White Tiger: Indian Fiction That Crushes the Cardamom Cliche

Yesterday I finished reading Aravind Adiga's novel, The White Tiger. As I savoured the last word of the novel (which sums up the thrill I felt while reading it) I tried to thwart the sense of loss that creeps up on me whenever I reach the last page of a novel I adore.

The White Tiger (both the novel and its narrator) kicks ass.

For the last few years, publishers' catalogues have been packed with "new Indian literary talents." These writers are almost always female and almost always rely on sentimental descriptors, melodramatic plot lines and recycled mythologies.

In other words, most of these books have been shit.

But the world of half-baked cardamom fiction has been swept aside by the narrative strength of Adiga's first novel. The White Tiger fearlessly chronicles the hypocrisy of India's rich and poor. It is a scathing indictment of the country and its inhabitants, narrated by one of the most compelling characters I have ever encountered in fiction.

Balram Halwai is born into poverty and claws his way up into the driver's seat, both literary and figuratively. Driving his master around in his Honda City, Balram is introduced to call girls, shopping malls and government pay-offs.

Disgusted by the degrading influences of the city, his master's family, and the demands of his own family, he becomes increasingly (and unapologetically) absorbed by the corruption.

Early in the novel, Balram confesses to murder and the action of the story leads us to this pivotal scene. What is especially impressive of Balram's narrative prowess is how his particular crime ultimately implicates an entire country without ever coming across as preachy or parabolic.

The White Tiger is a furious force to be reckoned with. This book is a must-read.