The White Tiger

mines I’d seen in Dhanbad. Another man was watching the pit with me—a well-dressed man in a shirt and tie and pants with nice pleats. Normally his kind would never talk to me, but maybe my maharaja tunic confused him.
    “This city is going to be like Dubai in five years, isn’t it?”
    “Five?” I said contemptuously. “In two years!”
    “Look at that yellow crane. It’s a monster.”
    It was a monster, sitting at the top of the pit with huge metal jaws alternately gorging and disgorging immense quantities of mud. Like creatures that had to obey it, men with troughs of mud on their heads walked in circles around the machine; they did not look much bigger than mice. Even in the winter night the sweat had made their shirts stick to their glistening black bodies.
    It was freezing cold when I returned to the car. All the other drivers had left. Still no sign of my masters. I closed my eyes and tried to remember what I had had for dinner.
    A nice hot curry with juicy chunks of dark meat. Big puddles of red oil in the gravy.
    Nice.
    They woke me up by banging on my window. I scrambled out and opened the doors for them. Both were loud and happy, and reeked of some English liquor: whatever it was, I hadn’t yet tried it at the shop.
    I tell you, they were going at it like animals as I drove them out of Connaught Place. He was pushing his hand up and down her thigh, and she was giggling. I watched one second too long. He caught me in the mirror.
    I felt like a child that had been watching his parents through a slit in their bedroom door. My heart began to sweat—I half expected him to catch me by the collar, and fling me to the ground, and stamp me with his boots, the way his father used to do to fishermen in Laxmangarh.
    But this man, as I’ve told you, was different—he was capable of becoming someone better than his father. My eyes had touched his conscience; he nudged Pinky Madam and said, “We’re not alone, you know.”
    She became grumpy at once, and turned her face to the side. Five minutes passed in silence. Reeking of English liquor, she leaned toward me.
    “Give me the steering wheel.”
    “No, Pinky, don’t, you’re drunk, let him—”
    “What a fucking joke! Everyone in India drinks and drives. But you won’t let me do it?”
    “Oh, I hate this.” He slumped on his seat. “Balram, remember never to marry.”
    “Is he stopping at the traffic signal? Balram, why are you stopping? Just drive!”
    “It is a traffic signal, Pinky. Let him stop. Balram, obey the traffic rules. I command you.”
    “I command you to drive, Balram! Drive!”
    Completely confused by this time, I compromised—I took the car five feet in front of the white line, and then came to a stop.
    “Did you see what he did?” Mr. Ashok said. “That was pretty clever.”
    “Yes, Ashok. He’s a fucking genius.”
    The timer next to the red light said that there were still thirty seconds to go before the light changed to green. I was watching the timer when the giant Buddha materialized on my right. A beggar child had come up to the Honda City holding up a beautiful plaster-of-paris statue of the Buddha. Every night in Delhi, beggars are always selling something by the roadside, books or statues or strawberries in boxes—but for some reason, perhaps because my nerves were in such a bad state, I gazed at this Buddha longer than I should have.
    …it was just a tilt of my head, just a thing that happened for half a second, but she caught me out.
    “Balram appreciates the statue,” she said.
    Mr. Ashok chuckled.
    “Sure, he’s a connoisseur of fine art.”
    She cracked the egg open—she lowered the window and said, “Let’s see it,” to the beggar child.
    He—or she, you can never tell with beggar children—pushed the Buddha into the Honda.
    “Do you want to buy the sculpture, driver?”
    “No, madam. I’m sorry.”
    “Balram Halwai, maker of sweets, driver of cars, connoisseur of sculpture.”
    “I’m sorry, madam.”
    The more I apologized, the more amused the two of them got. At last, putting an end to my agony, the light changed to green, and I drove away from the wretched Buddha as fast as I could.
    She reached over and squeezed my shoulder. “Balram, stop the car.” I looked at Mr. Ashok’s reflection—he said nothing.
    I stopped the car.
    “Balram, get out. We’re leaving you to spend the night with your Buddha. The maharaja and the Buddha, together for the night.”
    She got into the