The White Tiger

replacement driver—a local driver?
    He mumbled his reply.
    I could not hear a word. But I did not have to.
    I looked at the rearview mirror: I wanted to confront him, eye to eye, man to man. But he wouldn’t look at me in the mirror. Didn’t dare face me.
    I tell you, you could have heard the grinding of my teeth just then. I thought I was making plans for him? He’d been making plans for me! The rich are always one step ahead of us—aren’t they?
    Well, not this time. For every step he’d take, I’d take two.
    Outside on the road, a streetside vendor was sitting next to a pyramid of motorbike helmets that were wrapped in plastic and looked like a pile of severed heads.
    Just when we were about to reach the gardens, we saw that the road was blocked on all sides: a line of trucks had gathered in front of us, full of men who were shouting:
    “Hail the Great Socialist! Hail the voice of the poor of India!”
    “What the hell is going on?”
    “Haven’t you seen the news today, Ashok? They are announcing the results.”
    “Fuck,” he said. “Balram, turn Enya off, and turn on the radio.”
    The voice of the Great Socialist came on. He was being interviewed by a radio reporter.
    “The election shows that the poor will not be ignored. The Darkness will not be silent. There is no water in our taps, and what do you people in Delhi give us? You give us cell phones. Can a man drink a phone when he is thirsty? Women walk for miles every morning to find a bucket of clean—”
    “Do you want to become prime minister of India?”
    “Don’t ask me such questions. I have no ambitions for myself. I am simply the voice of the poor and the disenfranchised.”
    “But surely, sir—”
    “Let me say one last word, if I may. All I have ever wanted was an India where any boy in any village could dream of becoming the prime minister. Now, as I was saying, women walk for…”
    According to the radio, the ruling party had been hammered at the polls. A new set of parties had come to power. The Great Socialist’s party was one of them. He had taken the votes of a big part of the Darkness. As we drove back to Gurgaon, we saw hordes of his supporters pouring in from the Darkness. They drove where they wanted, did what they wanted, whistled at any woman they felt like whistling at. Delhi had been invaded.
    Mr. Ashok did not call me the rest of the day; in the evening he came down and said he wanted to go to the Imperial Hotel. He was on the cell phone the whole time, punching buttons and making calls and screaming:
    —“We’re totally fucked, Uma. This is why I hate this business I’m in. We’re at the mercy of these…”
    —“Don’t yell at me, Mukesh. You were the one who said the elections were a foregone conclusion. Yes, you ! And now we’ll never get out of our income-tax mess.”
    —“All right, I’m doing it, Father! I’m going to meet him right now at the Imperial!”
    He was still on the phone when I dropped him off at the Imperial Hotel. Forty-two minutes passed, and then he came out with two men. Leaning down to the window, he said, “Do whatever they want, Balram. I’m taking a taxi back from here. When they’re done bring the car back to Buckingham.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    The two men slapped him on the back; he bowed, and opened the doors for them himself. If he was kissing arse like this, they had to be politicians.
    The two men got in. My heart began to pound. The man on the right was my childhood hero—Vijay, the pigherd’s son turned bus conductor turned politician from Laxmangarh. He had changed uniforms again: now he was wearing the polished suit and tie of a modern Indian businessman.
    He ordered me to drive toward Ashoka Road; he turned to his companion and said, “The sister-fucker finally gave me his car.”
    The other man grunted. He lowered the window and spat. “He knows he has to show us some respect now, doesn’t he?”
    Vijay chortled. He raised his voice. “Do you have anything to drink in the car, son?”
    I turned around: fat nuggets of gold were studded into his rotting black molars.
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Let’s see it.”
    I opened the glove compartment and handed him the bottle.
    “It’s good stuff. Johnnie Walker Black. Son, do you have glasses too?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Ice?”
    “No, sir.”
    “It’s all right. Let’s drink it neat. Son, pour us a drink.”
    I did so, while keeping the Honda City going with my left hand. They took the glasses and drank the