A beggar sitting by the side of the road, a nearly naked man coated with grime, and with wild unkempt hair in long coils like snakes, looked into my eyes:
Promise.
Colored pieces of glass have been embedded into the boundary wall of Buckingham Towers B Block-to keep robbers out. When headlights hit them, the shards glow, and the wall turns into a Technicolored, glass-spined monster.
The gatekeeper stared at me as I drove in. I saw rupee notes shining in his eyes.
This was the second time he had seen me going out and returning on my own.
In the parking lot, I got out of the driver's seat and carefully closed the door. I opened the passenger's door, and went inside, and passed my hand along the leather. I passed my hands from one side of the leather seats to the other three times, and then I found what I was looking for.
I held it up to the light.
A strand of golden hair!
I've got it in my desk to this day.
The Sixth Night
The dreams of the rich, and the dreams of the poor-they never overlap, do they?
See, the poor dream all their lives of getting enough to eat and looking like the rich. And what do the rich dream of?
Losing weight and looking like the poor.
Every evening, the compound around Buckingham Towers B Block becomes an exercise ground. Plump, paunchy men and even plumper, paunchier women, with big circles of sweat below their arms, are doing their evening "walking."
See, with all these late-night parties, all that drinking and munching, the rich tend to get fat in Delhi. So they walk to lose weight.
Now, where should a human being walk? In the outdoors-by a river, inside a park, around a forest.
However, displaying their usual genius for town planning, the rich of Delhi had built this part of Gurgaon with no parks, lawns, or playgrounds-it was just buildings, shopping malls, hotels, and more buildings. There was a pavement outside, but that was for the poor to live on. So if you wanted to do some "walking," it had to be done around the concrete compound of your own building.
Now, while they walked around the apartment block, the fatsos made their thin servants-most of them drivers-stand at various spots on that circle with bottles of mineral water and fresh towels in their hands. Each time they completed a circuit around the building, they stopped next to their man, grabbed the bottle-gulp-grabbed the towel-wipe, wipe-then it was off on round two.
Vitiligo-Lips was standing in one corner of the compound, with his bottle and his master's sweaty towel. Every few minutes, he turned to me with a twinkle in his eyes-his boss, the steel man, who was bald until two weeks ago, now sported a head of thick black hair-an expensive toupee job he had gone all the way to England for. This toupee was the main subject of discussion in the monkey-circle these days-the other drivers had offered Vitiligo-Lips ten rupees to resort to the old tricks of braking unexpectedly, or taking the car full speed over a pothole, to knock over his master's toupee at least once.
The secrets of their masters were spilled and dissected every evening by the monkey-circle-though if any of them made the divorce a topic of discussion, he knew he would have to deal with me. On Mr. Ashok's privacy I allowed no one to infringe.
I was standing just a few feet from Vitiligo-Lips, with my master's bottle of mineral water in my hand and his sweat-stained towel on my shoulder.
Mr. Ashok was about to complete his circle-I could smell his sweat coming toward me. This was round number three for him. He took the bottle, drained it, wiped his face with his towel, and draped it back on my shoulder.
"I'm done, Balram. Bring the towel and bottle up, okay?"
"Yes, sir," I said, and watched him go into the apartment block. He took a walk once or twice a week, but it clearly wasn't enough to counter his nights of debauchery-I saw a big, wet paunch pressing against his white T-shirt. How repulsive he was, these days.
I signaled to Vitiligo-Lips before going down to the parking lot.
Ten minutes later, I smelled the steel man's sweat and heard footsteps. Vitiligo-Lips had come down. I called him over to the Honda City-it was the only place in the world I felt fully safe anymore.
"What is it, Country-Mouse? Want another magazine?"
"Not that. Something else."
I got down on my haunches; I squatted by one of the tires of the City. I scraped the grooves of the tire with a fingernail. He squatted too.
