THE WHITE TIGER
Aravind Adiga

...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:
"Munna? That's not a real name."
He was right: it just means "boy."
"That's all I've got, sir," I said.
It was true. I'd never been given a name.
"Didn't your mother name you?"
"She's very ill, sir. She lies in bed and spews blood. She's got no time to name me."
"And your father?"
"He's a rickshaw-puller, sir. He's got no time to name me."
"Don't you have a granny? Aunts? Uncles?"
"They've got no time either."
The teacher turned aside and spat--a jet of red paan splashed the ground of the classroom. He licked his lips.
"Well, it's up to me, then, isn't it?"


"Sometimes I wonder, Balram. I wonder what's the point of living. I really wonder..."
The point of living? My heart pounded. The point of your living is that if you die, who's going to pay me three and a half thousand rupees a month?

It will be good for me to stop here.
When we meet again, at midnight, remind me to turn the chandelier up a bit. The story gets much darker from here.

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