THIS ABOVE ALL
Well written, but not well said
Khushwant Singh

I have long been disillusioned with the literary quality of works that win prestigious literary awards like the Nobel, Booker, Pulitzer, Commonwealth etc. I have been even less impressed with books that make to the top of booksellers’ lists and earn millions of dollars in royalties for their authors. But I make it a point to read them for the simple reason that people better-read than me think highly of them. When I heard that two Indians had made it to the last eight entrants for the Booker prize one being Amitav Ghosh, I assumed that if the award went to an Indian then it would be to Ghosh’s Sea of Poppies (Penguin Viking) because it was the best thing I had read in a long time.

However, the prize went to Aravind Adiga’s The White Tiger (Harper Collins). I had heard about the novel, but had neither read it nor heard the name of the author, it was his first novel.

I brought up the subject in my evening mehfil. Of the half-a-dozen in the assemblage only my next-door neighbour Reeta Devi from Cooch Behar had bought and read it. Later that evening she sent me her copy. It took me two days to read it from cover to cover. I found it highly readable. Also infinitely depressing; it is darkest, one-sided picture of India I have ever read. I don’t mind reading harsh criticism of my countrymen, but I find half-truths unpalatable. If I had any say in the matter, I would have cast my vote in favour of Amitav Ghosh.

The narrator of the story is one Balram Halwai, son of an impoverished father who earns his living running a tea stall by the bus stop of village Laxmangarh in Bihar. He has to withdraw Balram from school so that he can earn some money as a rickshaw puller and dish-washer. Balram’s ambition in life is to be a chauffeur. His only chance of doing so is to get employment with the family who own most of the land around their village. They are in big business as coal merchants in Dhanbad where they live in a large mansion with hordes of servants. Balram manages to raise money to learn driving, gets a licence and a job as a second driver in the landlord’s family. The senior driver Ram Pershad drives a Honda City; Balram a Maruti Zen. One member of the landlord’s family, Ashok, goes to a business school in America and returns home with Indian Christian Pinkie madam. They decide to settle in Delhi. Both Ram Pershad and Balram are in the running to accompany them. Just in the nick of time it is found out that Ram Pershad is a Muslim pretending to be a Hindu. He disappears from Dhanbad (inference: Hindus don’t trust Muslims). So Balram now in chauffeur’s uniform drives his master and mistress to Delhi in their Honda City. They take up residence in a huge appartment block in Gurgaon.

Ashok gets into big business bribing everyone who matters — ministers, politicians, middlemen, police, magistrates — everyone has a negotiable price tag. It is wads of currency notes, booze in five star hotels, prostitutes of all nationalities. Once a very drunk Pinkie madam driving the Honda runs over a child. Balram is made to take the blame. Ultimately, the police and the magistrate are squared and nothing happens.

Madam Pinkie gets fed up of India and returns to New York. Ashok takes to whoring. Balram dips his beak in brothels on G.B. Road. The master-servant relationship comes to an abrupt end one rainy night when the Honda City gets stuck in mud. While a very drunk Ashok is trying to life a car tyre out of the mud, Balram smashes his skull with a bottle of Scotch, dumps his body in a bush and decamps with a bagful of high denomination currency notes, taking his nephew with him to Bangalore. His picture is all over public places among those being sought by the police. Nevertheless, Balram manages to set up a highly lucrative business running a fleet of taxis to take late night workers to their homes. When one of his drivers runs over a cyclist, he has the case quashed by bribing the police. Meanwhile, Ashok’s family back in Dhanbad settle scores by having 17 members of Balram’s family eliminated. That’s how, according to Aravind Adiga, things happen in the India of today. He narrates his tale of crime and corruption in his country in a series of seven long imaginary talks with the President of the Communist Republic of China.

Aravind Adiga now says he wants to dedicate his prize-winning novel to the people of Delhi. However, it is not the Delhi of which Dilliwalas are proud of? The oldest and the most modern city of the world, a city of marble palaces, mosques and temples, of ancient forts and mausolea, the greenest capital on earth with the largest variety of birds, parks and roundabouts ablaze with flowers in spring? All this escapes the author’s eyes. What draws him are slums, stench of drains filled with human excreta, pigs and pigs rummaging in garbage dumps, pimps and prostitutes. We, who belong to and love our city, have nothing to thank him for. But bless him. Though full of half-truths, he writes well. His black humour and biting satire persuades the reader to forgive him.

No to Nano

And next time, if the Marxists bring in industry, I and Amar Singh will take over the country.

(Contributed by Kuldip Salil, Delhi)