The White Tiger

by Aravind Adiga

  I went to the gateway of the mall in my new white T-shirt. But there, the moment I saw the guard, I turned around-went back to the Honda City. I got into the car and punched the ogre three times. I touched the stickers of the goddess Kali, with her long red tongue, for good luck.

  This time I went to the rear entrance.

  I was sure the guard in front of the door would challenge me and say, No, you're not allowed in, even with a pair of black shoes and a T-shirt that is mostly white with just one English word on it. I was sure, until the last moment, that I would be caught, and called back, and slapped and humiliated there.

  Even as I was walking inside the mall, I was sure someone would say, Hey! That man is a paid driver! What's he doing in here? There were guards in gray uniforms on every floor-all of them seemed to be watching me. It was my first taste of the fugitive's life.

  I was conscious of a perfume in the air, of golden light, of cool, air-conditioned air, of people in T-shirts and jeans who were eyeing me strangely. I saw an elevator going up and down that seemed made of pure golden glass. I saw shops with walls of glass, and huge photos of handsome European men and women hanging on each wall. If only the other drivers could see me now!

  Getting out was as tricky as getting in, but again the guards didn't say a word to me, and I walked back to the parking lot, got into the car, and changed back into my usual, richly colored shirt, and left the rich man's plain T-shirt in a bundle near my feet.

  I came running out to where the other drivers were sitting. None of them had noticed me going in or coming out. They were too occupied with something else. One of the drivers-it was the fellow who liked to twirl his key chain all the time-had a cell phone with him. He forced me to take a look at his phone.

  "Do you call your wife with this thing?"

  "You can't talk to anyone with it, you fool-it's a one-way phone!"

  "So what's the point of a phone you can't talk to your family with?"

  "It's so that my master can call me and give me instructions on where to pick him up. I just have to keep it here-in my pocket-wherever I go."

  He took the phone back from me, rubbed it clean, and put it in his pocket. Until this evening, his status in the drivers' circle had been low: his master drove only a Maruti-Suzuki Zen, a small car. Today he was being as bossy as he wanted. The drivers were passing his cell phone from hand to hand and gazing at it like monkeys gaze at something shiny they have picked up. There was the smell of ammonia in the air; one of the drivers was pissing not far from us.

  Vitiligo-Lips was watching me from a corner.

  "Country-Mouse," he said. "You look like a fellow who wants to say something."

  I shook my head.

  * * *

  The traffic grew worse by the day. There seemed to be more cars every evening. As the jams grew worse, so did Pinky Madam's temper. One evening, when we were just crawling down M.G. Road into Gurgaon, she lost it completely. She began screaming.

  "Why can't we go back, Ashoky? Look at this fucking traffic jam. It's like this every other day now."

  "Please don't begin that again. Please."

  "Why not? You promised me, Ashoky, we'll be in Delhi just three months and get some paperwork done and go back. But I'm starting to think you only came here to deal with this income-tax problem. Were you lying to me the whole time?"

  It wasn't his fault, what happened between them-I will insist on that, even in a court of law. He was a good husband, always coming up with plans to make her happy. On her birthday, for instance, he had me dress up as a maharaja, with a red turban and dark cooling glasses, and serve them their food in this costume. I'm not talking of any ordinary home cooking, either-he got me to serve her some of that stinking stuff that comes in cardboard boxes and drives all the rich absolutely crazy.

  She laughed and laughed and laughed when she saw me in my costume, bowing low to her with the cardboard box. I served them, and then, as Mr. Ashok had instructed, stood near the portrait of Cuddles and Puddles with folded hands and waited.

  "Ashok," she said. "Now hear this. Balram, what is it we're eating?"

  I knew it was a trap, but what could I do?-I answered. The two of them burst into giggles.

  "Say it again, Balram."

  They laughed again.

  "It's not piJJA. It's piZZa. Say it properly."

  "Wait-you're mispronouncing it too. There's a T in the middle. Peet. Zah."

  "Don't correct my English, Ashok. There's no T in pizza. Look at the box."

