The White Tiger

master careless? If so, what are the ways in which I can benefit from his carelessness?” For instance, if his master leaves empty English liquor bottles lying around in the car, he can sell the whiskey bottles to the bootleggers. Johnnie Walker Black brings the best resale value.
4. As he gains in experience and confidence and is ready to try something riskier, he can turn his master’s car into a freelance taxi. The stretch of the road from Gurgaon to Delhi is excellent for this; lots of Romeos come to see their girlfriends who work in the call centers. Once the entrepreneurial driver is sure that his master is not going to notice the absence of the car—and that none of his master’s friends are likely to be on the road at this time—he can spend his free time cruising around, picking up and dropping off paying customers.
     
    At night I lay in my mosquito net, the lightbulb on in my room, and watched the dark roaches crawling on top of the net, their antennae quivering and trembling, like bits of my own nerves: and I lay in bed, too agitated even to reach out and crush them. A cockroach flew down and landed right above my head.
    You should have asked them for money when they made you sign that thing. Enough money to sleep with twenty white-skinned girls . It flew away. Another landed on the same spot.
    Twenty?
    A hundred. Two hundred. Three hundred, a thousand, ten thousand golden-haired whores. And even that would still not have been enough. That would not start to be enough.
    Over the next two weeks, I did things I am still ashamed to admit. I cheated my employer. I siphoned his petrol; I took his car to a corrupt mechanic who billed him for work that was not necessary; and three times, while driving back to Buckingham B, I picked up a paying customer.
    The strangest thing was that each time I looked at the cash I had made by cheating him, instead of guilt, what did I feel?
    Rage.
    The more I stole from him, the more I realized how much he had stolen from me.
    To go back to the analogy I used when describing Indian politics to you earlier, I was growing a belly at last.
    Then one Sunday afternoon, when Mr. Ashok had said he wouldn’t need me again that day, I gulped two big glasses of whiskey for courage, then went to the servants’ dormitory. Vitiligo-Lips was sitting beneath the poster of a film actress—each time his master “hammered” an actress, he put her poster up on the wall—playing cards with the other drivers.
    “Well, you can say what you want, but I know that these jokers aren’t going to win reelection.”
    He looked up and saw me.
    “Well, look who’s here. It’s the yoga guru, paying us a rare visit. Welcome, honored sir.”
    They showed me their teeth. I showed them my teeth.
    “We were discussing the elections, Country-Mouse. You know, it’s not like the Darkness here. The elections aren’t rigged. Are you going to vote this time?”
    I summoned him with a finger.
    He shook his head. “Later, Country-Mouse, I’m having too much fun discussing the elections.”
    I waved the brown envelope in the air. He put his cards down at once.
    I insisted that we walk down to the parking lot; he counted the money there, in the shadow of the Honda City.
    “Good, Country-Mouse. It’s all here. And where is your master? Will you drive him there?”
    “I am my own master.”
    He didn’t get it for a minute. Then his jaw dropped—he rushed forward—he hugged me. “Country-Mouse!” He hugged me again. “My man!”
    He was from the Darkness too—and you feel proud when you see one of your own kind showing some ambition in life.
    He drove me in the Qualis—his master’s Qualis—to the hotel, explaining on the way that he ran an informal “taxi” service when the boss wasn’t around.
    This hotel was in South Extension, Part Two—one of the best shopping areas in Delhi. Vitiligo-Lips locked his Qualis, smiled reassuringly, and walked with me up to the reception desk. A man in a white shirt and black bow tie was running his finger down the entries in a long ledger; leaving his finger on the book, he looked at me as Vitiligo-Lips explained things into his ear.
    The manager shook his head. “A golden-haired woman—for him?”
    He put his hands on the counter and leaned over so he could see me from the toes up.
    “For him ?”
    Vitiligo-Lips smiled. “Look here, the rich of Delhi have had all the golden-haired women they want; who knows what they’ll want next? Green-haired