The White Tiger

by Aravind Adiga

  On the way back, the two of them were talking at the top of their voices; and then the petting and kissing began. My God, and he a man who was still lawfully married to another woman! I was so furious that I drove right through four red lights, and almost smashed into an oxcart that was going down the road with a load of kerosene cans, but they never noticed.

  "Good night, Balram," Mr. Ashok shouted as he got out, hand in hand with her.

  "Good night, Balram!" she shouted.

  They ran into the apartment and took turns jabbing the call button for the elevator.

  When I got to my room, I searched under the bed. It was still there, the maharaja tunic that he had given me-the turban and dark glasses too.

  I drove the car out of the apartment block, dressed like a maharaja, with the dark glasses on. No idea where I was going-I just drove around the malls. Each time I saw a pretty girl I hooted the horn at her and her friends.

  I played his music. I ran his A/C at full blast.

  I drove back to the building, took the car down into the garage, folded the dark glasses into my pocket, and took off the tunic.

  I spat over the seats of the Honda City, and wiped them clean.

  * * *

  The next morning, he didn't come down or call me up to his room. I took the elevator, and stood near the door. I was feeling guilty about what I'd done the previous night. I wondered if I should make a full confession. I reached for the bell a few times, and then sighed and gave up.

  After a while, there were soft noises from inside. I put my ear to the wood and listened.

  "But I have changed."

  "Don't keep apologizing."

  "I had more fun last evening than in four years of marriage."

  "When you left for New York, I thought I'd never see you again. And now I have. That's the main thing for me."

  I turned away from the door and slapped my fist into my forehead. My guilt was growing by the minute. She was his old lover, you fool-not some pickup!

  Of course-he would never go for a slut. I had always known that he was a good man: a cut above me.

  I pinched my left palm as punishment.

  And put my ear to the door again.

  The phone began to ring from inside. Silence for a while, and then he said, "That's Puddles. And that's Cuddles. You remember them, don't you? They always bark for me. Here, take the phone, listen…"

  "Bad news?" Her voice, after a few minutes. "You look upset."

  "I have to go see a cabinet minister. I hate doing that. They're all so slimy. The business I'm in…it's a bad one. I wish I were doing something else. Something clean. Like outsourcing. Every day I wish it."

  "Why don't you do something else, then? It was the same when they told you not to marry me. You couldn't say no then either."

  "It's not that simple, Uma. They're my father and brother."

  "I wonder if you have changed, Ashok. The first call from Dhanbad, and you're back to your old self."

  "Look, let's not fight again. I'll send you back in the car now."

  "Oh, no. I'm not going back with your driver. I know his kind, the village kind. They think that any unmarried woman they see is a whore. And he probably thinks I'm a Nepali, because of my eyes. You know what that means for him. I'll go back on my own."

  "This fellow is all right. He's part of the family."

  "You shouldn't be so trusting, Ashok. Delhi drivers are all rotten. They sell drugs, and prostitutes, and God knows what else."

  "Not this one. He's stupid as hell, but he is honest. He'll drive you back."

  "No, Ashok. I'll get a taxi. I'll call you in the evening?"

  I realized that she was edging toward the door, and I turned and tiptoed away.

  There was no word from him until evening, and then he came down for the car. He made me go from one bank to another bank. Sitting in the driver's seat, I watched through the corner of my eye; he was collecting money from the automatic cash machines-four different ones. Then he said, "Balram, go to the city. You know the big house that's on the Ashoka Road, where we went to with Mukesh Sir once?"

  "Yes, sir. I remember. They've got two big Alsatian guard dogs, sir."

  "Exactly. Your memory's good, Balram."

  I saw in the spy mirror that Mr. Ashok was pressing the buttons on his cell phone as I drove. Probably telling the minister's servant that he was coming with the cash. So now I understood at last what work my master was doing as I drove him through Delhi.

  "I'll be back in twenty minutes, Balram," Mr. Ashok said when we got to the minister's bungalow. He stepped out with the red bag and slammed the door.