  I had to hold my breath as I stood there waiting for them to finish. The stuff smelled so awful.

  "He's cut the pizza so badly. I just don't understand how he can come from a caste of cooks."

  "You've just dismissed the cook. Please don't fire this fellow too-he's an honest one."

  When they were done, I scraped the food off the plates and washed them. From the kitchen window, I could see the main road of Gurgaon, full of the lights of the shopping malls. A new mall had just opened up at the end of the road, and the cars were streaming into its gates.

  I pulled the window shade down and went back to washing dishes.

  "Pijja."

  "Pzijja."

  "Zippja."

  "Pizja."

  I wiped the sink with my palm and turned off the lights.

  The two of them had gone into their bedroom. I heard shouting from inside. On tiptoe, I went to the closed door. I put my ear to the wood.

  Shouting rose from both sides-followed by a scream-followed by the sound of man's flesh slapping woman's flesh.

  About time you took charge, O Lamb-that-was-born-from-the-loins-of-a-landlord. I locked the door behind me and took the elevator down.

  Half an hour later, just when I was about to fall asleep, another of the servants came and yelled for me. The bell was ringing! I put on my pants, washed my hands again and again at the common tap, and drove the car up to the entrance of the building.

  "Drive us into the city."

  "Yes, sir. Where in the city?"

  "Any place you want to go, Pinky?"

  No word from her.

  "Take us to Connaught Place, Balram."

  Neither husband nor wife talked as I drove. I still had the maharaja outfit on. Mr. Ashok looked at Pinky Madam nervously half a dozen times.

  "You're right, Pinky," he said in a husky voice. "I didn't mean to challenge you on what you said. But I told you, there's only one thing wrong with this place-we have this fucked-up system called parliamentary democracy. Otherwise, we'd be just like China -"

  "Ashok. I have a headache. Please."

  "We'll have some fun tonight. There's a good T.G.I. Friday's here. You'll like it."

  When we got to Connaught Place, he made me stop in front of a big red neon light.

  "Wait for us here, Balram. We'll be back in twenty minutes."

  They had been gone for an hour and I was still inside the car, watching the lights of Connaught Place.

  I punched the fluffy black ogre a dozen times. I looked at the magnetic stickers of goddess Kali with her skulls and her long red tongue-I stuck my tongue out at the old witch. I yawned.

  It was well past midnight and very cold.

  I would have loved to play some music to pass the time, but of course the Mongoose had forbidden that.

  I opened the door of the car: there was an acrid smell in the air. The other drivers had made a fire for themselves, which they kept going by shoving bits of plastic into it.

  The rich of Delhi, to survive the winter, keep electrical heaters, or gas heaters, or even burn logs of wood in their fireplaces. When the homeless, or servants like night watchmen and drivers who are forced to spend time outside in winter, want to keep warm, they burn whatever they find on the ground. One of the best things to put in the fire is cellophane, the kind used to wrap fruits, vegetables, and business books in: inside the flame, it changes its nature and melts into a clear fuel. The only problem is that while burning, it gives off a white smoke that
makes your stomach churn.

  Vitiligo-Lips was feeding bags of cellophane into the fire; with his free hand he waved to me.

  "Country-Mouse, don't sit there by yourself! That leads to bad thoughts!"

  The warmth was so tempting.

  But no. My mouth would tickle if I went near them, and I would ask for paan.

  "Look at the snob! He's even dressed like a maharaja today!"

  "Come join us, maharaja of Buckingham!"

  Away from the warmth, away from temptation I walked, down the pathways of Connaught Place, until the smell of churned mud filled the air.

  There is construction work in any direction you look in Delhi. Glass skeletons being raised for malls or office blocks; rows of gigantic T-shaped concrete supports, like a line of anvils, where the new bridges or overpasses are coming up; huge craters being dug for new mansions for the rich. And here too, in the heart of Connaught Place, even in the middle of the night, under the glare of immense spotlights, construction went on. A giant pit had been excavated. Machines were rumbling from inside it.