I showed him the strand of golden hair-I kept it tied around my wrist, like a locket. He brought my wrist to his nose-he rubbed the strand between his fingers, sniffed it, and let my wrist down.
"No problem." He winked. "I told you your master would get lonely."
"Don't talk about him!" I seized his neck. He shook me off.
"Are you crazy? You tried to choke me!"
I scraped the grooves of the tire again. "How much will it cost?"
"High-class or low-class? Virgin or nonvirgin? All depends."
"I don't care. She just has to have golden hair-like in the shampoo advertisements."
"Cheapest is ten, twelve thousand."
"That's too much. He won't pay more than four thousand seven hundred."
"Six thousand five hundred, Country-Mouse. That's the minimum. White skin has to be respected."
"All right."
"When does he want it, Country-Mouse?"
"I'll tell you. It'll be soon. And another thing-I want to know another thing."
I put my face on the tire and breathed in the smell of the leather. For strength.
"How many ways are there for a driver to cheat his master?"
* * *
Mr. Jiabao, I am aware that it is a common feature of those cellophane-wrapped business books to feature small "sidebars." At this stage of the story, to relieve you of tedium, I would like to insert my own "sidebar" into the narrative of the modern entrepreneur's growth and development.
HOW DOES THE ENTERPRISING DRIVER
EARN A LITTLE EXTRA CASH?
1. When his master is not around, he can siphon petrol from the car, with a funnel. Then sell the petrol.
2. When his master orders him to make a repair to the car, he can go to a corrupt mechanic; the mechanic will inflate the price of the repair, and the driver will receive a cut. This is a list of a few entrepreneurial mechanics who help entrepreneurial drivers:
Lucky Mechanics, in Lado Serai, near the Qutub
R.V. Repairs, in Greater Kailash Part Two
Nilofar Mechanics, in DLF Phase One, in Gurgaon.
3. He should study his master's habits, and then ask himself: "Is my master careless? If so, what are the ways in which I can benefit from his carelessness?" For instance, if his master leaves empty English liquor bottles lying around in the car, he can sell the whiskey bottles to the bootleggers. Johnnie Walker Black brings the best resale value.
4. As he gains in experience and confidence and is ready to try something riskier, he can turn his master's car into a freelance taxi. The stretch of the road from Gurgaon to Delhi is excellent for this; lots of Romeos come to see their girlfriends who work in the call centers. Once the entrepreneurial driver is sure that his master is not going to notice the absence of the car-and that none of his master's friends are likely to be on the road at this time-he can spend his free time cruising around, picking up and dropping off paying customers.
At night I lay in my mosquito net, the lightbulb on in my room, and watched the dark roaches crawling on top of the net, their antennae quivering and trembling, like bits of my own nerves: and I lay in bed, too agitated even to reach out and crush them. A cockroach flew down and landed right above my head.
You should have asked them for money when they made you sign that thing. Enough money to sleep with twenty white-skinned girls. It flew away. Another landed on the same spot.
Twenty?
A hundred. Two hundred. Three hundred, a thousand, ten thousand golden-haired whores. And even that would still not have been enough. That would not s
tart to be enough.
Over the next two weeks, I did things I am still ashamed to admit. I cheated my employer. I siphoned his petrol; I took his car to a corrupt mechanic who billed him for work that was not necessary; and three times, while driving back to Buckingham B, I picked up a paying customer.
The strangest thing was that each time I looked at the cash I had made by cheating him, instead of guilt, what did I feel?
Rage.
The more I stole from him, the more I realized how much he had stolen from me.
To go back to the analogy I used when describing Indian politics to you earlier, I was growing a belly at last.
Then one Sunday afternoon, when Mr. Ashok had said he wouldn't need me again that day, I gulped two big glasses of whiskey for courage, then went to the servants' dormitory. Vitiligo-Lips was sitting beneath the poster of a film actress-each time his master "hammered" an actress, he put her poster up on the wall-playing cards with the other drivers.