  A security guard with a rifle sat in a metal booth over the red wall of the minister's house, watching me carefully. The two Alsatian dogs, roaming the compound, barked now and then.

  It was the hour of sunset. The birds of the city began to make a ruckus as they flew home. Now, Delhi, Mr. Premier, is a big city, but there are wild places in it-big parks, protected forests, stretches of wasteland-and things can suddenly come out of these wild places. As I was watching the red wall of the minister's house, a peacock flew up over the guard's booth and perched there; for an instant its deep blue neck and its long tail turned golden in the setting sunlight. Then it vanished.

  In a little while it was night.

  The dogs began barking. The gate opened. Mr. Ashok came out of the minister's house with a fat man-the same man who had come out that day from the President's House. I guessed that he was the minister's assistant. They stopped in front of the car and talked.

  The fat man shook hands with Mr. Ashok, who was clearly eager to leave him-but ah, it isn't so easy to let go of a politician-or even a politician's sidekick. I got out of the car, pretending to check the tires, and moved into eavesdropping distance.

  "Don't worry, Ashok. I'll make sure the minister gives your father a call tomorrow."

  "Thank you. My family appreciates your help."

  "What are you doing after this?"

  "Nothing. Just going home to Gurgaon."

  "A young man like you going home this early? Let's have some fun."

  "Don't you have to work on the elections?"

  "The elections? All wrapped up. It's a landslide. The minister said so this morning. Elections, my friend, can be managed in India. It's not like in America."

  Brushing aside Mr. Ashok's protests, the fat man forced his way into the car. We had just started down the road when he said, "Ashok, let me have a whiskey."

  "Here, in the car? I don't have any."

  The fat man seemed astonished. "Everyone has whiskey in their car in Delhi, Ashok, didn't you know this?"

  He told me to go back to the minister's bungalow. He went inside and came back with a pair of glasses and a bottle. He slammed the door, breathed out, and said, "Now this car is fully equipped."

  Mr. Ashok took the bottle and got ready to pour the fat man a glass, when he smacked his lips in annoyance. "Not you, you fool. The driver. He is the one who pours the drinks."

  I turned around at once and turned myself into a barman.

  "This driver is very talented," the fat man said. "Sometimes they make a mess of pouring a drink."

  "You'd never guess that his caste was a teetotaling one, would you?"

  I tightened the cap on the bottle and left it next to the gearbox. I heard the clinking of glasses behind me and two voices saying, "Cheers!"

  "Let's go," the minister's sidekick said. "Let's go to the Sheraton, driver. There's a good restaurant down in the basement there, Ashok. Quiet place. We'll have some fun there."

  I turned the ignition key and took the dark egg of the Honda City down the streets of New Delhi.

  "A man's car is a man's palace. I can't believe you've never done this."

  "Well, you'd never try it in America -would you?"

  "That's the whole advantage of being in Delhi, dear boy!" The fat man slapped Mr. Ashok's thigh.

  He sipped, and said, "What's your situation, Ashok?
"

  "Coal trading, these days. People think it's only technology that's booming. But coal-the media pays no attention to coal, does it? The Chinese are consuming coal like crazy and the price is going up everywhere. Millionaires are being made, left, right, and center."

  "Sure, sure," the fat man said. "The China Effect." He sniffed his glass. "But that's not what we in Delhi mean when we say situation, dear boy!"

  The minister's sidekick smiled. "Basically, what I'm asking is, who services you-down there?" He pointed at a part of Mr. Ashok's body that he had no business pointing at.

  "I am separated. Going through a divorce."

  "I'm sorry to hear that," the fat man said. "Marriage is a good institution. Everything's coming apart in this country. Families, marriages-everything."

  He sipped some more whiskey and said, "Tell me, Ashok, do you think there will be a civil war in this country?"

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Four days ago, I was in a court in Ghaziabad. The judge gave an order that the lawyers didn't like, and they simply refused to accept his order. They went mad-they dragged the judge down and beat him, in his own court. The matter was not reported in the press. But I saw it with my own eyes. If people start beating the judges-in their own courtrooms-then what is the future for our country?"

