The White Tiger

down and ordered a pack of Parle Milk biscuits and a tea, because I did not know yet how to drink the coffee.
    I was eager to try coffee. You see, poor people in the north of this country drink tea, and poor people in the south drink coffee. Who decided that things should be like this, I don’t know, but it’s like this. So this was the first time I was smelling coffee on a daily basis. I was dying to try it out. But before you could drink it, you had to know how to drink it. There was an etiquette, a routine, associated with it that fascinated me. It was served in a cup set into a tumbler, and then it had to be poured in certain quantities and sipped at a certain speed from the tumbler. How the pouring was to be done, how the sipping was to be done, I did not know. For a while I only watched.
    It took me a week to realize that everyone was doing it differently. One man poured all the coffee into his tumbler at once; another never used the tumbler at all.
    They’re all strangers here, I said to myself. They’re all drinking coffee for the first time.
    That was another of the attractions of Bangalore. The city was full of outsiders. No one would notice one more.
    I spent four weeks in that hotel near the railway station, doing nothing. I admit there were doubts in my mind. Should I have gone to Mumbai instead? But the police would have thought of that at once—everyone goes to Mumbai in the films after they kill someone, don’t they?
    Calcutta! I should have gone there.
    One morning Dharam said: “Uncle, you look so depressed. Let’s go for a walk.” We walked through a park where drunken men lay on benches amid wild overgrown weeds. We came out onto a broad road; on the other side of the road stood a huge stone building with a golden lion on top of it.
    “What is this building, Uncle?”
    “I don’t know, Dharam. It must be where the ministers live in Bangalore.”
    On the gable of the building I saw a slogan:
GOVERNMENT WORK IS GOD’S WORK
    “You’re smiling, Uncle.”
    “You’re right, Dharam. I am smiling. I think we’ll have a good time in Bangalore,” I said and I winked at him.
    I moved out of the hotel and took a flat on rent. Now I had to make a living in Bangalore—I had to find out how I could fit into this city.
    I tried to hear Bangalore’s voice, just as I had heard Delhi’s.
    I went down M.G. Road and sat down at the Café Coffee Day, the one with the outdoor tables. I had a pen and a piece of paper with me, and I wrote down everything I overheard.
    I completed that computer program in two and a half minutes.
    An American today offered me four-hundred thousand dollars for my start-up and I told him, “That’s not enough!”
    Is Hewlett-Packard a better company than IBM?
    Everything in the city, it seemed, came down to one thing.
    Outsourcing. Which meant doing things in India for Americans over the phone. Everything flowed from it—real estate, wealth, power, sex. So I would have to join this outsourcing thing, one way or the other.
    The next day I took an autorickshaw up to Electronics City. I found a banyan tree by the side of a road, and I sat down under it. I sat and watched the buildings until it was evening and I saw all the SUVs racing in; and then I watched until two in the morning, when the SUVs began racing out of the buildings.
    And I thought, That’s it. That’s how I fit in.
    Let me explain, Your Excellency. See, men and women in Bangalore live like the animals in a forest do. Sleep in the day and then work all night, until two, three, four, five o’clock, depending, because their masters are on the other side of the world, in America. Big question: how will the boys and girls—girls especially—get from home to the workplace in the late evening and then get back home at three in the morning? There is no night bus system in Bangalore, no train system like in Mumbai. The girls would not be safe on buses or trains anyway. The men of this city, frankly speaking, are animals.
    That’s where entrepreneurs come in.
    The next thing I did was to go to a Toyota Qualis dealer in the city and say, in my sweetest voice, “I want to drive your cars.” The dealer looked at me, puzzled.
    I couldn’t believe I had said that. Once a servant, always a servant: the instinct is always there, inside you, somewhere near the base of your spine. If you ever came to my office, Mr. Premier, I would probably try to press your feet at once.
    I pinched my left palm. I smiled as I held