  I had heard of this work: they were putting a railway under the ground of Delhi. The pit they had made for this work was as large as any of the coal mines I'd seen in Dhanbad. Another man was watching the pit with me-a well-dressed man in a shirt and tie and pants with nice pleats. Normally his kind would never talk to me, but maybe my maharaja tunic confused him.

  "This city is going to be like Dubai in five years, isn't it?"

  "Five?" I said contemptuously. "In two years!"

  "Look at that yellow crane. It's a monster."

  It was a monster, sitting at the top of the pit with huge metal jaws alternately gorging and disgorging immense quantities of mud. Like creatures that had to obey it, men with troughs of mud on their heads walked in circles around the machine; they did not look much bigger than mice. Even in the winter night the sweat had made their shirts stick to their glistening black bodies.

  It was freezing cold when I returned to the car. All the other drivers had left. Still no sign of my masters. I closed my eyes and tried to remember what I had had for dinner.

  A nice hot curry with juicy chunks of dark meat. Big puddles of red oil in the gravy.

  Nice.

  They woke me up by banging on my window. I scrambled out and opened the doors for them. Both were loud and happy, and reeked of some English liquor: whatever it was, I hadn't yet tried it at the shop.

  I tell you, they were going at it like animals as I drove them out of Connaught Place. He was pushing his hand up and down her thigh, and she was giggling. I watched one second too long. He caught me in the mirror.

  I felt like a child that had been watching his parents through a slit in their bedroom door. My heart began to sweat-I half expected him to catch me by the collar, and fling me to the ground, and stamp me with his boots, the way his father used to do to fishermen in Laxmangarh.

  But this man, as I've told you, was different-he was capable of becoming someone better than his father. My eyes had touched his conscience; he nudged Pinky Madam and said, "We're not alone, you know."

  She became grumpy at once, and turned her face to the side. Five minutes passed in silence. Reeking of English liquor, she leaned toward me.

  "Give me the steering wheel."

  "No, Pinky, don't, you're drunk, let him-"

  "What a fucking joke! Everyone in India drinks and drives. But you won't let me do it?"

  "Oh, I hate this." He slumped on his seat. "Balram, remember never to marry."

  "Is he stopping at the traffic signal? Balram, why are you stopping? Just drive!"

  "It is a traffic signal, Pinky. Let him stop. Balram, obey the traffic rules. I command you."

  "I command you to drive, Balram! Drive!"

  Completely confused by this time, I compromised-I took the car five feet in front of the white line, and then came to a stop.

  "Did you see what he did?" Mr. Ashok said. "That was pretty clever."

  "Yes, Ashok. He's a fucking genius."

  The timer next to the red light said that there were still thirty seconds to go before the light changed to green. I was watching the timer when the giant Buddha materialized on my right. A beggar child had come up to the Honda City holding up a beautiful plaster-of-paris statue of the Buddha. Every night in Delhi, beggars are always selling something by the roadside, books or statues or strawberries in boxes-but for some reason, perhaps because my nerves were in such a bad state, I gazed at this Buddha longer than I should have.

  …it was just a tilt of my head, just a thing that happened for half a second, but she caught me out.

  "Balram appreciates the statue," she said.

  Mr. Ashok chuckled.

  "Sure, he's a connoisseur of fine art."

  She cracked the egg open-she lowered the window and said, "Let's see it," to the beggar child.

  He-or she, you can never tell with beggar children-pushed the Buddha into the Honda.

  "Do you want to buy the sculpture, driver?"

  "No, madam. I'm sorry."

  "Balram Halwai, maker of sweets, driver of cars, connoisseur of sculpture."

  "I'm sorry, madam."

  The more I apologized, the more amused the two of them got. At last, putting an end to my agony, the light changed to green, and I drove away from the wretched Buddha as fast as I could.

  She reached over and squeezed my shoulder. "Balram, stop the car." I looked at Mr. Ashok's reflection-he said nothing.

  I stopped the car.

  "Balram, get out. We're leaving you to spend the night with your Buddha. The maharaja and the Buddha, together for the night."