  Something icy cold touched my neck. The fat man was rubbing me with his glass.

  "Another drink, driver."

  "Yes, sir."

  Have you ever seen this trick, Your Excellency? A man steering the car with one hand, and picking up a whiskey bottle with the other hand, hauling it over his shoulder, then pouring it into a glass, even as the car is moving, without spilling a drop! The skills required of an Indian driver! Not only does he have to have perfect reflexes, night vision, and infinite patience, he also has to be the consummate barman!

  "Would you like some more, sir?"

  I glanced at the minister's sidekick, at the fat, corrupt folds of flesh under his chin-then glanced at the road to make sure I wasn't driving into anything.

  "Pour one for your master now."

  "No, I don't drink much, really. I'm fine."

  "Don't be silly, Ashok. I insist-fellow, pour one for your master."

  So I had to turn and do the amazing one-hand-on-the-wheel-one-hand-with-the-whiskey-bottle trick all over again.

  The fat man went quiet after the second drink. He wiped his lips.

  "When you were in America you must have had a lot of women? I mean-the local women."

  "No."

  "No? What does that mean?"

  "I was faithful to Pinky-my wife-the whole time."

  "My. You were faithful. What an idea. Faithfully married. No wonder it ended in divorce. Have you never had a white woman?"

  "I told you."

  "God. Why is it always the wrong kind of Indian who goes abroad? Listen, do you want one now? A European girl?"

  "Now?"

  "Now," he said. "A female from Russia. She looks just like that American actress." He mentioned a name. "Want to do it?"

  "A whore?"

  The fat man smiled. "A friend. A magical friend. Want to do it?"

  "No. Thanks. I'm seeing someone. I just met someone I knew a long-"

  The fat man took out his cell phone and punched some numbers. The light of the phone made a blue halo on his face.

  "She's there right now. Let's go see her. She's a stunner, I tell you. Just like that American actress. Do you have thirty thousand on you?"

  "No. Listen. I'm seeing someone. I'm not-"

  "No problem. I'll pay now. You can pay later. Just put it into the next envelope you give the minister." He put his hand on Mr. Ashok's hand and winked, then leaned over and gave instructions to me. I looked at Mr. Ashok in the rearview mirror as hard as I could.

  A whore? That's for people like me, sir. Are you sure you want this?

  I wish I could have told him this openly-but who was I? Just the driver.

  I took orders from the fat man. Mr. Ashok said nothing-just sat there sucking his whiskey like a boy with a soda. Maybe he thought it was a joke, or maybe he was too frightened of the fat man to say no.

  But I will defend his honor to my deathbed. They corrupted him.

  The fat man made me drive to a place in Greater Kailash-another housing colony where people of quality live in Delhi. Touching my neck with his icy glass when I had to make a turn, he guided me to the place. It was as large as a small palace, with big white columns of marble up the front. From the amount of garbage thrown outside the walls of the house, you knew that rich people lived here.

  The fat man held open the car door as he spoke into a phone. Five minutes later he slammed the door shut. I began sneezing. A weird perfume had filled the back of the car.

  "Stop that sneezing and drive us toward Jangpura, son."

  "Sorry, sir."

  The fat man smiled. He turned to the girl who had got into the car and said, "Speak to my friend Ashok in Hindi, please."

  I looked into the rearview mirror, and caught my first glimpse of this girl.

  It's true, she did look like an actress I had seen somewhere or other. The name of the actress, though, I didn't know. It's only when I came to Bangalore and mastered the use of the Internet-in just two quick sessions, mind you!-that I found her photo and name on Google.

  Kim Basinger.

  That was the name the fat man had mentioned. And it was true-the girl who got in with the fat man did look exactly like Kim Basinger! She was tall and beautiful, but the most remarkable thing about her was her hair-golden and glossy, just like in the shampoo advertisements!

  "How are you, Ashok?" She said it in perfect Hindi. She put her hand out and took Mr. Ashok's hand.

