"Yeah, okay, okay. Listen, I'll pay you for the whole week. I want you to show me Bombay, teach me a bit about the city. If it works out okay, there'll be a bonus for you at the end of the week. How does that sound?"

The smile sparked his eyes, but his voice was surprisingly sombre as he replied.

"This is your good decision, Linbaba. Your very good decision."