The White Tiger

freedom of franchise, and so on and so forth.
    I gather you yellow-skinned men, despite your triumphs in sewage, drinking water, and Olympic gold medals, still don’t have democracy. Some politician on the radio was saying that that’s why we Indians are going to beat you: we may not have sewage, drinking water, and Olympic gold medals, but we do have democracy.
    If I were making a country, I’d get the sewage pipes first, then the democracy, then I’d go about giving pamphlets and statues of Gandhi to other people, but what do I know? I’m just a murderer!
    I’ve got no problem with democracy, Mr. Jiabao. Far from it, I owe democracy a lot—even my birthday, in fact. This was back in the days when I was smashing coals and wiping tables at the tea shop in Laxmangarh. There was a clapping from the direction of the portrait of Gandhi—the old tea shop owner began shouting that all his workers had to leave whatever they were doing and march to the school.
    A man in a government uniform sat at the teacher’s desk in the schoolroom, with a long book and a black pen, and he was asking everyone two questions.
    “Name.”
    “Balram Halwai.”
    “Age.”
    “No age.”
    “No date of birth?”
    “No, sir, my parents didn’t make note of it.”
    He looked at me and said, “I think you’re eighteen. I think you turned eighteen today. You just forgot, didn’t you?”
    I bowed to him. “That’s correct, sir. I forgot. It was my birthday today.”
    “Good boy.”
    And then he wrote that down in his book and told me to go away. So I got a birthday from the government.
    I had to be eighteen. All of us in the tea shop had to be eighteen, the legal age to vote. There was an election coming up, and the tea shop owner had already sold us. He had sold our fingerprints—the inky fingerprints which the illiterate person makes on the ballot paper to indicate his vote. I had overheard this from a customer. This was supposed to be a close election; he had got a good price for each one of us from the Great Socialist’s party.
    Now, the Great Socialist had been the boss of the Darkness for a decade at the time of this election. His party’s symbol, a pair of hands breaking through handcuffs—symbolizing the poor shaking off the rich—was imprinted in black stencils on the walls of every government office in the Darkness. Some of the customers at the tea shop said the Great Socialist started off as a good man. He had come to clean things up, but the mud of Mother Ganga had sucked him in. Others said he was dirty from the start, but he had just fooled everyone and only now did we see him for what he was. Whatever the case was, no one seemed able to vote him out of power. He had ruled the Darkness, winning election after election, but now his rule was weakening.
    You see, a total of ninety-three criminal cases—for murder, rape, grand larceny, gun-running, pimping, and many other such minor offenses—are pending against the Great Socialist and his ministers at the present moment. Not easy to get convictions when the judges are judging in Darkness, yet three convictions have been delivered, and three of the ministers are currently in jail but continue to be ministers. The Great Socialist himself is said to have embezzled one billion rupees from the Darkness, and transferred that money into a bank account in a small, beautiful country in Europe full of white people and black money.
    Now that the date for the elections had been set, and declared on radio, election fever had started spreading again. These are the three main diseases of this country, sir: typhoid, cholera, and election fever. This last one is the worst; it makes people talk and talk about things that they have no say in. The Great Socialist’s enemies seemed to be stronger this election than at the last one. They had made pamphlets, and went about on buses and trucks with microphones, and announced they were going to topple him over and drag the River Ganga and everyone who lived on its banks out of the Darkness and into the Light.
    At the tea shop, the gossip grew furious. People sipped their tea and discussed the same things again and again.
    Would they do it this time? Would they beat the Great Socialist and win the elections? Had they raised enough money of their own, and bribed enough policemen, and bought enough fingerprints of their own, to win? Like eunuchs discussing the Kama Sutra, the voters discuss the elections in Laxmangarh.
    One morning I saw