  She got into the driver's seat, started the car, and drove away, while Mr. Ashok, dead drunk, giggled and waved goodbye at me. If he hadn't been drunk, he never would have allowed her to treat me like this-I'm sure of that. People were always taking advantage of him. If it were just me and him in that car, nothing bad would ever have happened to either of us.

  There was a traffic island separating the two sides of the road, and trees had been planted in the island. I sat down under a tree.

  The road was dead-then two cars went by, one behind the other, their headlights making a continuous ripple on the leaves, like you see on the branches of trees that grow by a lake. How many thousands of such beautiful things there must be to see in Delhi. If you were just free to go wherever you wanted, and do whatever you wanted.

  A car was coming straight toward me, flashing its headlights on and off and sounding its horns. The Honda City had done a U-turn-an illegal U-turn, mind you-down the road, and was charging right at me, as if to plow me over. Behind the wheel I saw Pinky Madam, grinning and howling, while Mr. Ashok, next to her, was smiling.

  Did I see a wrinkle of worry for my fate on his forehead-did I see his hand reach across and steady the steering wheel so that the car wouldn't hit me?

  I like to think so.

  The car stopped half a foot in front of me, with a screech of burning rubber. I cringed: how my poor tires had suffered, because of this woman.

  Pinky Madam opened the door and popped her grinning face out.

  "Thought I had really left you behind, Mr. Maharaja?"

  "No, madam."

  "You're not angry, are you?"

  "Not at all." And then I added, to make it more believable, "Employers are like mother and father. How can one be angry with them?"

  I got into the backseat. They did another U-turn across the middle of the avenue, and then drove off at top speed, racing through one red light after the other. The two of them were shrieking, and pinching each other, and making giggling noises, and, helpless to do anything, I was just watching the show from the backseat, when the small black thing jumped into our path, and we hit it and knocked it over and rolled the wheels of the car over it.

  From the way the wheels crunched it completely, and from how there was no noise when she stopped the car, not even a whimper or a barking, I knew at once what had happened
to the thing we had hit.

  She was too drunk to brake at once-by the time she had, we had hurtled on another two or three hundred yards, and then we came to a complete stop. In the middle of the road. She had kept her hands on the wheel; her mouth was open.

  "A dog?" Mr. Ashok asked me. "It was a dog, wasn't it?"

  I nodded. The streetlights were too dim, and the object-a large black lump-was too far behind us already to be seen clearly. There was no other car in sight. No other living human being in sight.

  As if in slow motion, her hands moved back from the wheel and covered her ears.

  "It wasn't a dog! It wasn't a-"

  Without a word between us, Mr. Ashok and I acted as a team. He grabbed her, put a hand on her mouth, and pulled her out of the driver's seat; I rushed out of the back. We slammed the doors together; I turned the ignition key and drove the car at full speed all the way back to Gurgaon.

  Halfway through she quieted down, but then, as we got closer to the apartment block, she started up again. She said, "We have to go back."

  "Don't be crazy, Pinky. Balram will get us back to the apartment block in a few minutes. It's all over."

  "We hit something, Ashoky." She spoke in the softest of voices. "We have to take that thing to the hospital."

  "No."

  Her mouth opened again-she was going to scream again in a second. Before she could do that, Mr. Ashok gagged her with his palm-he reached for the box of facial tissues and stuffed the tissues into her mouth; while she tried to spit them out, he tore the scarf from around her neck, tied it tightly around her mouth, and shoved her face into his lap and held it down there.

  When we got to the apartment, he dragged her to the elevator with the scarf still around her mouth.

  I got a bucket and washed the car. I wiped it down thoroughly, and scrubbed out every bit of blood and flesh-there was a bit of both around the wheels.

  When he came down, I was washing the tires for the fourth time.

  "Well?"

  I showed him a piece of bloodied green fabric that had got stuck to the wheel.

  "It's cheap stuff, sir, this green cloth," I said, rubbing the rough material between my fingers. "It's what they put on children."