The White Tiger

The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga

I’m not usually a fan of Booker Prize winners. Originality, I think, does not always equal quality. When I first started getting into it, I thought, if it weren’t for the story taking place in India, I wouldn’t be reading this crap. But then, I couldn’t help it. As you read, the story becomes progressively more and more strange, wild, and darkly enticing, keeping you on the edge of your seat because you can never quite trust Balram Halwai, the “White Tiger”. He’s everything to love and hate about India. He’s corrupt and cynical and clever and cunning. He’s
chaotic and consummate, charismatic and celeritous. All those C’s.

The story is written as a series of seven letters to the Premier Wen Jiabao of China, beginning with the birth of a no-name boy in the small village of Laxmangarh, near Bodh Gaya, where the water buffalo is the head of the family and the townsfolk are forever at the mercy of crooked and dispassionate landlords. The tale progresses as Balram rises to the status of a Bangalorean entrepreneur through methods of eavesdropping, nicknaming, cab-driving, and murder. It is a profound and unapologetic portrait of the political strife of contemporary India, an informal but striking dissertation on poverty and terrorism and sacrifice.

I used to be very judgmental of books like this – books with no righteousness, no morality. And then I read another little book called Letters to A Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke. He said something along the lines of, “Literary critics will have their day, but their opinions are determined by their times. You have to appreciate a writer’s work for what it is, for how it speaks to you.” And this, I think, is completely fair.

By the end of the book, I realized that I had grossly misjudged Adiga. Rarely does an author exhibit such prowess at displaying profound ethical insight without saturating his words with overt sentimentality.

Thank you, Mr. Adiga. Maybe now I will go back to Steinbeck with an open mind.