The White Tiger

for me in darkness: but I hid myself in light.
    In Bangalore!
    Now, among the many uses of a chandelier, this most unsung and unloved object, is that, when you forget something, all you have to do is stare at the glass pieces shining in the ceiling long enough, and within five minutes you’ll remember exactly what it is you were trying to remember.
    See, I’d forgotten where we left off the story last night, so I had to go on about chandeliers for a while, keeping you busy, but now I remember where we were.
    Delhi—we had got to Delhi last night when I stopped the narrative.
    The capital of our glorious nation. The seat of Parliament, of the president, of all ministers and prime ministers. The pride of our civic planning. The showcase of the republic.
    That’s what they call it.
    Let a driver tell you the truth. And the truth is that Delhi is a crazy city.
    See, the rich people live in big housing colonies like Defence Colony or Greater Kailash or Vasant Kunj, and inside their colonies the houses have numbers and letters, but this numbering and lettering system follows no known system of logic. For instance, in the English alphabet, A is next to B, which everyone knows, even people like me who don’t know English. But in a colony, one house is called A 231, and then the next is F 378. So one time Pinky Madam wanted me to take her to Greater Kailash E 231, I tracked down the houses to E 200, and just when I thought we were almost there, E Block vanished completely. The next house was S something.
    Pinky Madam began yelling. “I told you not to bring this hick from the village!”
    And then another thing. Every road in Delhi has a name, like Aurangazeb Road, or Humayun Road, or Archbishop Makarios Road. And no one, masters or servants, knows the name of the road. You ask someone, “Where’s Nikolai Copernicus Marg?”
    And he could be a man who lived on Nikolai Copernicus Marg his whole life, and he’ll open his mouth and say, “ Hahn? ”
    Or he’ll say, “Straight ahead, then turn left,” even though he has no idea.
    And all the roads look the same, all of them go around and around grassy circles in which men are sleeping or eating or playing cards, and then four roads shoot off from that grassy circle, and then you go down one road, and you hit another grassy circle where men are sleeping or playing cards, and then four more roads go off from it. So you just keep getting lost, and lost, and lost in Delhi.
    Thousands of people live on the sides of the road in Delhi. They have come from the Darkness too—you can tell by their thin bodies, filthy faces, by the animal-like way they live under the huge bridges and overpasses, making fires and washing and taking lice out of their hair while the cars roar past them. These homeless people are a particular problem for drivers. They never wait for a red light—simply dashing across the road on impulse. And each time I braked to avoid slamming the car into one of them, the shouting would start from the passenger’s seat.
    But I ask you, who built Delhi in this crazy way? Which geniuses were responsible for making F Block come after A Block and House Number 69 come after House Number 12? Who was so busy partying and drinking English liquor and taking their Pomeranian dogs for walks and shampoos that they gave the roads names that no one could remember?
    “Are you lost again, driver?”
    “Don’t go after him again.”
    “Why do you always defend him, Ashok?”
    “Don’t we have more serious things to discuss? Why are we always talking about this driver?”
    “All right, let’s discuss the other things, then. First let’s discuss your wife, and her temper tantrums.”
    “Do you really think that’s more important than the tax thing? I keep asking you what are we doing about it, and you keep changing the topic. I think it’s insane, how much they’re asking us to pay.”
    “I told you. It’s a political thing. They’re harassing us because Father is trying to distance himself from the Great Socialist.”
    “I don’t know why he ever got involved with that rogue.”
    “He got into politics because he had to, Ashok—you don’t have a choice in the Darkness. And don’t panic, we can deal with this income tax charge. This is India, not America. There’s always a way out here. I told you, we have someone here who works for us—Ramanathan. He’s a good fixer.”
    “Ramanathan is a sleazy, oily cretin . We need a new tax lawyer, Mukesh! We need