"Well, you can say what you want, but I know that these jokers aren't going to win reelection."
He looked up and saw me.
"Well, look who's here. It's the yoga guru, paying us a rare visit. Welcome, honored sir."
They showed me their teeth. I showed them my teeth.
"We were discussing the elections, Country-Mouse. You know, it's not like the Darkness here. The elections aren't rigged. Are you going to vote this time?"
I summoned him with a finger.
He shook his head. "Later, Country-Mouse, I'm having too much fun discussing the elections."
I waved the brown envelope in the air. He put his cards down at once.
I insisted that we walk down to the parking lot; he counted the money there, in the shadow of the Honda City.
"Good, Country-Mouse. It's all here. And where is your master? Will you drive him there?"
"I am my own master."
He didn't get it for a minute. Then his jaw dropped-he rushed forward-he hugged me. "Country-Mouse!" He hugged me again. "My man!"
He was from the Darkness too-and you feel proud when you see one of your own kind showing some ambition in life.
He drove me in the Qualis-his master's Qualis-to the hotel, explaining on the way that he ran an informal "taxi" service when the boss wasn't around.
This hotel was in South Extension, Part Two-one of the best shopping areas in Delhi. Vitiligo-Lips locked his Qualis, smiled reassuringly, and walked with me up to the reception desk. A man in a white shirt and black bow tie was running his finger down the entries in a long ledger; leaving his finger on the book, he looked at me as Vitiligo-Lips explained things into his ear.
The manager shook his head. "A golden-haired woman-for him?"
He put his hands on the counter and leaned over so he could see me from the toes up.
"For him?"
Vitiligo-Lips smiled. "Look here, the rich of Delhi have had all the golden-haired women they want; who knows what they'll want next? Green-haired women from the moon? Now it's going to be the working class that lines up for the white women. This fellow is the future of your business, I tell you-treat him well."
The manager seemed uncertain for a moment; then he slammed the ledger shut and showed me an open palm. "Give me five hundred rupees extra." He grinned. "Working-class surcharge."
"I don't have it!"
"Give me five hundred or forget it."
I took out the last three hundred rupees I had. He took the cash, straightened his tie, and then went up the stairs. Vitiligo-Lips patted me on the shoulder and said, "Good luck, Country-Mouse-do it for all of us!"
I ran up the stairs.
Room 114A. The manager was standing at the door, with his ear to it. He whispered, "Anastasia?"
He knocked, then put his ear to the door again and said, "Anastasia, are you in?"
He pushed the door open. A chandelier, a window, a green bed-and a girl with golden hair sitting on the bed.
I sighed, because this one looked nothing like Kim Basinger. Not half as pretty. That was when it hit me-in a way it never had before-how the rich always get the best things in life, and all that we get is their leftovers.
The manager brought both his palms up to my face; he opened and closed them, and then did it again.
Twenty minutes.
Then he made a knocking motion with his fist-followed by a kicking motion with his shiny black boot.
"Get it?"
That's what would happen to me after twenty minutes.
"Yes."
He slammed the door. The woman with the golden hair still wasn't looking at me.
I had only summoned up the courage to sit down by her side when there was banging on the door outside.
"When you hear that-it's over! Get it?" The manager's voice.
"All right!"
I moved closer to the woman on the bed. She neither resisted nor encouraged. I touched a curl of her hair and pulled it gently to get her to turn her face toward me. She looked tired, and worn out, and there were bruises around her eyes, as if someone had scratched her.
She gave me a big smile-I knew it well: it was the smile a servant gives a master.
"What's your name?" she asked in Hindi.
This one too! They must have a Hindi language school for girls in this country, Ukraine, I swear!
"Munna."
She smiled. "That's not a real name. It just means 'boy.'"
"That's right. But it's my name," I said. "My family gave me no other name."
She began laughing-a high-pitched, silvery laugh that made her whole golden head of hair bob up and down. My heart beat like a horse's. Her perfume went straight to my brain.
