The White Tiger "The Second Night"

But he had no entrepreneurial spunk at all.

Thinking of Mr. Ashok is making me sentimental.

A sign on the gate said: LOHIA UNIVERSAL FREE HOSPITAL PROUDLY INAUGURATED BY THE GREAT SOCIALIST A HOLY PROOF THAT HE KEEPS HIS PROMISES Kishan and I carried our father in, stamping on the goat turds which had spread like a constellation of black stars on the ground.

The Muslim men kept adding newspapers to the ground, and the line of diseased eyes, raw wounds, and delirious mouths kept growing.

Stories of rottenness and corruption are always the best stories, aren't they?

His lean black body began to convulse, spewing blood this way and that.

I remember exactly what we got in dowry from the girl's side, and thinking about it even now makes my mouth fill up with water: five thousand rupees cash, all crisp new unsoiled notes fresh from the bank, plus a Hero bicycle, plus a thick gold necklace for Kishan.

Go to a tea shop anywhere along the Ganga, sir, and look at the men working in that tea shop—men, I say, but better to call them human spiders that go crawling in between and under the tables with rags in their hands, crushed humans in crushed uniforms, sluggish, unshaven, in their thirties or forties or fifties but still "boys."

In his journey from village to city, from Laxmangarh to Delhi, the entrepreneur's path crosses any number of provincial towns that have the pollution and noise and traffic of a big city—without any hint of the true city's sense of history, planning, and grandeur.

In his journey from village to city, from Laxmangarh to Delhi, the entrepreneur's path crosses any number of provincial towns that have the pollution and noise and traffic of a big city—without any hint of the true city's sense of history, planning, and grandeur.

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A blinding flash of light: a blue door opened, and four light-skinned Nepali women, in gorgeous red petticoats, looked out.

I walked with the old driver, my mouth open, gaping at all the gorgeous women jeering and taunting me from behind their grilled windows—all of them begging me to dip my beak into them!

Why was I lean and dark and cunning, and not fat and creamy-skinned and smiling, like a boy raised on sweets would be?

Which inhuman wretch of a monster would consign his own granny and brother and aunt and nephews and nieces to death?

I was discovering that he was a very inquisitive man.

No matter how much you wash your hands after you have massaged a man's foot, the smell of his old, flaky skin will stay on your skin for an entire day.

Mukesh Sir was small, and dark, and ugly, and very shrewd.

If he ever saw me waste even one moment, he would shout, "Driver, don't loiter there!

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.

No one follows any rules—people run across the road like crazy—look—look at that—" A tractor was coming down the road at full speed, belching out a nice thick plume of black diesel from its exhaust pipe.

He was thinner, and darker—his neck tendons were sticking out in high relief above the deep clavicles.

Up on the broken ramparts, the monkeys gathered to look at me: I had started climbing up the hill.

They gaped at me—stunned that I wasn't coming to apologize: I saw Kusum clench her gnarled fist at me.

The two of them kept an eye open for every tree or temple we passed by, and turned to me for a reaction of piety—which I gave them, of course, and with growing elaborateness: first just touching my eye, then my neck, then my clavicle, and even my nipples.