The White Tiger

was going to go to jail!”
    Mr. Ashok said, “I suppose we should tell him.” He looked at his brother, who kept his eyes on the TV screen.
    The Mongoose said, “Fine.”
    Mr. Ashok turned to me.
    “We have a contact in the police—he’s told us that no one has reported seeing the accident. So your help won’t be needed, Balram.”
    I felt such tremendous relief that I moved my hands abruptly, and the bucket of warm water spilled over, and then I scrambled to put the bucket upright. The Stork opened his eyes, smacked me on the head with his hand, and then closed his eyes.
    Pinky Madam watched; her face changed. She ran into her room and slammed the door. (Who would have thought, Mr. Jiabao, that of this whole family, the lady with the short skirt would be the one with a conscience?)
    The Stork watched her go into her room and said, “She’s gone crazy, that woman. Wanting to find the family of the child and give them compensation—craziness. As if we were all murderers here.” He looked sternly at Mr. Ashok. “You need to control that wife of yours better, son. The way we do it in the village.”
    Then he gave me a light tap on the head and said, “The water’s gone cold.”
    I massaged his feet every morning for the next three days. One morning he had a little pain in his stomach, so the Mongoose made me drive him down to Max, which is one of Delhi’s most famous private hospitals. I stood outside and watched as the Mongoose and the old man went inside the beautiful big glass building. Doctors walked in and out with long white coats, and stethoscopes in their pockets. When I peeped in from outside, the hospital’s lobby looked as clean as the inside of a five-star hotel.
    The day after the hospital trip, I drove the Stork and the Mongoose down to the railway station, bought them the snacks they would need for their trip home, waited for the train to leave, and then drove the car back, wiped it down, went to a nearby Hanuman temple to say a prayer of thanks, came back to my room and fell inside the mosquito net, dead tired.
    When I woke up, someone was standing in my room, turning the lights on and off.
    It was Pinky Madam.
    “Get ready. You’re going to drive me.”
    “Yes, madam,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “What time is it?”
    She put a finger to her lips.
    I put on a shirt, and then got the car out, and drove it to the front of the building. She had a bag in her hand.
    “Where to?” I asked. It was two in the morning.
    She told me, and I asked, “Isn’t Sir coming?”
    “Just drive.”
    I drove her to the airport, I asked no questions.
    When she got out at the airport, she pushed a brown envelope into my window—then slammed her door and left.
    And that was how, Your Excellency, my employer’s marriage came to an end.
    Other drivers have techniques to prolong the marriages of their masters. One of them told me that whenever the fighting got worse he drove fast, so they would get home quickly; whenever they got romantic he let the car slow down. If they were shouting at each other he asked them for directions; if they were kissing he turned the music up. I feel some part of the responsibility falls on me, that their marriage broke up while I was the driver.
    The following morning, Mr. Ashok called me to the apartment. When I knocked on the door, he caught me by the collar of my shirt and pulled me inside.
    “Why didn’t you tell me?” he said, tightening his hold on the collar, almost choking me. “Why didn’t you wake me up at once?”
    “Sir…she said…she said…she said…”
    He grabbed me and pushed me against the balcony of the apartment. The landlord inside him wasn’t dead, after all.
    “Why did you drive her there, sister-fucker?”
    I turned my head—behind me I saw all the shiny towers and shopping malls of Gurgaon.
    “Did you want to ruin my family’s reputation?”
    He pushed me harder against the balcony; my head and chest were over the edge now, and if he pushed me even a bit more I was in real danger of flying over. I gathered my legs and kicked him in the chest—he staggered back and hit the sliding glass door between the house and the balcony. I slid down against the edge of the balcony; he sat down against the glass door. The two of us were panting.
    “You can’t blame me, sir!” I shouted. “I’d never heard of a woman leaving her husband for good! I mean, yes, on TV, but not in real life! I just did what she told me to.”
    A crow sat down on