The White Tiger

VODKA FIRST CLASS…

It was a small store, and at least fifty men were crammed into the ten feet of space in front of the counter, each yelling at the top of his voice, while waving rupee notes of the higher denominations:

'Kinfisher Strong one liter!'

'Old Monk half bottle!'

'Thunderbolt! Thunderbolt!'

They were not going to be drinking this liquor; I could tell from their torn and dirty shirts that they were only servants, like Ram Persad and me, come to buy English liquor for their masters. If we came after eight o'clock on a weekend night to Jackpot, it was like a civil war in front of the counter; I had to keep the men at bay, while Ram Persad shoved his way to the counter and yelled:

'Black Dog! Full bottle!'

Black Dog was the first name in the first-class category of whiskey. It was the only thing that the Stork and his sons drank.

Ram Persad would get the liquor; and then I would swat at the other servants and fight for some space for us to get out, while he cradled the bottle in his arms. It was the only time we were ever like a team.

On our way back to the house, Ram Persad would always stop by the side of the road and slide the Black Dog out of its cardboard box. He said this was to check that Jackpot hadn't cheated us. I knew he was lying. He just wanted to hold the bottle. He wanted to hold the full, virgin bottle of first-class whiskey in his hand. He wanted to imagine that he was buying it for himself. Then he would slide the bottle back into the cardboard box and return to the house, me behind him, my eyes still dazzled by the sight of so much English liquor.

At night, while Ram Persad snored from his bed, I lay on the floor with my head resting on my palms.

I was staring at the ceiling.

And thinking how the Stork's two sons were as different from each other as night and day.

Mukesh Sir was small, and dark, and ugly, and very shrewd. We would have called him 'the Mongoose' back at home. He had been married for some years, to a homely wife who was turning fat on schedule, after having two children, both boys. This fellow, this Mongoose, did not have his father's body-but he had his father's mind. If he ever saw me waste even one moment, he would shout, 'Driver, don't loiter there! Clean the car.'

'Cleaned it already, sir.'

'Then take a broom and sweep the courtyard.'

Mr. Ashok had his father's body; he was tall, and broad, and handsome, like a landlord's son should be. In the evenings, I saw him play badminton with his wife in the compound of the house. She wore pants; I gaped. Who had ever seen a woman dressed in trousers before-except in the movies? I assumed at first she was an American, one of those magical things he had brought home from New York, like his accent and the fruit-flavored perfume he put on his face after shaving.

Two days later, Ram Persad and the slanty-eyed Nepali were gossiping. I took a broom, began sweeping the courtyard, and edged closer and closer to them.

'She's a Christian, did you know?'

'No way.'

'Yes!'

'And he married her?'

'They married in America. When we Indians go there, we lose all respect for caste,' the Nepali said.

'The old man was dead set against the marriage. Her people were not happy either.'

'So-how did it happen?'

The Nepali glared at me. 'Hey, are you eavesdropping on us?'

'No, sir.'

* * *

One morning there was a knocking on the door of the drivers' quarters, and when I went out, Pinky Madam was standing with two rackets in her hand.

A net had been tied between two poles in one corner of the courtyard; she got on one side of the net and I got on the other side. She hit the shuttle-it rose up, and then fell near my foot.

'Hey! Move! Hit it back!'

'Sorry, madam. I'm so sorry.'

I'd never played this game before. I hit the shuttle back to her, and it went straight into the net.

'Oh, you're useless. Where is that other driver?'

Ram Persad dashed up to the net at once. He had been watching the game all the time from the side. He knew exactly how to play badminton.

I watched him hit the shuttle cleanly over the net and match her shot for shot, and my belly burned.

Is there any hatred on earth like the hatred of the number two servant for the number one?

Though we slept in the same room, just a few feet apart, we never said a word to each other-never a Hello, or How's your mother doing, nothing. I could feel heat radiate out from him all night-I knew he was cursing me and putting spells on me in his sleep. See, he began every day by bowing in front of at least twenty pictures of various gods he kept in his side of the room, and saying, ' Om, om, om.' As he did this, he looked at me through the corner of his eye, as if to say, Don't you pray? What are you, a Naxal?

One evening I went to the market and bought two dozen of the cheapest idols of Hanuman and Ram I could find and brought them back and packed them into the room. So both of us now had the same number of gods in the room; and we drowned out each other's prayers in the morning while bowing before our respective deities.

The Nepali was hand in hand with Ram Persad. One day he burst into my room and put a big plastic bucket down on the floor with a thud.

'Do you like dogs, village boy?' he asked with a big smile.

There were two white Pomeranians in the house-Cuddles and Puddles. The rich expect their dogs to be treated like humans, you see-they expect their dogs to be pampered, and walked, and petted, and even washed! And guess who had to do the washing? I got down on my knees and began scrubbing the dogs, and then lathering them, and foaming them, and then washing them down, and taking a blow dryer and drying their skin. Then I took them around the compound on a chain while the king of Nepal sat in a corner and shouted, 'Don't pull the chain so hard! They're worth more than you are!'

By the time I was done with Puddles and Cuddles, I walked back, sniffing my hands-the only thing that can take the smell of dog skin off a servant's hands is the smell of his master's skin.

Mr. Ashok was standing outside my room.

I ran up to him and bowed low. He went into the room; I followed, still crouched over. He bent low to make his way through the doorway-the doorway was built for undernourished servants, not for a tall, well-fed master like him. He looked at the ceiling dubiously.

'How awful,' he said.

Until then I had never noticed how the paint on the ceiling was peeling off in large flakes, and how there were spiderwebs in every corner. I had been so happy in this room until now.

'Why is there such a smell? Open the windows.'

He sat down on Ram Persad's bed and poked it with his fingertips. It felt hard. I immediately stopped being jealous of Ram Persad.

(And so I saw the room with his eyes; smelled it with his nose; poked it with his fingers-I had already begun to digest my master!)

He looked in my direction, but avoided my gaze, as if he were guilty about something.

'You and Ram Persad will both get a better room to sleep in. And separate beds. And some privacy.'

'Please don't do that, sir. This place is like a palace for us.'

That made him feel better. He looked at me.

'You're from Laxmangarh, aren't you?'

'Yes, sir.'