The White Tiger

car, sir. Trust me.”
    Putting the cell phone on the seat, he obeyed me. The blue light of the cell phone filled the inside of the dark car for a second—then went out.
    He opened the door farthest from me and got out near the road. I got down on my knees and hid behind the car.
    “Come over this side, sir. The bad tire is on this side.”
    He came, picking his way through the mud.
    “It’s this one, sir—and be careful, there’s a broken bottle lying on the ground.” There was so much garbage by the roadside that it lay there looking perfectly natural.
    “Here, let me throw it away. This is the tire, sir. Please take a look.”
    He got down on his knees. I rose up over him, holding the bottle held behind my back with a bent arm.
    Down below me, his head was just a black ball—and in the blackness, I saw a thin white line of scalp between the neatly parted hair, leading like a painted line on a highway to the spot on the crown of his skull—the spot from which a man’s hair radiates out.
    The black ball moved; grimacing to protect his eyes against the drizzle, he looked up at me.
    “It seems fine.”
    I stood still, like a schoolboy caught out by his teacher. I thought: That landlord’s brain of his has figured it out. He’s going to stand up and hit me in the face.
    But what is the use of winning a battle when you don’t even know that there is a war going on?
    “Well, you know more about this car than I do, Balram. Let me take another look.”
    And he peered again at the tire. The black highway appeared before me once more, with the white paint marks leading to the crown spot.
    “There is a problem, sir. You should have got a replacement a long time ago.”
    “All right, Balram.” He touched the tire. “But I really think we—”
    I rammed the bottle down. The glass ate his bone. I rammed it three times into the crown of his skull, smashing through to his brains. It’s a good, strong bottle, Johnnie Walker Black—well worth its resale value.
    The stunned body fell into the mud. A hissing sound came out of its lips, like wind escaping from a tire.
    I fell to the ground—my hand was trembling, the bottle slipped out, and I had to pick it up with my left hand. The thing with the hissing lips got up onto its hands and knees; it began crawling around in a circle, as if looking for someone who was meant to protect it.
    Why didn’t I gag him and leave him in the bushes, stunned and unconscious, where he wouldn’t be able to do a thing for hours, while I escaped? Good question—and I’ve thought about it many a night, as I sit at my desk, looking at the chandelier.
    The first possible reply is that he could always recover, break out of his gag, and call the police. So I had to kill him.
    The second possible reply is that his family was going to do such terrible things to my family: I was just getting my revenge in advance.
    I like the second reply better.
    Putting my foot on the back of the crawling thing, I flattened it to the ground. Down on my knees I went, to be at the right height for what would come next. I turned the body around, so it would face me. I stamped my knee on its chest. I undid the collar button and rubbed my hand over its clavicles to mark out the spot.
    When I was a boy in Laxmangarh, and I used to play with my father’s body, the junction of the neck and the chest, the place where all the tendons and veins stick out in high relief, was my favorite spot. When I touched this spot, the pit of my father’s neck, I controlled him—I could make him stop breathing with the pressure of a finger.
    The Stork’s son opened his eyes—just as I pierced his neck—and his lifeblood spurted into my eyes.
    I was blind. I was a free man.
    When I got the blood out of my eyes, it was all over for Mr. Ashok. The blood was draining from the neck quite fast—I believe that is the way the Muslims kill their chickens.
    But then tuberculosis is a worse way to go than this, I assure you.
    After dragging the body into the bushes, I plunged my hands and face into the rainwater and muck. I picked up the bundle near my feet—the white cotton T-shirt, the one with lots of white space and just one word in English—and changed into it. Reaching for the gilded box of tissues, I wiped my face and hands clean. I pulled out all the stickers of the goddess, and threw them on Mr. Ashok’s body—just in case they’d help his soul go to heaven.
    And then, getting into the car, turning the ignition key,