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A stunning literary debut critics have likened to Richard Wright’s Native Son, The White Tiger follows a darkly comic Bangalore driver through the poverty and corruption of modern India’s caste society. The white tiger of this novel is Balram Halwai, a poor Indian villager. Editorial Reviews. From Publishers Weekly. Starred Review. A brutal view of India's class The White Tiger: A Novel by [Adiga, Aravind]. Audible .. Download. The White Tiger: A Novel (): Aravind Adiga: Books. a Kindle? Get your Kindle here, or download a FREE Kindle Reading App.

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Balram Halwai is the White Tiger - the smartest boy in his village. Too poor to finish school, he has to work in a teashop until the day a rich man hires him as a. The White Tiger: A Novel. Home · The White Tiger: A Novel Author: Adiga Aravind. downloads Views KB Size Report. DOWNLOAD EPUB. Get this from a library! The white tiger: a novel. [Aravind Adiga] -- Balram Halwai is a complicated man. Servant. Philosopher. Entrepreneur. Murderer. Over the.

The white tiger of this novel is Balram Halwai, a poor Indian villager whose great ambition leads him to the zenith of Indian business culture, the world of the Bangalore entrepreneur. Recalling The Death of Vishnu and Bangkok 8 in ambition, scope, The White Tiger is narrative genius with a mischief and personality all its own. Amoral, irreverent, deeply endearing, and utterly contemporary, this novel is an international publishing sensation—and a startling, provocative debut. Get a FREE e-book by joining our mailing list today! Plus, receive recommendations for your next Book Club read.

She explained a little. And our nation, though it has no drinking water, electricity, sewage system, public transportation, sense of hygiene, discipline, courtesy, or punctuality, does have entrepreneurs.

Thousands and thousands of them. Especially in the field of technology. And these entrepreneurs— we entrepreneurs—have set up all these outsourcing companies that virtually run America now.

That made me feel good. I decided right there and then to start dictating a letter to you. I read about your history in a book, Exciting Tales of the Exotic East, that I found on the pavement, back in the days when I was trying to get some enlightenment by going through the Sunday secondhand book market in Old Delhi.

This book was mostly about pirates and gold in Hong Kong, but it did have some useful background information too: The British tried to make you their servants, but you never let them do it.

I admire that, Mr. Only three nations have never let themselves be ruled by foreigners: China, Afghanistan, and Abyssinia. These are the only three nations I admire. Out of respect for the love of liberty shown by the Chinese people, and also in the belief that the future of the world lies with the yellow man and the brown man now that our erstwhile master, the white-skinned man, has wasted himself through buggery, cell phone usage, and drug abuse, I offer to tell you, free of charge, the truth about Bangalore.

See, when you come to Bangalore, and stop at a traffic light, some boy will run up to your car and knock on your window, while holding up a bootlegged copy of an American business book, wrapped carefully in cellophane and with a title like:. In terms of formal education, I may be somewhat lacking. I never finished school, to put it bluntly. The White Tiger: A Novel (): Aravind Adiga: Books

Who cares! I know by heart the works of the four greatest poets of all time—Rumi, Iqbal, Mirza Ghalib, and a fourth fellow whose name I forget.

I am a self-taught entrepreneur. When you have heard the story of how I got to Bangalore and became one of its most successful though probably least known businessmen, you will know everything there is to know about how entrepreneurship is born, nurtured, and developed in this, the glorious twenty-first century of man. I stay up the whole night, Your Excellency.

Just me and a chandelier above me, although the chandelier has a personality of its own. Just like the strobe light at the best discos in Bangalore. This is the only square-foot space in Bangalore with its own chandelier! Before we do that, sir, the phrase in English that I learned from my ex-employer the late Mr.

Now, I no longer watch Hindi films—on principle—but back in the days when I used to, just before the movie got started, either the number would flash against the black screen—the Muslims think this is a magic number that represents their god—or else you would see the picture of a woman in a white sari with gold sovereigns dripping down to her feet, which is the goddess Lakshmi, of the Hindus.

It is an ancient and venerated custom of people in my country to start a story by praying to a Higher Power. Some believe that none of them exist.

The White Tiger: A Novel

My country is the kind where it pays to play it both ways: One day, as I was driving my ex-employers Mr. Ashok put a hand on my shoulder, and said, Pull over to the side. Following this command, he leaned forward so close that I could smell his aftershave—it was a delicious, fruitlike smell that day—and said, politely as ever, Balram, I have a few questions to ask you, all right?

Was he joking? She giggled when she heard this: The thing is, he probably has. And we entrust our glorious parliamentary democracy —he pointed at me—"to characters like these. That night, I was lying in bed, inside my mosquito net, thinking about his words. Me, and thousands of others in this country like me, are half-baked, because we were never allowed to complete our schooling.

But pay attention, Mr. Fully formed fellows, after twelve years of school and three years of university, wear nice suits, join companies, and take orders from other men for the rest of their lives. To give you the basic facts about me—origin, height, weight, known sexual deviations, etc. The one the police made of me. About three years ago, when I became, briefly, a person of national importance owing to an act of entrepreneurship, a poster with my face on it found its way to every post office, railway station, and police station in this country.

A lot of people saw my face and name back then. But a word about the original poster. I found it in a train station in Hyderabad, in the period when I was traveling with no luggage—except for one very heavy red bag—and coming down from Delhi to Bangalore. I had the original right here in this office, in the drawer of this desk, for a full year.