"You know, when I was young, I was given a name in my language that just meant 'girl.' My family did the same thing to me!"
"Wow," I said, curling my legs up on the bed.
We talked. She told me she hated the mosquitoes in this hotel and the manager, and I nodded. We talked for a while like this, and then she said, "You're not a bad-looking fellow-and you're quite sweet," and then ran her finger through my hair.
At this point, I jumped out of the bed. I said, "Why are you here, sister? If you want to leave this hotel, why don't you? Don't worry about the manager. I'm here to protect you! I am your own brother, Balram Halwai!"
Sure, I said that-in the Hindi film they'll make of my life.
"Seven thousand sweet rupees for twenty minutes! Time to get started!"
That was what I actually said.
I climbed on top of her-and held her arms behind her head with one hand. Time to dip my beak in her. I let the other hand run through her golden curls.
And then I shrieked. I could not have shrieked louder if you had shown me a lizard.
"What happened, Munna?" she asked.
I jumped off the bed, and slapped her.
My, these foreigners can yell when they want to.
Immediately-as if the manager had been there all the time, his ear to the door, grinning-the door burst open, and he came in.
"This," I shouted at him, pulling the girl by her hair, "is not real gold."
The roots were black! It was all a dye job!
He shrugged. "What do you expect, for seven thousand? The real thing costs forty, fifty."
I leapt at him, caught his chin in my hand, and rammed it against the door. "I want my money back!"
The woman let out a scream from behind me. I turned around-that was the mistake I made. I should've finished off that manager right there and then.
Ten minutes later, with a scratched and bruised face, I came tumbling out the front door. It slammed behind me.
Vitiligo-Lips hadn't waited. I had to take a bus back home; I was rubbing my head the whole time. Seven thousand rupees-I wanted to cry! Do you know how many water buffaloes you could have bought for that much money?-I could feel Granny's fingers wringing my ears.
Back in Buckingham Towers at last-after a one-hour traffic jam on the road-I washed the wound on my head in t
he common sink, and then spat a dozen times. To hell with everything-I scratched my groin. I needed that. I slouched toward my room, kicked opened the door, and froze.
Someone was inside the mosquito net. I saw a silhouette in the lotus position.
"Don't worry, Balram. I know what you were doing."
A man's voice. Well, at least it wasn't Granny-that was my first thought.
Mr. Ashok lifted up a corner of the net and looked at me, a sly grin on his face.
"I know exactly what you were doing."
"Sir?"
"I was calling your name and you weren't responding. So I came down to see. But I know exactly what you were doing…that other driver, the man with pink lips, he told me."
My heart pounded. I looked down at the ground.
"He said you were at the temple, offering prayers for my health."
"Yes, sir," I said, with sweat pouring down my face in relief. "That's right, sir."
"Come inside the net," he said softly. I went in and sat next to him inside the mosquito net. He was looking at the roaches walking above us.
"You live in such a hole, Balram. I never knew. I'm sorry."
"It's all right, sir. I'm used to it."
"I'll give you some money, Balram. You go into some better housing tomorrow, okay?"
He caught my hand and turned it over. "Balram, what are all these red marks on your palm? Have you been pinching yourself?"
"No, sir…it's a skin disease. I've got it here too, behind my ear-see-all those pink spots?"
He came close, filling my nostrils with his perfume. Bending my ear with a finger, gently, he looked.
"My. I never noticed. I sit behind you every day and I never-"
"A lot of people have this disease, sir. A lot of poor people."
"Really. I haven't noticed. Can you get it treated?"
"No, sir. The diseases of the poor can never get treated. My father had TB and it killed him."
"It's the twenty-first century, Balram. Anything can be treated. You go to the hospital and get it treated. Send me the bill, I'll pay it."
"Thank you, sir," I said. "Sir…do you want me to take you somewhere in the City?"
The White Tiger Page 17