  The minister's assistant chuckled. "There. India has progressed, hasn't it? She's speaking in Hindi."

  He slapped her on the thigh. "Your Hindi has improved, dear."

  Mr. Ashok leaned back to speak to the fat man over her shoulder. "Is she Russian?"

  "Ask her, don't ask me, Ashok. Don't be shy. She's a friend."

  "Ukrainian," she said in her accented Hindi. "I am a Ukrainian student in India."

  I thought: I would have to remember this place, Ukraine. And one day I would have to go there!

  "Ashok," the fat man said. "Go on, touch her hair. It's real. Don't be scared-she's a friend." He chuckled. "See-didn't hurt, did it, Ashok? Say something in Hindi to Mr. Ashok, dear. He's still frightened of you."

  "You're a handsome man," she said. "Don't be frightened of me."

  "Driver." The fat man leaned forward and touched me with his cold glass again. "Are we near Jangpura?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "When you go down the Masjid Road, you'll see a hotel with a big neon T sign on it. Take us there."

  I got them there in ten minutes-you couldn't miss the hotel, the big T sign on it glowed like a lantern in the dark.

  Taking the golden-haired woman with him, the fat man went up to the hotel reception, where the manager greeted him warmly. Mr. Ashok walked behind them and kept looking from side to side, like a guilty little boy about to do something very bad.

  Half an hour passed. I was outside, my hands on the wheel the whole time. I punched the little ogre. I began to gnaw at the wheel.

  I kept hoping he'd come running out, arms flailing, and screaming, Balram, I was on the verge of making a mistake! Save me-let's drive away at once!

  An hour later Mr. Ashok came out of the hotel-alone, and looking ill.

  "The meeting's over, Balram," he said, letting his head fall back on the seat. "Let's go home."

  I didn't start the car for a second. I kept my finger on the ignition key.

  "Balram, let's go home, I said!"

  "Yes, sir."

  When we got back to Gurgaon, he staggered out toward the elevator. I did not leave the car. I let five minutes pass, and then drove back to Jangpura, straight to the hotel with the T on it.

  I parked in a corner and watched th
e door of the hotel. I wanted her to come out.

  A rickshaw-puller drove up next to me, a small, unshaven, stick-thin man, who looked dead tired as he wiped his face and legs clean with a rag, and went to sleep on the ground. On the seat of his rickshaw was a white advertising sticker:

  IS EXCESS WEIGHT A PROBLEM FOR YOU?

  CALL JIMMY SINGH AT METRO GYM: 9811799289

  The mascot of the gym-an American with enormous white muscles-smiled at me from above the slogan. The rickshaw-puller's snoring filled the air.

  Someone in the hotel must have seen me. After a while, the door opened: a policeman came out, peered at me, and then began walking down the steps.

  I turned the key; I took the car back to Gurgaon.

  Now, I've driven around Bangalore at night too, but I never get that feeling here that I did in Delhi-the feeling that if something is burning inside me as I drive, the city will know about it-she will burn with the same thing.

  My heart was bitter that night. The city knew this-and under the dim orange glow cast everywhere by the weak streetlamps, she was bitter.

  Speak to me of civil war, I told Delhi.

  I will, she said.

  An overturned flower urn on a traffic island in the middle of a road; next to it three men sit with open mouths. An older man with a beard and white turban is talking to them with a finger upraised. Cars drive by him with their dazzling headlights, and the noise drowns out his words. He looks like a prophet in the middle of the city, unnoticed except by his three apostles. They will become his three generals. That overturned flower urn is a symbol of some kind.

  Speak to me of blood on the streets, I told Delhi.

  I will, she said.

  I saw other men discussing and talking and reading in the night, alone or in clusters around the streetlamps. By the dim lights of Delhi, I saw hundreds that night, under trees, shrines, intersections, on benches, squinting at newspapers, holy books, journals, Communist Party pamphlets. What were they reading about? What were they talking about?

  But what else?

  Of the end of the world.

  And if there is blood on these streets-I asked the city-do you promise that he'll be the first to go-that man with the fat folds under his neck?