The White Tiger

Can a book this grim, so vivid in its depiction of poverty, corruption and the wilfully blind, self-obsessed behaviour of the rich be so entertaining? Can we root for a murderer, however poor, clawing his way to the prosperity he sees all around him as a driver for a rich New Delhi family? Can we enjoy the portrait of two India’s: one crumbling and stinking of sewage, the other a gleaming spread of luxury malls and cool mansions?

There’s nothing cheery in this book. It’s bitter, cynical, enraged – and engaged – about an India on the verge of technological prosperity and the ‘Asian boom’, yet still a land where petty thugs steal what little money the poor manage to earn and the streets of their villages are divided by open streams of raw sewage.

And yet it’s so readable. So hard to put down. The narrative drags you on, from one outrageous incident to the next, never lingering, always opening up some new facet of corruption and progress.

I have no idea how ‘true’ it is. It’s definitely not The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. Or even the melodrama of Slumdog Millionaire. Given the author’s upbringing and background as a journalist, I’m inclined to believe every word. What I do know is that after reading it, it won’t go away. It’s story is stuck in my mind and is probably going to stay there for a very, very long time.