The White Tiger

say, No, you’re not allowed in, even with a pair of black shoes and a T-shirt that is mostly white with just one English word on it. I was sure, until the last moment, that I would be caught, and called back, and slapped and humiliated there.
    Even as I was walking inside the mall, I was sure someone would say, Hey! That man is a paid driver! What’s he doing in here? There were guards in gray uniforms on every floor—all of them seemed to be watching me. It was my first taste of the fugitive’s life.
    I was conscious of a perfume in the air, of golden light, of cool, air-conditioned air, of people in T-shirts and jeans who were eyeing me strangely. I saw an elevator going up and down that seemed made of pure golden glass. I saw shops with walls of glass, and huge photos of handsome European men and women hanging on each wall. If only the other drivers could see me now!
    Getting out was as tricky as getting in, but again the guards didn’t say a word to me, and I walked back to the parking lot, got into the car, and changed back into my usual, richly colored shirt, and left the rich man’s plain T-shirt in a bundle near my feet.
    I came running out to where the other drivers were sitting. None of them had noticed me going in or coming out. They were too occupied with something else. One of the drivers—it was the fellow who liked to twirl his key chain all the time—had a cell phone with him. He forced me to take a look at his phone.
    “Do you call your wife with this thing?”
    “You can’t talk to anyone with it, you fool—it’s a one-way phone!”
    “So what’s the point of a phone you can’t talk to your family with?”
    “It’s so that my master can call me and give me instructions on where to pick him up. I just have to keep it here—in my pocket—wherever I go.”
    He took the phone back from me, rubbed it clean, and put it in his pocket. Until this evening, his status in the drivers’ circle had been low: his master drove only a Maruti–Suzuki Zen, a small car. Today he was being as bossy as he wanted. The drivers were passing his cell phone from hand to hand and gazing at it like monkeys gaze at something shiny they have picked up. There was the smell of ammonia in the air; one of the drivers was pissing not far from us.
    Vitiligo-Lips was watching me from a corner.
    “Country-Mouse,” he said. “You look like a fellow who wants to say something.”
    I shook my head.
     
    The traffic grew worse by the day. There seemed to be more cars every evening. As the jams grew worse, so did Pinky Madam’s temper. One evening, when we were just crawling down M.G. Road into Gurgaon, she lost it completely. She began screaming.
    “Why can’t we go back, Ashoky? Look at this fucking traffic jam. It’s like this every other day now.”
    “Please don’t begin that again. Please.”
    “Why not? You promised me, Ashoky, we’ll be in Delhi just three months and get some paperwork done and go back. But I’m starting to think you only came here to deal with this income-tax problem. Were you lying to me the whole time?”
    It wasn’t his fault, what happened between them—I will insist on that, even in a court of law. He was a good husband, always coming up with plans to make her happy. On her birthday, for instance, he had me dress up as a maharaja, with a red turban and dark cooling glasses, and serve them their food in this costume. I’m not talking of any ordinary home cooking, either—he got me to serve her some of that stinking stuff that comes in cardboard boxes and drives all the rich absolutely crazy.
    She laughed and laughed and laughed when she saw me in my costume, bowing low to her with the cardboard box. I served them, and then, as Mr. Ashok had instructed, stood near the portrait of Cuddles and Puddles with folded hands and waited.
    “Ashok,” she said. “Now hear this. Balram, what is it we’re eating?”
    I knew it was a trap, but what could I do?—I answered. The two of them burst into giggles.
    “Say it again, Balram.”
    They laughed again.
    “It’s not piJJA. It’s piZZa. Say it properly.”
    “Wait—you’re mispronouncing it too. There’s a T in the middle. Peet. Zah .”
    “Don’t correct my English, Ashok. There’s no T in pizza. Look at the box.”
    I had to hold my breath as I stood there waiting for them to finish. The stuff smelled so awful.
    “He’s cut the pizza so badly. I just don’t understand how he can come from a caste of