The White Tiger

putting my foot on the accelerator, I took the Honda City, finest of cars, most faithful of accomplices, on one final trip. Since there was no one else in the car, my left hand reached out to turn Sting off—then stopped and relaxed.
    From now on I could play the music as long as I wanted.
    In the railway station, thirty-three minutes later, the colored wheels in the fortune machines were coruscating. I stood in front of them, staring at the glowing and the whirling, and wondering, Should I go back to get Dharam?
    If I left him there now, the police would certainly arrest him as an accomplice. They would throw him into jail with a bunch of wild men—and you know what happens to little boys when they get put into dens like that, sir.
    On the other hand, if I went back now all the way to Gurgaon, someone might discover the body…and then all this (I tightened my grip on the bag) would have been a waste.
    I squatted on the floor of the station, pressed down by indecision. There was a squealing noise to my left. A plastic bucket was tumbling about, as if it were alive: then a grinning black face popped out of the bucket. A little creature, a baby boy. A homeless man and woman, covered in filth, sat on either side of the bucket, gazing blankly into the distance. Between his fatigued parents, this little thing was having the time of his life, playing with the water and splashing it on passersby. “Don’t do it, little boy,” I said. He splashed more water, squealing with pleasure each time he hit me. I raised my hand. He ducked into his bucket and kept thrashing from the inside.
    I reached into my pockets, searched for a rupee coin, checked to make sure it wasn’t a two -rupee coin, and rolled it toward the bucket.
    Then I sighed, and got up, and cursed myself, and walked out of the station.
    Your lucky day, Dharam.
     

The Seventh Night
    Can you hear that, Mr. Jiabao? I’ll turn it up for you.
    The health minister today announced a plan to eliminate malaria in Bangalore by the end of the year. He has instructed all city officials to work without holiday until malaria is a thing of the past. Forty-five million rupees will be allocated to malaria eradication.
    In other news, the chief minister of the state today announced a plan to eliminate malnutrition in Bangalore in six months. He declared that there would be not one hungry child in the city by the end of the year. All officials are to work single-mindedly toward this goal, he declared. Five hundred million rupees will be allocated for malnutrition eradication.
    In other news, the finance minister declared that this year’s budget will include special incentives to turn our villages into high-technology paradises…
    This is the kind of news they feed us on All India Radio, night after night: and tomorrow at dawn it’ll be in the papers too. People just swallow this crap. Night after night, morning after morning. Amazing, isn’t it?
    But enough of the radio. It’s turned off. Now let me look up to my chandelier for inspiration.
    Wen!
    Old friend!
    Tonight we bring this glorious tale to a conclusion. As I was doing my yoga this morning—that’s right, I wake up at eleven in the morning every day and go straight into an hour of yoga—I began reflecting on the progress of my story, and realized that I’m almost done. All that remains to be told is how I changed from a hunted criminal into a solid pillar of Bangalorean society.
    Incidentally, sir, while we’re on the topic of yoga—may I just say that an hour of deep breathing, yoga, and meditation in the morning constitutes the perfect start to the entrepreneur’s day. How I would handle the stresses of this fucking business without yoga, I have no idea. Make yoga a must in all Chinese schools—that’s my suggestion.
    But back to the story, now.
    First, I want to explain one thing about a fugitive’s life. Being a man on the run isn’t all about fear—a fugitive is entitled to his share of fun too.
    That evening as I was sweeping up the pieces of the Johnnie Walker bottle in the parking lot, I worked out a plan for how I would get to Bangalore. It wouldn’t be on a direct train—no. Someone might see me, and then the police would know where I had gone. Instead, I would transfer myself from train to train, zigzagging my way down to Bangalore.
    Although my schedule was shot to pieces when I went to get Dharam—he was sleeping in the net, and I woke him up and said we were going on a holiday to the