Read The White Tiger for Free Online Page B

in the entranceway. I spun around and ran back down the hill, too frightened even to cry.
    It was only a cow. I could see this from a distance, but I was too shaken up to go back.
    I tried many more times, yet I was such a coward that each time I tried to go up, I lost my nerve and came back.
    At the age of twenty-four, when I was living in Dhanbad and working in Mr. Ashok’s service as a chauffeur, I returned to Laxmangarh when my master and his wife went there on an excursion. It was a very important trip for me, and one I hope to describe in greater detail when time permits. For now, all I want to tell you is this: While Mr. Ashok and Pinky Madam were relaxing, having eaten lunch, I had nothing to do, so I decided to try again. I swam through the pond, walked up the hill, went into the doorway, and entered the Black Fort for the first time. There wasn’t much around—just some broken walls and a bunch of frightened monkeys watching me from a distance. Putting my foot on the wall, I looked down on the village from there. My little Laxmangarh. I saw the temple tower, the market, the glistening line of sewage, the landlords’ mansions—and my own house, with that dark little cloud outside—the water buffalo. It looked like the most beautiful sight on earth.
    I leaned out from the edge of the fort in the direction of my village—and then I did something too disgusting to describe to you.
    Well, actually, I spat . Again and again. And then, whistling and humming, I went back down the hill.
    Eight months later, I slit Mr. Ashok’s throat.
     

The Second Night
    For the Desk of:
His Excellency Wen Jiabao
Now probably fast asleep in the
Premier’s Office
In China
    From the Desk of:
His Midnight Educator
On matters entrepreneurial:
“The White Tiger”
    Mr. Premier.
    So.
    What does my laughter sound like?
    What do my armpits smell like?
    And when I grin, is it true—as you no doubt imagine by now—that my lips widen into a devil’s rictus?
    Oh, I could go on and on about myself, sir. I could gloat that I am not just any murderer, but one who killed his own employer (who is a kind of second father), and also contributed to the probable death of all his family members. A virtual mass murderer.
    But I don’t want to go on and on about myself. You should hear some of these Bangalore entrepreneurs—my start-up has got this contract with American Express, my start-up runs the software in this hospital in London, blah blah. I hate that whole fucking Bangalore attitude, I tell you.
    (But if you absolutely must find out more about me, just log on to my Web site: www.whitetiger-technologydrivers.com . That’s right! That’s the URL of my start-up!)
    So I’m sick of talking about myself, sir. Tonight, I want to talk about the other important man in my story.
    My ex.
    Mr. Ashok’s face reappears now in my mind’s eye as it used to every day when I was in his service—reflected in my rearview mirror. It was such a handsome face that sometimes I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Picture a six-foot-tall fellow, broad-shouldered, with a landlord’s powerful, punishing forearms; yet always gentle ( almost always—except for that time he punched Pinky Madam in the face) and kind to those around him, even his servants and driver.
    Now another face appears, to the side of his, in memory’s mirror. Pinky Madam—his wife. Every bit as good-looking as her husband; just as the image of the goddess in the Birla Hindu Temple in New Delhi is as fair as the god to whom she is married. She would sit in the back, and the two of them would talk, and I would drive them wherever they wanted, as faithfully as the servant-god Hanuman carried about his master and mistress, Ram and Sita.
    Thinking of Mr. Ashok is making me sentimental. I hope I’ve got some paper napkins here somewhere.
    Here’s a strange fact: murder a man, and you feel responsible for his life— possessive, even. You know more about him than his father and mother; they knew