The White Tiger

by Aravind Adiga

  Now, who would want this to happen to his family, sir? Which inhuman wretch of a monster would consign his own granny and brother and aunt and nephews and nieces to death?

  The Stork and his sons could count on my loyalty.

  When I came back, the Nepali guard opened the gate without a word. I was inside the compound now.

  As far as masters go, Mr. Ashok, Mukesh Sir, and the Stork were better than nine in ten. There was always enough food in the house for the servants. On Sundays you even got a special dish, rice mixed with small red chunks of boneless chicken. I had never had a regular chicken dish in my life until then; it made you feel like a king, eating chicken Sunday after Sunday and then licking your fingers. I had a covered room to sleep in. True, I had to share it with the other driver, a grim-looking fellow named Ram Persad, and he had the nice big bed, while I had to sleep on the floor-still a covered room's a covered room, and much nicer than sleeping on the road, as Kishan and I had been doing all the time we were in Dhanbad. Above all, I got the thing that we who grow up in the Darkness value most of all. A uniform. A khaki uniform!

  The next day I went to the bank-the one that had a wall made all of glass. I saw myself reflected in the glass panes-all in khaki. I walked back and forth in front of that bank a dozen times, just gaping at myself.

  If only they had given me a silver whistle, I would have been in paradise!

  Kishan came once a month to see me. Kusum had decided that I could keep ninety rupees a month for myself: the rest would go straight to Kishan-who would send it straight to her, in the village. I gave him the money every month through the black bars of the rear gate, and we would talk for a few minutes before the Nepali shouted, "That's enough-the boy has work to do now!"

  The work of a number two driver was simple. If the number one driver, Ram Persad, was busy driving the masters around town in the Honda City, and someone in the house wanted to go to the market, or to a coal mine, or to the train station, I got into the Maruti Suzuki and drove them there. Otherwise I had to stay around the house and make myself useful.

  Now, I say they took me on as their "driver." I don't exactly know how you organize your servants in China. But in India -or, at least, in the Darkness-the rich don't have drivers, cooks, barbers, and tailors. They simply have servants.

  What I mean is that anytime I was not driving the car, I had to sweep the floor of the courtyard, make tea, clean cobwebs with a long broom, or chase a cow out of the compound. There was one thing I was not allowed to do, and this was to touch the Honda City: Ram Persad alone had the right to drive it and clean it. In the evenings I'd watch him wash the sleek exterior of the car with a soft cloth. And I'd burn with envy.

  I could see, even from outside, that this was a beautiful, modern car, with all the necessary comforts: a speaker system, A/C, nice glossy leather seats, and a big stainless-steel spittoon in the back. It must be like paradise to drive such a nice car. All I had was a battered old Maruti Suzuki.

  One evening, as I was watching, Mr. Ashok came and poked his nose around the car. I was discovering that he was a very inquisitive man.

  "What's that for? That shiny thing in the back."

  "Spittoon, sir."

  "What?"

  Ram Persad explained. This spittoon was for the Stork, who liked to chew paan. If he spat the paan out the window the paan might streak the sides of the car, so he spat near his feet, into the spittoon, which the driver washed and cleaned at the end of every ride.

  "Disgusting," Mr. Ashok said.

  He was asking about something else when Mukesh Sir's son Roshan came running up to us with a plastic bat and ball in his hand.

  Ram Persad snapped his fingers for me.

  (Playing cricket with any brat in the household who wanted to play-and letting him win, handsomely-was one of the prescribed duties of driver number two.)

  Mr. Ashok joined the game. He stood as the wicket-keeper while I bowled full tosses to the brat.

  "I'm Azharuddin, captain of India!" the boy shouted every time he hit a six or a four.

  "Call yourself Gavaskar. Azharuddin is a Muslim."

  It was the Stork. He had come into the courtyard to watch.

  Mr. Ashok said, "Father, what a silly thing to say! Hindu or Muslim, what difference does it make?"

