The White Tiger

women from the moon? Now it’s going to be the working class that lines up for the white women. This fellow is the future of your business, I tell you—treat him well.”
    The manager seemed uncertain for a moment; then he slammed the ledger shut and showed me an open palm. “Give me five hundred rupees extra.” He grinned. “Working-class surcharge.”
    “I don’t have it!”
    “Give me five hundred or forget it.”
    I took out the last three hundred rupees I had. He took the cash, straightened his tie, and then went up the stairs. Vitiligo-Lips patted me on the shoulder and said, “Good luck, Country-Mouse—do it for all of us!”
    I ran up the stairs.
    Room 114A. The manager was standing at the door, with his ear to it. He whispered, “Anastasia?”
    He knocked, then put his ear to the door again and said, “Anastasia, are you in?”
    He pushed the door open. A chandelier, a window, a green bed—and a girl with golden hair sitting on the bed.
    I sighed, because this one looked nothing like Kim Basinger. Not half as pretty. That was when it hit me—in a way it never had before—how the rich always get the best things in life, and all that we get is their leftovers.
    The manager brought both his palms up to my face; he opened and closed them, and then did it again.
    Twenty minutes.
    Then he made a knocking motion with his fist—followed by a kicking motion with his shiny black boot.
    “Get it?”
    That’s what would happen to me after twenty minutes.
    “Yes.”
    He slammed the door. The woman with the golden hair still wasn’t looking at me.
    I had only summoned up the courage to sit down by her side when there was banging on the door outside.
    “When you hear that—it’s over! Get it?” The manager’s voice.
    “All right!”
    I moved closer to the woman on the bed. She neither resisted nor encouraged. I touched a curl of her hair and pulled it gently to get her to turn her face toward me. She looked tired, and worn out, and there were bruises around her eyes, as if someone had scratched her.
    She gave me a big smile—I knew it well: it was the smile a servant gives a master.
    “What’s your name?” she asked in Hindi.
    This one too! They must have a Hindi language school for girls in this country, Ukraine, I swear!
    “Munna.”
    She smiled. “That’s not a real name. It just means ‘boy.’”
    “That’s right. But it’s my name,” I said. “My family gave me no other name.”
    She began laughing—a high-pitched, silvery laugh that made her whole golden head of hair bob up and down. My heart beat like a horse’s. Her perfume went straight to my brain.
    “You know, when I was young, I was given a name in my language that just meant ‘girl.’ My family did the same thing to me!”
    “Wow,” I said, curling my legs up on the bed.
    We talked. She told me she hated the mosquitoes in this hotel and the manager, and I nodded. We talked for a while like this, and then she said, “You’re not a bad-looking fellow—and you’re quite sweet,” and then ran her finger through my hair.
    At this point, I jumped out of the bed. I said, “Why are you here, sister? If you want to leave this hotel, why don’t you? Don’t worry about the manager. I’m here to protect you! I am your own brother, Balram Halwai!”
    Sure, I said that—in the Hindi film they’ll make of my life.
    “Seven thousand sweet rupees for twenty minutes! Time to get started!”
    That was what I actually said.
    I climbed on top of her—and held her arms behind her head with one hand. Time to dip my beak in her. I let the other hand run through her golden curls.
    And then I shrieked. I could not have shrieked louder if you had shown me a lizard.
    “What happened, Munna?” she asked.
    I jumped off the bed, and slapped her.
    My, these foreigners can yell when they want to.
    Immediately—as if the manager had been there all the time, his ear to the door, grinning—the door burst open, and he came in.
    “This,” I shouted at him, pulling the girl by her hair, “is not real gold.”
    The roots were black! It was all a dye job!
    He shrugged. “What do you expect, for seven thousand? The real thing costs forty, fifty.”
    I leapt at him, caught his chin in my hand, and rammed it against the door. “I want my money back!”
    The woman let out a scream from behind me. I turned around—that was the mistake I made. I should’ve finished off that manager right there and then.
    Ten minutes later, with a