The White Tiger

brains. It's a known fact. Cell phones cause cancer in the brain and shrink your masculinity; the Japanese invented them to diminish the white man's brain and balls at the same time. I overheard this at the bus stand one night. Until then I had been very proud of my Nokia, showing it to all the call-center girls I was hoping to dip my beak into, but I threw it away at once. Every call that you make to me, you have to make it on a landline. It hurts my business, but my brain is too important, sir: it's all that a thinking man has in this world.

White men will be finished within my lifetime. There are blacks and reds too, but I have no idea what they're up to-the radio never talks about them. My humble prediction: in twenty years' time, it will be just us yellow men and brown men at the top of the pyramid, and we'll rule the whole world.

And God save everyone else.

* * *

Now I should explain about that long interruption in my narrative two nights ago.

It will also allow me to illustrate the differences between Bangalore and Laxmangarh. Understand, Mr. Jiabao, it is not as if you come to Bangalore and find that everyone is moral and upright here. This city has its share of thugs and politicians. It's just that here, if a man wants to be good, he can be good. In Laxmangarh, he doesn't even have this choice. That is the difference between this India and that India: the choice.

See, that night, I was sitting here, telling you my life's story, when my landline began to ring. Still chatting to you, I picked up the receiver and heard Mohammad Asif's voice.

'Sir, there's been some trouble.'

That's when I stopped talking to you.

'What kind of trouble?' I asked. I knew Mohammad Asif had been on duty that night, so I braced myself for the worst.

There was a silence, and then he said, 'I was taking the girls home when we hit a boy on a bicycle. He's dead, sir.'

'Call the police at once,' I said.

'But sir-I am at fault. I hit him, sir.'

'That's exactly why you will call the police.'

The police were there when I got to the scene with an empty van. The Qualis was parked by the side of the road; the girls were all still inside.

There was a body, a boy, lying on the ground, bloodied. The bike was on the ground, smashed and twisted.

Mohammad Asif was standing off to the side, shaking his head. Someone was yelling at him-yelling with the passion that you only see on the face of the relative of a dead man.

The policeman on the scene had stalled everyone. He nodded when he saw me. We knew each other well by now.

'That's the dead boy's brother, sir,' he whispered to me. 'He's in a total rage. I haven't been able to get him out of here.'

I shook Mohammad Asif out of his trance. 'Take my car and get these women home, first of all.'

'Let my boy go,' I told the policeman loudly. 'He's got to get the people in there home. Whatever you want to deal with, you deal with me.'

'How can you let him go?' the brother of the dead boy yelled at the policeman.

'Look here, son,' I said, 'I am the owner of this vehicle. Your fight is with me, not with this driver. He was following my orders, to drive as fast as he could. The blood is on my hands, not his. These girls need to go home. Come with me to the police station-I offer myself as your ransom. Let them go.'

The policeman played along with me. 'It's a good idea, son. We need to register the case at the station.'

While I kept the brother engaged by pleading to his reason and human decency, Mohammad Asif and all the girls got into my van and slipped away. That was the first objective-to get the girls home. I have signed a contract with their company, and I honor all that I sign.

I went to the police station with the dead boy's brother. The policemen on night duty brought me coffee. They did not bring the boy coffee. He glared at me as I took the cup; he looked ready to tear me to pieces. I sipped.

'The assistant commissioner will be here in five minutes,' one of the policemen said.

'Is he the one who's going to register the case?' the brother asked. 'Because no one has done it so far.'

I sipped some more.

The assistant commissioner who sat in the station was a man whom I had lubricated often. He had fixed a rival for me once. He was the worst kind of man, who had nothing in his mind but taking money from everyone who came to his office. Scum.

But he was my scum.

My heart lifted at the sight of him. He had come all the way to the station at night to help me out. There is honesty among thieves, as they say. He understood the situation immediately. Ignoring me, he went up to the brother and said, 'What is it you want?'

'I want to file an F.I.R.,' the brother said. 'I want this crime recorded.'

'What crime?'

'The death of my brother. By this man's'-pointing a finger at me-'vehicle.'

The assistant commissioner looked at his watch. 'My God, it's late. It's almost five o'clock. Why don't you go home now? We'll forget you were here. We'll let you go home.'

'What about this man? Will you lock him up first?'

The assistant commissioner put his fingers together. He sighed. 'See, at the time of the accident, your brother's bicycle had no working lights. That is illegal, you know. There are other things that will come out. I promise you, things will come out.'

The boy stared. He shook his head, as if he hadn't heard correctly. 'My brother is dead. This man is a killer. I don't understand what's going on here.'

'Look here-go home. Have a bath. Pray to God. Sleep. Come back in the morning. We'll file the F.I.R. then, all right?'

The brother understood at last why I had brought him to the station-he understood at last that the trap had shut on him. Maybe he had only seen policemen in Hindi movies until now.

Poor boy.

'This is an outrage! I'll call the papers! I'll call the lawyers! I'll call the police!'

The assistant commissioner, who was not a man given to humor, allowed himself a little smile. 'Sure. Call the police.'

The brother stormed out, shouting more threats.

'The number plates will be changed tomorrow,' the assistant commissioner said. 'We'll say it was a hit-and- run. Another car will be substituted. We keep battered cars for this purpose here. You're very lucky that your Qualis hit a man on a bicycle.'

I nodded.

A man on a bicycle getting killed-the police don't even have to register the case. A man on a motorbike getting killed-they would have to register that. A man in a car getting killed-they would have thrown me in jail.

'What if he goes to the papers?'

The assistant commissioner slapped his belly. 'I've got every pressman in this town in here.'

I did not hand him an envelope at once. There is a time and a place for these things. Now was the time to smile, and say thanks, and sip the hot coffee he had offered me; now was the time to chat with him about his sons-they're both studying in America, he wants them to come back and start an Internet company in Bangalore- and nod and smile and show him my clean, shining, fluoridated teeth. We sipped cup after cup of steaming coffee under a calendar that had the face of the goddess Lakshmi on it-she was showering gold coins from a pot into the river of prosperity. Above her was a framed portrait of the god of gods, a grinning Mahatma Gandhi.

A week from now I'll go to see him again with an envelope, and then he won't be so nice. He'll count the