Free The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga Page A

and VODKA .
    PRICE LIST “JACKPOT” ENGLISH LIQUOR SHOP
    OUR WHISKEY
    WHISKEY FIRST CLASS
     
  
Quarter
  
Half
  
Full Bottle
BLACK DOG
  
—
  
—
  
1330
TEACHER’S
  
—
  
530
  
1230
VAT 69
  
—
  
—
  
1210
     
    WHISKEY SECOND CLASS
     
  
Quarter
  
Half
  
Full Bottle
ROYAL CHALLENGE
  
110
  
220
  
390
ROYAL STAG
  
110
  
219
  
380
BAGPIPER
  
84
  
200
  
288
     
    WHISKEY THIRD CLASS
     
  
Quarter
  
Half
  
Full Bottle
ROYAL CHOICE
  
61
  
110
  
200
WILD HORSE
  
44
  
120
  
200
(EVEN CHEAPER WHISKEY IS AVAILABLE: ASK AT THE COUNTER.)
OUR VODKA
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