  "Oh, you young people and your modern ideas!" the Stork said. He put his hands on me. "I have to steal the driver, Roshan-I'm sorry, you'll have him back in an hour, okay?"

  The Stork had a special use for driver number two. He had bad legs, with blue veins in them, and had been told by a doctor to sit in the courtyard in the evening with his feet in warm water and have them massaged by a servant.

  I had to heat water on the stove, carry it into the courtyard, and then lift the old man's feet up one after the other and immerse them in the hot water and then massage them both gently; as I did this, he would close his eyes and moan.

  After half an hour, he would say, "The water's gone cold," and then I had to lift his feet out, one at a time, from the bucket, and carry the bucket in to the toilet. The water in it was dark-dead hair and bits of skin floated on it. I had to fill the bucket with fresh hot water, and bring it back.

  As I was massaging, the two sons pulled up chairs and sat down by their father to talk. Ram Persad would bring out a bottle full of a golden liquid, and pour it into three glasses, and drop ice cubes in their glasses, and hand one glass to each of them. The sons would wait for the father to take the first sip and say, "Ah…whiskey. How would we survive this country without it," and then the talking would start. The more they talked, the faster I massaged. They talked about politics, coal, and about your country- China. Somehow these things-politics, coal, China-were linked to the family fortunes of the Stork; and dimly I understood that my own fate, since I was part of this family now, was linked into these three things as well. The chatter of coal and China got mixed up with the aroma of whiskey from the glasses, the stench of sweat rising up from the Stork's feet dipped in the warm water, the flakiness of his skin, and the light jabs of the sandaled feet of Mr. Ashok or the Mongoose when they bumped into my back in the process of moving about. I absorbed everything-that's the amazing thing about entrepreneurs. We are like sponges-we absorb and grow.

  A sharp blow landed on my head.

  I looked up and saw the Stork, with his palm still raised over my skull, glaring at me.

  "Know what that was for?"

  "Yes, sir," I said-with a big smile on my face.

  "Good."

  A minute later he hit me on the head again.

  "Tell him what it was for, Father. I don't think he knows. Fellow, you're pressing too hard. You're too excited. Father is getting annoyed. Slow down."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Do you have to hit the servants, Father?"

  "This is not America, son. Don't ask questions like that."

  "Why can't I ask questions?"

  "They expect it from us, Ashok. Remember that-they respect us for it."

  Now, Pinky Madam never joined in these conversations. Except to play badminton with Ram Persad, which she did wearing dark glasses, she never left her room. I wondered what was going on with her-was she having a fight with her husband? Was he not sticking it to her well in bed?

  When the Stork said, "The water's gone cold," for the second time, and took his feet out of the bucket, my work was done.

  I splashed the cold water down the sink.

  I washed my hands for ten minutes, and dried them, and washed them again, but it made no difference. No matter how much you wash your hands after you have massaged a man's foot, the smell of his old, flaky skin will stay on your skin for an entire day.

  * * *

  There was only one activity that servant number one and servant number two had to do together. At least once a week, around six o'clock, Ram Persad and I left the house and went down the main road, until we got to a store with a sign that said:

  "JACKPOT" ENGLISH LIQUOR SHOP

&n
bsp; INDIAN-MADE FOREIGN LIQUOR SOLD HERE

  I should explain to you, Mr. Jiabao, that in this country we have two kinds of men: "Indian" liquor men and "English" liquor men. "Indian" liquor was for village boys like me-toddy, arrack, country hooch. "English" liquor, naturally, is for the rich. Rum, whiskey, beer, gin-anything the English left behind. (Is there a "Chinese" liquor, Mr. Premier? I'd love to take a sip.)

  One of the most important duties of driver number one was to come to Jackpot once a week and buy a bottle of the most expensive whiskey for the Stork and his sons. It was part of servant protocol, though don't ask me why, that the junior driver accompany him on this outing. I guess I was supposed to make sure he did not run away with the bottle.

