A review by goblin_reaper
The White Tiger, by Aravind Adiga
4.0
“See, the poor dream all their lives of getting enough to eat and looking like the rich. And what do the rich dream of?
Losing weight and looking like the poor.”
ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ
How much can you press down a spring until it bounces back? How far can you push a person until they push you back? Vengeance, karma, jealousy— whatever you prefer to call it— The White Tiger is a story of a servant, philosopher, entrepreneur, and murderer, told under the scattered lights of a chandelier throughout seven nights.
Balram Halwai is the son of a rickshaw puller, born in the dark heart of India. When he is taken out of school and put to work in a tea shop, he nurses a dream of escape from the murky depths of river Ganga. The opportunity to slither out of the Darkness presents itself when a rich village landlord hires him as a chauffeur for his son, daughter-in-law, and their two Pomeranian dogs. From behind the wheels of Honda and amidst the Delhi pollution, cockroaches, the shopping malls, crippling traffic jams, and being a multi-tasker (servant), Balram's re-education begins. What follows is his utterly immoral journey to break out of his cage.
This book takes the dark parts and dirty not-so-secrets of India to a whole new level. The side of India that everyone looking in from the outside is content to avert their eyes from and the side of India that could've had a reader's skin-crawling decades ago. The author mixes all of it with dark humor (I was constantly stuck between laughter and grimaces), sometimes crude language, and philosophy of chandeliers while Balram learns and re-learns his ways through Delhi, teaching the readers along the way too.
ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ
I was kind of apprehensive to read this book at first and I found myself unfairly surprised at how the story broke the bounds of my expectations in bizarre ways. Some elements in the book were so… Indian, that I (a person born and raised in India) couldn't keep the laugh in me. While some other scenarios made the years of Indian Economics classes hit my mind full force, uncomfortably so.
One thing that deeply interested me was how even if the tone of the narration dripped sugary-sweet (the kind of sweet that makes your stomach curl) and sarcasm, the bitterness couldn't help but bleed out of some sentences. Made me wonder about the lines between authors and their works.
It was unique and funny how Balram just decided not to name the annoying people in the story. The Stork, Mangoose, the Raven, the Buffalo, Vitiligo Lips— it felt strange how those fit into the story almost seamlessly. The little encounters (dancing and breathing between brilliance and obscene) Balram had with other people were what made this story so entertaining. Even without a whisper of anything melodramatic, angsty (*shudders*) or serious epiphanies between starving children and wailing mothers— none of that— I loved how the author still managed to make readers positively squirm at themes generally left for essays, two-minute speeches, and 9 pm news debates.
ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ
The tone is the narrator (Balram)— with its sarcasm, fake sweetness, and detached sort of feels— made me confused that, at times, if he was acknowledging stereotypes and racism just to leave them as cherries on top of all that is this book (go big or go home and all) or if they were truly views and opinions held by Balram. With the servant turned entrepreneur and murderer, I guess I'll never know.
Another thing I would've loved to take apart and speculated about was the master-servant dynamics explored in the eyes of the latter in the story. This was not at all thrown gently (or Stars forbid, delicately) at the readers. The author or rather, Balram, is completely unabashed and in-your-face about it. However, the matter-of-fact tone (this is the third time I've mentioned something regards tone, I need to stop) and the comedic attire the sentences wear somehow made it less jarring on the 21st century reader.
Before I dive into something more about the tone (ugh) of this story and narration, I'll stop my review. Dipping the ink (red, if you're curious) into the 6th page of my notebook seems a little bit too much, in my opinion. So I'll end this with the last few words regarding The White Tiger— frustratingly compelling, endearingly preposterous (just like Balram and his chandelier), and altogether unforgettable.
Losing weight and looking like the poor.”
ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ
How much can you press down a spring until it bounces back? How far can you push a person until they push you back? Vengeance, karma, jealousy— whatever you prefer to call it— The White Tiger is a story of a servant, philosopher, entrepreneur, and murderer, told under the scattered lights of a chandelier throughout seven nights.
Balram Halwai is the son of a rickshaw puller, born in the dark heart of India. When he is taken out of school and put to work in a tea shop, he nurses a dream of escape from the murky depths of river Ganga. The opportunity to slither out of the Darkness presents itself when a rich village landlord hires him as a chauffeur for his son, daughter-in-law, and their two Pomeranian dogs. From behind the wheels of Honda and amidst the Delhi pollution, cockroaches, the shopping malls, crippling traffic jams, and being a multi-tasker (servant), Balram's re-education begins. What follows is his utterly immoral journey to break out of his cage.
This book takes the dark parts and dirty not-so-secrets of India to a whole new level. The side of India that everyone looking in from the outside is content to avert their eyes from and the side of India that could've had a reader's skin-crawling decades ago. The author mixes all of it with dark humor (I was constantly stuck between laughter and grimaces), sometimes crude language, and philosophy of chandeliers while Balram learns and re-learns his ways through Delhi, teaching the readers along the way too.
ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ
I was kind of apprehensive to read this book at first and I found myself unfairly surprised at how the story broke the bounds of my expectations in bizarre ways. Some elements in the book were so… Indian, that I (a person born and raised in India) couldn't keep the laugh in me. While some other scenarios made the years of Indian Economics classes hit my mind full force, uncomfortably so.
One thing that deeply interested me was how even if the tone of the narration dripped sugary-sweet (the kind of sweet that makes your stomach curl) and sarcasm, the bitterness couldn't help but bleed out of some sentences. Made me wonder about the lines between authors and their works.
It was unique and funny how Balram just decided not to name the annoying people in the story. The Stork, Mangoose, the Raven, the Buffalo, Vitiligo Lips— it felt strange how those fit into the story almost seamlessly. The little encounters (dancing and breathing between brilliance and obscene) Balram had with other people were what made this story so entertaining. Even without a whisper of anything melodramatic, angsty (*shudders*) or serious epiphanies between starving children and wailing mothers— none of that— I loved how the author still managed to make readers positively squirm at themes generally left for essays, two-minute speeches, and 9 pm news debates.
ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ✴ℹ
The tone is the narrator (Balram)— with its sarcasm, fake sweetness, and detached sort of feels— made me confused that, at times, if he was acknowledging stereotypes and racism just to leave them as cherries on top of all that is this book (go big or go home and all) or if they were truly views and opinions held by Balram. With the servant turned entrepreneur and murderer, I guess I'll never know.
Another thing I would've loved to take apart and speculated about was the master-servant dynamics explored in the eyes of the latter in the story. This was not at all thrown gently (or Stars forbid, delicately) at the readers. The author or rather, Balram, is completely unabashed and in-your-face about it. However, the matter-of-fact tone (this is the third time I've mentioned something regards tone, I need to stop) and the comedic attire the sentences wear somehow made it less jarring on the 21st century reader.
Before I dive into something more about the tone (ugh) of this story and narration, I'll stop my review. Dipping the ink (red, if you're curious) into the 6th page of my notebook seems a little bit too much, in my opinion. So I'll end this with the last few words regarding The White Tiger— frustratingly compelling, endearingly preposterous (just like Balram and his chandelier), and altogether unforgettable.