The White Tiger

rotten. If they see you without a seat belt, you’ll have to bribe them a hundred rupees. Our masters are not such a great lot, either. When they go for their late-night parties, it’s hell for us. You sleep in the car, and the mosquitoes eat you alive. If they’re malaria mosquitoes it’s all right, you’ll just be raving for a couple of weeks, but if it’s the dengue mosquitoes, then you’re in deep shit, and you’ll die for sure. At two in the morning, he comes back, banging on the windows and shouting for you, and he’s reeking of beer, and he farts in the car all the way back. The cold gets really bad in January. If you know he’s having a late-night party, take along a blanket so you can cover yourself in the car. Keeps the mosquitoes away too. Now, you’ll get bored sitting in the car and waiting for him to come back from his parties—I knew one driver who went nuts from the waiting—so you need something to read. You can read, can’t you? Good. This is the absolutely best thing to read in the car.”
    He gave me a magazine with a catchy cover—a woman in her underwear was lying on a bed, cowering from the shadow of a man.
MURDER WEEKLY
RUPEES 4.50
EXCLUSIVE TRUE STORY:
“A GOOD BODY NEVER GOES TO WASTE”
MURDER. RAPE. REVENGE.
    Now I have to tell you about this magazine, Murder Weekly, since our prime minister certainly won’t tell you anything about it. It’s sold in every newsstand in the city, alongside the cheap novels, and it is very popular reading among all the servants of the city—whether they be cooks, children’s maids, or gardeners. Drivers are no different. Every week when this magazine comes out, with a cover image of a woman cowering from her would-be murderer, some driver has bought the magazine and is passing it around to the other drivers.
    Now, don’t panic at this information, Mr. Premier—no beads of chill sweat need form on your yellow brow. Just because drivers and cooks in Delhi are reading Murder Weekly, it doesn’t mean that they are all about to slit their masters’ necks. Of course, they’d like to. Of course, a billion servants are secretly fantasizing about strangling their bosses—and that’s why the government of India publishes this magazine and sells it on the streets for just four and a half rupees so that even the poor can buy it. You see, the murderer in the magazine is so mentally disturbed and sexually deranged that not one reader would want to be like him—and in the end he always gets caught by some honest, hardworking police officer (ha!), or goes mad and hangs himself by a bedsheet after writing a sentimental letter to his mother or primary school teacher, or is chased, beaten, buggered, and garroted by the brother of the woman he has done in. So if your driver is busy flicking through the pages of Murder Weekly, relax. No danger to you. Quite the contrary.
    It’s when your driver starts to read about Gandhi and the Buddha that it’s time to wet your pants, Mr. Jiabao.
    After showing it to me, Vitiligo-Lips closed the magazine and threw it into the circle where the other drivers were sitting; they made a grab for it, like a bunch of dogs rushing after a bone. He yawned and looked at me.
    “What does your boss do for a living, Country-Mouse?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Being loyal or being stupid, Country-Mouse? Where is he from?”
    “Dhanbad.”
    “He’s into coal, then. Probably here to bribe ministers. It’s a rotten business, coal.” He yawned again. “I used to drive a man who sold coal. Bad, bad business. But my current boss is into steel, and he makes the coal men look like saints. Where does he live?”
    I told him the name of our apartment block.
    “My master lives there too! We’re neighbors!”
    He sidled right up to me; without moving away—that would have been rude—I tilted my body as far as I could from his lips.
    “Country-Mouse—does your boss”—he looked around, and dropped his voice to a whisper—“ need anything?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Does your boss like foreign wine? I have a friend who works at a foreign embassy as a driver. He’s got contacts there. You know the foreign-wine foreign-embassy scam?”
    I shook my head.
    “The scam is this, Country-Mouse. Foreign wine is very expensive in Delhi, because it’s taxed. But the embassies get it in for free. They’re supposed to drink their wine, but they sell it on the black market. I can get him other stuff too. Does he want golf balls?