  Colored bottles of various sizes were stacked up on Jackpot's shelves, and two teenagers behind the counter struggled to take orders from the men shouting at them. On the white wall to the side of the shop, there were hundreds of names of liquor brands, written in a dripping red paint and subdivided into five categories, BEER, RUM, WHISKEY, GIN, and VODKA.

  PRICE LIST "JACKPOT" ENGLISH LIQUOR SHOP

  OUR WHISKEY

  WHISKEY FIRST CLASS

  WHISKEY SECOND CLASS

  WHISKEY THIRD CLASS

  (EVEN CHEAPER WHISKEY IS AVAILABLE: ASK AT THE COUNTER.)

  OUR VODKA

  VODKA FIRST CLASS…

  It was a small store, and at least fifty men were crammed into the ten feet of space in front of the counter, each yelling at the top of his voice, while waving rupee notes of the higher denominations:

  "Kinfisher Strong one liter!"

  "Old Monk half bottle!"

  "Thunderbolt! Thunderbolt!"

  They were not going to be drinking this liquor; I could tell from their torn and dirty shirts that they were only servants, like Ram Persad and me, come to buy English liquor for their masters. If we came after eight o'clock on a weekend night to Jackpot, it was like a civil war in front of the counter; I had to keep the men at bay, while Ram Persad shoved his way to the counter and yelled:

  "Black Dog! Full bottle!"

  Black Dog was the first name in the first-class category of whiskey. It was the only thing that the Stork and his sons drank.

  Ram Persad would get the liquor; and then I would swat at the other servants and fight for some space for us to get out, while he cradled the bottle in his arms. It was the only time we were ever like a team.

  On our way back to the house, Ram Persad would always stop by the side of the road and slide the Black Dog out of its cardboard box. He said this was to check that Jackpot hadn't cheated us. I knew he was lying. He just wanted to hold the bottle. He wanted to hold the full, virgin bottle of first-class whiskey in his hand. He wanted to imagine that he was buying it for himself. Then he would slide the bottle back into the cardboard box and return to the house, me behind him, my eyes still dazzled by the sight of so much English liquor.

  At night, while Ram Persad snored from his bed, I lay on the floor with my head resting on my palms.

  I was staring at the ceiling.

  And thinking how the Stork's two sons were as different from each other as night and day.

  Mukesh Sir was small, and dark, and ugly, and very shrewd. We would have called him "the Mongoose" back at home. He had been married for some years, to a homely wife who was turning fat on schedule, after having two children, both boys. This fellow, this Mongoose, did not have his father's body-but he had his father's mind. If he ever saw me waste even one moment, he would shout, "Driver, don't loiter there! Clean the car."

  "Cleaned it already, sir."

  "Then take a broom and sweep the courtyard."

  Mr. Ashok had his father's body; he was tall, and broad, and handsome, like a landlord's son should be. In the evenings, I saw him play badminton with his wife in the compound of the house. She wore pants; I gaped. Who had ever seen a woman dressed in trousers before-except in the movies? I assumed at first she was an American, one of those magical things he had brought home from New York, like his accent and the fruit-flavored perfume he put on his face after shaving.

  Two days later, Ram Persad and the slanty-eyed Nepali were gossiping. I took a broom, began sweeping the courtyard, and edged closer and closer to them.

  "She's a Christian, did you know?"

  "No way."

  "Yes!"

  "And he married her?"

  "They married in America. When we Indians go there, we lose all respect for caste," the Nepali said.

  "The old man was dead set against the marriage. Her people were not happy either."

  "So-how did it happen?"

  The Nepali glared at me. "Hey, are you eavesdropping on us?"

  "No, sir."

  * * *

  One morning there was a knocking on the door of the drivers' quarters, and when I went out, Pinky Madam was standing with two rackets in her hand.

  A net had been tied between two poles in one corner of the courtyard; she got on one side of the net and I got on the other side. She hit the shuttle-it rose up, and then fell near my foot.

  "Hey! Move! Hit it back!"

  "Sorry, madam. I'm so sorry."

  I'd never played this game before. I hit the shuttle back to her, and it went straight into the net.

  "Oh, you're useless. Where is that other driver?"

