Shantaram: Autobiography as fan-fiction

Shantaram is the story of an Australian bank robber and heroin addict who escapes prison in the 1980s and flees to Mumbai, where he lives for several years. In that time, he joins the mafia, opens a free clinic and treats a cholera epidemic, and fights with the Mujahideen in Afghanistan, among numerous other death-defying feats.

In his defense, nowhere does Gregory David Roberts, the author of Shantaram, say the book is fact: it is a novel, after all. And he can write whatever he wants in a novel. Including thinly-veiled fan-fiction about his own life.

As another blog post puts it, more eloquently than I can:

I’ll give you a sampling here of the superhuman deeds carried out by the heroic Linbaba. First, we see the mighty Linbaba humbly and meekly lowering himself to live in the filthy, fetid, festering slums of Bombay, where he sets up a medical clinic for its inhabitants. Next, there’s the all-powerful Linbaba, almost single-handedly treating a cholera epidemic that decimates those slums after a heavy monsoon rain.

Over yonder, behold the indomitable Linbaba being brutally tortured and starved to death in an Indian prison, refusing to cave in under conditions in which most of us would have long ago sold our own mothers downriver. And then don’t blink, or you’ll miss the magnificent Linbaba fighting to the death for his gangster friends, even though they are essentially a bunch of murderous thugs, no matter how pretty Mr. Roberts paints them. Oh, I almost forgot that the multi-talented Linbaba also works part-time as a Bollywood producer.

Finally, as if that’s not enough, behold the international most wanted fugitive, Mr. Linbaba, off to infiltrate his way into Afghanistan to take on the unassailable forces of the occupying Russian army. It’s all a bit much for one hero in one book, and it serves to lessen the believability of the story. It’s almost as if the ex-con author has written this book to convince his parole board that he’s a changed man, not to make his protagonist a likable or realistic character.

Indeed. And while Roberts says the book is fiction, a large portion of its success arises from readers considering the story to be at least partially true. Never mind that the actual characters Shantaram is inspired by dispute significant portions of it:

On Shantaram’s Wikipedia page (the veracity of which Roberts disputes), the real-life brother of Prabaker, Linbaba’s cheerful companion and guide, is cited as claiming that apart from running a free clinic in the slums, Roberts actually lived a life of crime and drug addiction from which the Khare family eventually rescued him. Kishore Khare further asserts that from time to time, when the now famous and prestigious author Roberts shows up in the slums for photo ops with celebrities like Oprah, Madonna and Johnny Depp, the slum guards have to hold back the outraged crowds that are offended by the alleged falsehoods depicted in the book.

So, perhaps Roberts still isn’t so changed from the con man who robbed people at gunpoint 40 years ago. Only now, instead of stealing money, he’s stealing our time.

So why did I even bother finishing Shantaram? Well, I assumed it was an autobiography until I was a couple hundred pages in, and the plot got impossibly hard to believe. I know it says that it’s a novel on the back cover (in text that seems almost intentionally hard to read), but reading the blurb you’d be forgiven for thinking otherwise:

In the early 80s, Gregory David Roberts, an armed robber and heroin addict, escaped from an Australian prison to India, where he lived in a Bombay slum. There, he established a free heath clinic and also joined the mafia, working as a money launderer, forger and street soldier. He found time to learn Hindi and Marathi, fall in love, and spend time being worked over in an Indian jail. Then, in case anyone thought he was slacking, he acted in Bollywood and fought with the Mujahideen in Afghanistan.

And then I did enjoy the descriptions of Mumbai in the 80s, which I assume are at least partially accurate. And the book is page-turning, in the same way watching bad TV is addicting. One high-drama moment gives way to the next, and even though you’re going “this is obviously ridiculous,” it is sort of fun.

So if you’re looking to read enjoyable slop, you could do worse. But don’t mistake Shantaram for anything deep.