The White Tiger

can be done. There are books for that. You want to buy one?”
    “No, not vanish like that. I meant can he…can he…”
    The bookseller had narrowed his eyes. The sweat beads had grown larger on his huge black forehead.
    I smiled at him. “Forget I asked that, Muslim uncle.”
    And then I warned myself never to talk to this old man again. He knew too much already.
    My eyes were burning from squinting at books. I should have been heading back toward Delhi Gate to catch a bus. There was a foul taste of book in my mouth—as if I had inhaled so much particulated old paper from the air. Strange thoughts brew in your heart when you spend too much time with old books.
    But instead of going back to the bus, I wandered farther into Old Delhi. I had no idea where I was going. Everything grew quiet the moment I left the main road. I saw some men sitting on a charpoy smoking, others lying on the ground and sleeping; eagles flew above the houses. Then the wind blew an enormous gust of buffalo into my face.
    Everyone knows there is a butchers’ quarter somewhere in Old Delhi, but not many have seen it. It is one of the wonders of the old city—a row of open sheds, and big buffaloes standing in each shed with their butts toward you, and their tails swatting flies away like windshield wipers, and their feet deep in immense pyramids of shit. I stood there, inhaling the smell of their bodies—it had been so long since I had smelled buffalo! The horrible city air was driven out of my lungs.
    A rattling noise of wooden wheels. I saw a buffalo coming down the road, pulling a large cart behind it. There was no human sitting on this cart with a whip; the buffalo just knew on its own where to go. And it was coming down the road. I stood to the side, and as it passed me, I saw that this cart was full of the faces of dead buffaloes; faces, I say—but I should say skulls, stripped even of the skin, except for the little black bit of skin at the tip of the nose from which the nostril hairs still stuck out, like last defiant bits of the personality of the dead buffalo. The rest of the faces were gone. Even the eyes had been gouged out.
    And the living buffalo walked on, without a master, drawing its load of death to the place where it knew it had to go.
    I walked along with that poor animal for a while, staring at the dead, stripped faces of the buffaloes. And then the strangest thing happened, Your Excellency—I swear the buffalo that was pulling the cart turned its face to me, and said in a voice not unlike my father’s:
    “Your brother Kishan was beaten to death. Happy?”
    It was like experiencing a nightmare in the minutes before you wake up; you know it’s a dream, but you can’t wake up just yet.
    “Your aunt Luttu was raped and then beaten to death. Happy? Your grandmother Kusum was kicked to death. Happy?”
    The buffalo glared at me.
    “Shame!” it said, and then it took a big step forward and the cart passed by, full of dead skinned faces, which seemed to me at that moment the faces of my own family.
     
    The next morning, Mr. Ashok came down to the car, smiling, and with the red bag in his hand. He slammed the door.
    I looked at the ogre and swallowed hard.
    “Sir…”
    “What is it, Balram?”
    “Sir, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while.” And I took my fingers off the ignition key. I swear, I was ready to make a full confession right there…had he said the right word…had he touched my shoulder the right way.
    But he wasn’t looking at me. He was busy with the cell phone and its buttons.
    Punch, punch, punch.
    To have a madman with thoughts of blood and theft in his head, sitting just ten inches in front of you, and not to know it. Not to have a hint, even. What blindness you people are capable of. Here you are, sitting in glass buildings and talking on the phone night after night to Americans who are thousands of miles away, but you don’t have the faintest idea what’s happening to the man who’s driving your car!
    What is it, Balram?
    Just this, sir—that I want to smash your skull open!
    He leaned forward—he brought his lips right to my ear—I was ready to melt.
    “I understand, Balram.”
    I closed my eyes. I could barely speak.
    “You do, sir?”
    “You want to get married.”
    “…”
    “Balram. You’ll need some money, won’t you?”
    “Sir, no. There’s no need of that.”
    “Wait, Balram. Let me take out my wallet. You’re a good member of the family.