The White Tiger

Every day I wish it.”
    “Why don’t you do something else, then? It was the same when they told you not to marry me. You couldn’t say no then either.”
    “It’s not that simple, Uma. They’re my father and brother.”
    “I wonder if you have changed, Ashok. The first call from Dhanbad, and you’re back to your old self.”
    “Look, let’s not fight again. I’ll send you back in the car now.”
    “Oh, no. I’m not going back with your driver. I know his kind, the village kind. They think that any unmarried woman they see is a whore. And he probably thinks I’m a Nepali, because of my eyes. You know what that means for him. I’ll go back on my own.”
    “This fellow is all right. He’s part of the family.”
    “You shouldn’t be so trusting, Ashok. Delhi drivers are all rotten. They sell drugs, and prostitutes, and God knows what else.”
    “Not this one. He’s stupid as hell, but he is honest. He’ll drive you back.”
    “No, Ashok. I’ll get a taxi. I’ll call you in the evening?”
    I realized that she was edging toward the door, and I turned and tiptoed away.
    There was no word from him until evening, and then he came down for the car. He made me go from one bank to another bank. Sitting in the driver’s seat, I watched through the corner of my eye; he was collecting money from the automatic cash machines—four different ones. Then he said, “Balram, go to the city. You know the big house that’s on the Ashoka Road, where we went to with Mukesh Sir once?”
    “Yes, sir. I remember. They’ve got two big Alsatian guard dogs, sir.”
    “Exactly. Your memory’s good, Balram.”
    I saw in the spy mirror that Mr. Ashok was pressing the buttons on his cell phone as I drove. Probably telling the minister’s servant that he was coming with the cash. So now I understood at last what work my master was doing as I drove him through Delhi.
    “I’ll be back in twenty minutes, Balram,” Mr. Ashok said when we got to the minister’s bungalow. He stepped out with the red bag and slammed the door.
    A security guard with a rifle sat in a metal booth over the red wall of the minister’s house, watching me carefully. The two Alsatian dogs, roaming the compound, barked now and then.
    It was the hour of sunset. The birds of the city began to make a ruckus as they flew home. Now, Delhi, Mr. Premier, is a big city, but there are wild places in it—big parks, protected forests, stretches of wasteland—and things can suddenly come out of these wild places. As I was watching the red wall of the minister’s house, a peacock flew up over the guard’s booth and perched there; for an instant its deep blue neck and its long tail turned golden in the setting sunlight. Then it vanished.
    In a little while it was night.
    The dogs began barking. The gate opened. Mr. Ashok came out of the minister’s house with a fat man—the same man who had come out that day from the President’s House. I guessed that he was the minister’s assistant. They stopped in front of the car and talked.
    The fat man shook hands with Mr. Ashok, who was clearly eager to leave him—but ah, it isn’t so easy to let go of a politician—or even a politician’s sidekick. I got out of the car, pretending to check the tires, and moved into eavesdropping distance.
    “Don’t worry, Ashok. I’ll make sure the minister gives your father a call tomorrow.”
    “Thank you. My family appreciates your help.”
    “What are you doing after this?”
    “Nothing. Just going home to Gurgaon.”
    “A young man like you going home this early? Let’s have some fun.”
    “Don’t you have to work on the elections?”
    “The elections? All wrapped up. It’s a landslide. The minister said so this morning. Elections, my friend, can be managed in India. It’s not like in America.”
    Brushing aside Mr. Ashok’s protests, the fat man forced his way into the car. We had just started down the road when he said, “Ashok, let me have a whiskey.”
    “Here, in the car? I don’t have any.”
    The fat man seemed astonished. “Everyone has whiskey in their car in Delhi, Ashok, didn’t you know this?”
    He told me to go back to the minister’s bungalow. He went inside and came back with a pair of glasses and a bottle. He slammed the door, breathed out, and said, “Now this car is fully equipped.”
    Mr. Ashok took the bottle and got ready to pour the fat man a glass, when he smacked his lips in annoyance. “Not you, you fool. The driver. He