Aravind Adiga - The White Tiger

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.