One day the cleaning boy was going through my stuff, and he almost found the poster. So I threw the thing out—but before that, I got someone to teach me scanning—and you know how we Indians just take to technology like ducks to water. It took just an hour, or two hours.

I am a man of action, sir.

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And here it is, on the screen, in front of me:. Between 25 and Five feet four inches estimated. Thin, small. Life in Bangalore is good—rich food, beer, nightclubs, so what can I say!

Thin and small —ha! I am in better shape these days! Fat and potbellied would be more accurate now. See, my first day in school, the teacher made all the boys line up and come to his desk so he could put our names down in his register.

When I told him what my name was, he gaped at me:. The teacher turned aside and spat—a jet of red paan splashed the ground of the classroom.

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He licked his lips. I came home that day and told my father that the schoolteacher had given me a new name. He shrugged. So I was Balram from then on. Later on, of course, I picked up a third name. Now, what kind of place is it where people forget to name their children? Referring back to the poster:. Like all good Bangalore stories, mine begins far away from Bangalore. You see, I am in the Light now, but I was born and raised in Darkness.

I am talking of a place in India, at least a third of the country, a fertile place, full of rice fields and wheat fields and ponds in the middle of those fields choked with lotuses and water lilies, and water buffaloes wading through the ponds and chewing on the lotuses and lilies. Those who live in this place call it the Darkness. Please understand, Your Excellency, that India is two countries in one: The ocean brings light to my country. Every place on the map of India near the ocean is well off.

But the river brings darkness to India—the black river. Which black river am I talking of—which river of Death, whose banks are full of rich, dark, sticky mud whose grip traps everything that is planted in it, suffocating and choking and stunting it? Why, I am talking of Mother Ganga, daughter of the Vedas, river of illumination, protector of us all, breaker of the chain of birth and rebirth.

Everywhere this river flows, that area is the Darkness. One fact about India is that you can take almost anything you hear about the country from the prime minister and turn it upside down and then you will have the truth about that thing. Now, you have heard the Ganga called the river of emancipation, and hundreds of American tourists come each year to take photographs of naked sadhus at Hardwar or Benaras, and our prime minister will no doubt describe it that way to you, and urge you to take a dip in it.

Jiabao, I urge you not to dip in the Ganga, unless you want your mouth full of feces, straw, soggy parts of human bodies, buffalo carrion, and seven different kinds of industrial acids.

I know all about the Ganga, sir—when I was six or seven or eight years old no one in my village knows his exact age , I went to the holiest spot on the banks of the Ganga—the city of Benaras.

Kusum, my granny, was leading the procession. Sly old Kusum! She had this habit of rubbing her forearms hard when she felt happy, as if it were a piece of ginger she was grating to release grins from. Her teeth were all gone, but this only made her grin more cunning. She had grinned her way into control of the house; every son and daughter-in-law lived in fear of her. My father and Kishan, my brother, stood behind her, to bear the front end of the cane bed which bore the corpse; my uncles, who are Munnu, Jayram, Divyram, and Umesh, stood behind, holding up the other end.

Her death was so grand that I knew, all at once, that her life must have been miserable. My family was guilty about something. My aunts—Rabri, Shalini, Malini, Luttu, Jaydevi, and Ruchi—kept turning around and clapping their hands for me to catch up to them.

We walked past temple after temple, praying to god after god, and then went in a single file between a red temple devoted to Hanuman and an open gymnasium where three body builders heaved rusted weights over their heads.

I smelled the river before I saw it: I sang louder: Then there was a gigantic noise: A wooden platform had been built by the edge of the ghat, just above the water; logs were piled up on the platform, and men with axes were smashing the logs.

Chunks of wood were being built into funeral pyres on the steps of the ghat that went down into the water; four bodies were burning on the ghat steps when we got there. We waited our turn. In the distance, an island of white sand glistened in the sunlight, and boats full of people were heading to that island.

This cloth was now pulled over her face; and logs of wood, as many as we could pay for, were piled on top of the body. Then the priest set my mother on fire. She was a good, quiet girl the day she came to our home, Kusum said, as she put a hand on my face. I was not the one who wanted any fighting. As the fire ate away the silk, a pale foot jerked out, like a living thing; the toes, which were melting in the heat, began to curl up, offering resistance to what was being done to them.

Kusum shoved the foot into the fire, but it would not burn. My heart began to race. Underneath the platform with the piled-up fire logs, there was a giant oozing mound of black mud where the river washed into the shore. The mound was littered with ribbons of jasmine, rose petals, bits of satin, charred bones; a pale-skinned dog was crawling and sniffing through the petals and satin and charred bones. This mud was holding her back: She was trying to fight the black mud; her toes were flexed and resisting; but the mud was sucking her in, sucking her in.

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Our price:. The white tiger of this novel is Balram Halwai, a poor Indian villager whose great ambition leads him to the zenith of Indian business culture, the world of the Bangalore entrepreneur. The White Tiger recalls The Death of Vishnu and Bangkok 8 in ambition, scope, and narrative genius, with a mischief and personality all its own. Amoral, irreverent, deeply endearing, and utterly contemporary, this novel is an international publishing sensation-and a startling, provocative debut.

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Other books by Aravind Adiga. Selection Day: A Novel Aravind Adiga. Scribner, January List Price: Last Man in Tower Aravind Adiga.

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