  Ram Persad dashed up to the net at once. He had been watching the game all the time from the side. He knew exactly how to play badminton.

  I watched him hit the shuttle cleanly over the net and match her shot for shot, and my belly burned.

  Is there any hatred on earth like the hatred of the number two servant for the number one?

  Though we slept in the same room, just a few feet apart, we never said a word to each other-never a Hello, or How's your mother doing, nothing. I could feel heat radiate out from him all night-I knew he was cursing me and putting spells on me in his sleep. See, he began every day by bowing in front of at least twenty pictures of various gods he kept in his side of the room, and saying, " Om, om, om." As he did this, he looked at me through the corner of his eye, as if to say, Don't you pray? What are you, a Naxal?

  One evening I went to the market and bought two dozen of the cheapest idols of Hanuman and Ram I could find and brought them back and packed them into the room. So both of us now had the same number of gods in the room; and we drowned out each other's prayers in the morning while bowing before our respective deities.

  The Nepali was hand in hand with Ram Persad. One day he burst into my room and put a big plastic bucket down on the floor with a thud.

  "Do you like dogs, village boy?" he asked with a big smile.

  There were two white Pomeranians in the house-Cuddles and Puddles. The rich expect their dogs to be treated like humans, you see-they expect their dogs to be pampered, and walked, and petted, and even washed! And guess who had to do the washing? I got down on my knees and began scrubbing the dogs, and then lathering them, and foaming them, and then washing them down, and taking a blow dryer and drying their skin. Then I took them around the compound on a chain while the king of Nepal sat in a corner and shouted, "Don't pull the chain so hard! They're worth more than you are!"

  By the time I was done with Puddles and Cuddles, I walked back, sniffing my hands-the only thing that can take the smell of dog skin off a servant's hands is the smell of his master's skin.

  Mr. Ashok was standing outside my room.

  I ran up to him and bowed low. He went into the room; I followed, still crouched over. He bent low to make his way through the doorway-the doorway was built for undernourished servants, not for a tall, well-fed master like him. He looked at the ceiling dubiously.

  "How awful," he said.

  Until then I had never noticed how the paint on the ceiling was peeling off in large flakes, and how there were spiderwebs in every corner. I had been so happy in this room until now.

  "Why is there such a smell? Open the windows."

  He sat down on Ram Persa
d's bed and poked it with his fingertips. It felt hard. I immediately stopped being jealous of Ram Persad.

  (And so I saw the room with his eyes; smelled it with his nose; poked it with his fingers-I had already begun to digest my master!)

  He looked in my direction, but avoided my gaze, as if he were guilty about something.

  "You and Ram Persad will both get a better room to sleep in. And separate beds. And some privacy."

  "Please don't do that, sir. This place is like a palace for us."

  That made him feel better. He looked at me.

  "You're from Laxmangarh, aren't you?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "I was born in Laxmangarh. But I haven't seen it since. Were you born there too?"

  "Yes, sir. Born and raised there."

  "What's it like?"

  Before I could answer, he said, "It must be so nice."

  "Like paradise, sir."

  He looked me up and down, from head to toe, the way I had been looking at him ever since I had come to the house.

  His eyes seemed full of wonder: how could two such contrasting specimens of humanity be produced by the same soil, sunlight, and water?

  "Well, I want to go there today," he said, getting up from the bed. "I want to see my birthplace. You'll drive me."

  "Yes, sir!"

  Going home! And in my uniform, driving the Stork's car, chatting up his son and daughter-in-law!

  I was ready to fall at his feet and kiss them!

  The Stork had wanted to come along with us, and that would really make it a grand entry for me into the village-but at the last minute he decided to stay back. In the end, it was just Mr. Ashok and Pinky Madam whom I was taking in the Honda City, out into the countryside, toward Laxmangarh.

  It was the first time I was driving the two of them-Ram Persad had had the privilege until now. I still wasn't used to the Honda City, which is a moody car with a mind of its own, as I've said. I just prayed to the gods-all of them-not to let me make a mistake.