Aravind Adiga - The White Tiger

I talked to him about the wisdom of my village-half repeating things I remembered Granny saying, and half making things up on the spot-and he nodded. It was a scene to put you in mind of that passage in the Bhagavad Gita, when our Lord Krishna-another of history's famous chauffeurs-stops the chariot he is driving and gives his passenger some excellent advice on life and death. Like Krishna I philosophized-I joked-I even sang a song-all to make Mr. Ashok feel better.

Baby, I thought, rubbing his back as he heaved and threw up one more time, you big, pathetic baby.

I put my hand out and wiped the vomit from his lips, and cooed soothing words to him. It squeezed my heart to see him suffer like this-but where my genuine concern for him ended and where my self-interest began, I could not tell: no servant can ever tell what the motives of his heart are.

Do we loathe our masters behind a facade of love-or do we love them behind a facade of loathing?

We are made mysteries to ourselves by the Rooster Coop we are locked in.

The next day I went to a roadside temple in Gurgaon. I put a rupee before the two resident pairs of divine arses and prayed that Pinky Madam and Mr. Ashok should be reunited and given a long and happy life together in Delhi.

A week passed like this, and then the Mongoose turned up from Dhanbad and Mr. Ashok and I went together to the station to collect him.

The moment he arrived, everything changed for me. The intimacy was over between me and Mr. Ashok.

Once again, I was only the driver. Once again, I was only the eavesdropper.

"I spoke to her last night. She's not coming back to India. Her parents are happy with her decision. This can end only one way."

"Don't worry about it, Ashok. It's okay. And don't call her again. I'll handle it from Dhanbad. If she makes any noise about wanting your money, I'll just gently bring up that matter of the hit-and-run, see?"

"It's not the money I'm worried about, Mukesh-"

"I know, I know."

The Mongoose put his hand on Mr. Ashok's shoulder-just the way Kishan had put his hand on my shoulder so many times.

We were driving past a slum: one of those series of makeshift tents where the workers at some construction site were living. The Mongoose was saying something, but Mr. Ashok wasn't paying attention-he was looking out the window.

My eyes obeyed his eyes. I saw the silhouettes of the slum dwellers close to one another inside the tents; you could make out one family-a husband, a wife, a child-all huddled around a stove inside one tent, lit up by a golden lamp. The intimacy seemed so complete-so crushingly complete. I understood what Mr. Ashok was going through.

He lifted his hand-I prepared for his touch-but he wrapped it around the Mongoose's shoulder.

"When I was in America, I thought family was a burden, I don't deny it. When you and Father tried to stop me from marrying Pinky because she wasn't a Hindu I was furious with you, I don't deny it. But without family, a man is nothing. Absolutely nothing. I had nothing but this driver in front of me for five nights. Now at last I have someone real by my side: you."

I went up to the apartment with them; the Mongoose wanted me to make a meal for them, and I made a daal and chapattis, and a dish of okra. I served them, and then I cleaned the utensils and plates.

During dinner, the Mongoose said, "If you're getting depressed, Ashok, why don't you try yoga and meditation? There's a yoga master on TV, and he's very good-this is what he does every morning on his program." He closed his eyes, breathed in, and then exhaled slowly, saying, "Ooooooom."

When I came out of the kitchen, wiping my hands on the sides of my pants, the Mongoose said, "Wait."

He took a piece of paper from his pocket and dangled it with a big grin, as if it were a prize for me.

"You have a letter from your granny. What is her name?" He began to cut the letter open with a thick black finger.

"Kusum, sir."

"Remarkable woman," he said, and rubbed his forearms up and down.

I said, "Sir, don't bother yourself. I can read."

He cut the letter open. He began reading it aloud.

Mr. Ashok spoke in English-and I guessed what he said: "Doesn't he have the right to read his own letters?"

And his brother replied in English, and again I guessed, rather than understood, his meaning: "He won't mind a thing like this. He has no sense of privacy . In the villages there are no separate rooms so they just lie together at night and fuck like that. Trust me, he doesn't mind."

He turned so that the light was behind him and began to read aloud:

"Dear grandson. This is being written by Mr. Krishna, the schoolteacher. He remembers you fondly and refers to you by your old nickname, the White Tiger. Life has become hard here. The rains have failed. Can you ask your employer for some money for your family? And remember to send the money home."

The Mongoose put the letter down.

"That's all these servants want. Money, money, money. They're called your servants, but they suck the lifeblood out of you, don't they?"

He continued reading the letter.

"With your brother Kishan I said, 'Now is the time,' and he did it-he married. With you, I do not order. You are different from all the others. You are deep, like your mother. Even as a boy you were so; when you would stop near the pond and stare at the Black Fort with your mouth open, in the morning, and evening, and night. So I do not order you to marry. But I tempt you with the joys of married life. It is good for the community. Every time there is a marriage there is more rain in the village. The water buffalo will get fatter. It will give more milk. These are known facts. We are all so proud of you, being in the city. But you must stop thinking only about yourself and think about us too. First you must visit us and eat my chicken curry. Your loving Granny. Kusum."

The Mongoose was about to give me the letter, but Mr. Ashok took it from him and read it again.

"Sometimes they express themselves so movingly, these villagers," he said, before flinging the letter on the table for me to pick up.

In the morning, I drove the Mongoose to the railway station, and got him his favorite snack, the dosa, once again, from which I removed the potatoes, flinging them on the tracks, before handing it over to him. I got down onto the platform and waited. He chomped on the dosa in his seat; down below on the tracks, a mouse nibbled on the discarded potatoes.

I drove back to the apartment block. I took the elevator to the thirteenth floor. The door was open.

"Sir!" I shouted, when I saw what was going on in the living room. "Sir, this is madness!"

He had put his feet in a plastic bucket and was massaging them himself.

"You should have told me, I would have massaged you!" I shouted, and reached down to his feet.

He shrieked. "No!"

I said, "Yes, sir, you must-I'm failing in my duty if I let you do it yourself!" and forced my hands into the dirty water in the bucket, and squeezed his feet.

"No!"

Mr. Ashok kicked the bucket, and the water spilled all over the floor.

"How stupid can you people get?" He pointed to the door. "Get out! Can you leave me alone for just five minutes in a day? Do you think you can manage that?"

That evening I had to drive him to the mall again. I stayed inside the car after he got out; I did not mix with any of the other drivers.

Even at night, the construction work goes on in Gurgaon-big lights shine down from towers, and dust rises from pits, scaffolding is being erected, and men and animals, both shaken from their sleep and bleary and insomniac, go around and around carrying concrete rubble or bricks.