Aravind Adiga - The White Tiger

I found a gap in the line of the defecators. They squatted there like stone statues.

These people were building homes for the rich, but they lived in tents covered with blue tarpaulin sheets, and partitioned into lanes by lines of sewage. It was even worse than Laxmangarh. I picked my way around the broken glass, wire, and shattered tube lights. The stench of feces was replaced by the stronger stench of industrial sewage. The slum ended in an open sewer-a small river of black water went sluggishly past me, bubbles sparkling in it and little circles spreading on its surface. Two children were splashing about in the black water.

A hundred-rupee note came flying down into the river. The children watched with open mouths, and then ran to catch the note before it floated away. One child caught it, and then the other began hitting him, and they began to tumble about in the black water as they fought.

I went back to the line of crappers. One of them had finished up and left, but his position had been filled.

I squatted down with them and grinned.

A few immediately turned their eyes away: they were still human beings. Some stared at me blankly as if shame no longer mattered to them. And then I saw one fellow, a thin black fellow, was grinning back at me, as if he were proud of what he was doing.

Still crouching, I moved myself over to where he was squatting and faced him. I smiled as wide as I could. So did he.

He began to laugh-and I began to laugh-and then all the crappers laughed together.

"We'll take care of your wedding expenses," I shouted.

"We'll take care of your wedding expenses!" he shouted back.

"We'll even fuck your wife for you, Balram!"

"We'll even fuck your wife for you, Balram!"

He began laughing-laughing so violently that he fell down face-first into the ground, still laughing, exposing his stained arse to the stained sky of Delhi.

As I walked back, the malls had begun to open. I washed my face in the common toilet and wiped my hands clean of the slum. I walked into the parking lot, found an iron wrench, aimed a couple of practice blows, and then took it to my room.

A boy was waiting for me near my bed, holding a letter between his teeth as he adjusted the buttons on his pants. He turned around when he heard me; the letter flew out of his mouth and to the ground. The wrench fell out of my hand at the same time.

"They sent me here. I took the bus and train and asked people and came here." He blinked. "They said you have to take care of me and make me a driver too."

"Who the hell are you?"

"Dharam," he said. "I'm Luttu Auntie's fourth son. You saw me when you came to Laxmangarh last time. I was wearing a red shirt. You kissed me here." He pointed to the top of his head.

Picking up the letter, he held it out to me.

Dear grandson,

It has been a long time since you came to visit us-and an even longer time, a total of eleven months and two days, since you last sent us any money. The city has corrupted your soul and made you selfish, vainglorious, and evil. I knew from the start that this would happen, because you were a spiteful, insolent boy. Every chance you got you just stared at yourself in a mirror with open lips, and I had to wring your ears to make you do any work. You are just like your mother. It is her nature and not your father's sweet nature that you have. So far we have borne our sufferings patiently, but we will not do so. You must send us money again. If you don't, we'll tell your master. Also we have decided to arrange for your wedding on our own, and if you do not come here, we will send the girl to you by bus. I say these things not to threaten you but out of love. After all, am I not your own grandmother? And how I used to stuff your mouth with sweets! Also, it is your duty to look after Dharam, and take care of him as if he were your own son. Now take care of your health, and remember that I am preparing lovely chicken dishes for you, which I will send to you by mail-along with the letter that I will write to your master.

Your loving Granny,

Kusum

I folded the letter, put it in my pocket, and then slapped the boy so hard that he staggered back, hit the side of the bed, and fell into it, pulling down the mosquito net as he fell.

"Get up," I said. "I'm going to hit you again."

I picked up the wrench and held it over him-then threw it to the floor.

The boy's face had turned blue, and his lip was split and bleeding, and he still hadn't said a word.

I sat in the mosquito net, sipping from a half bottle of whiskey. I watched the boy.

I had come to the edge of the precipice. I had been ready to slay my master-this boy's arrival had saved me from murder (and a lifetime in prison).

That evening, I told Mr. Ashok that my family had sent me a helper, someone to keep the car tidy, and instead of getting angry that he would now have to feed another mouth-which is what most of the masters would have done-he said, "He's a cute boy. He looks like you. What happened to his face?"

I turned to Dharam. "Tell him."

He blinked a couple of times. He was thinking it over.

"I fell off the bus."

Smart boy.

"Take care in the future," Mr. Ashok said. "This is great, Balram-you'll have company from now on."

Dharam was a quiet little fellow. He didn't ask for anything from me, he slept on the floor where I told him to, he minded his own business. Feeling guilty for what I'd done, I took him to the tea shop.

"Who teaches at the school these days, Dharam? Is it still Mr. Krishna?"

"Yes, Uncle."

"Is he still stealing the money for the uniforms and the food?"

"Yes, Uncle."

"Good man."

"I went for five years and then Kusum Granny said that was enough."

"Let's see what you learned in five years. Do you know the eight-times table?"

"Yes, Uncle."

"Let's hear it."

"Eight ones are eight."

"That's easy-what's next?"

"Eight twos are sixteen."

"Wait." I counted out on my fingers to make sure he had got it right. "All right. Go on."

"Order me a tea too, won't you?" Vitiligo-Lips sat down next to me. He smiled at Dharam.

"Order it yourself," I said.

He pouted. "Is that any way for you to be talking to me, working-class hero?"

Dharam was watching us keenly, so I said, "This boy is from my village. From my family. I'm talking to him now."

"Eight threes are twenty-four."

"I don't care who he is," Vitiligo-Lips said. "Order me a tea, working-class hero."

He flexed his palm near my face-five fingers. That meant, I want five hundred rupees.

"I've got nothing."

"Eight fours are thirty-two."

He drew a line across his neck and smiled. Your master will know everything.

"What's your name, boy?"

"Dharam."

"What a nice name. Do you know what it means?"

"Yes, sir."

"Does your uncle know what it means?"

"Shut up," I said.

It was the time of the day when the tea shop got cleaned. One of the human spiders dropped a wet rag on the floor and started to crawl with it, pushing a growing wavelet of stinking ink-black water ahead of him. Even the mice scampered out of the shop. The customers sitting at the tables were not spared-the black puddle splashed them as it passed. Bits of beedis, shiny plastic wrappers, punched bus tickets, snippets of onion, sprigs of fresh coriander floated on the black water; the reflection of a naked electric bulb shone out of the scum like a yellow gemstone.

As the black water went past, a voice inside me said, "But your heart has become even blacker than that, Munna."

That night Dharam woke up when he heard the shrieking. He came to the mosquito net.

"Uncle, what's going on?"

"Turn on the light, you fool! Turn on the light!"