“The story of a poor man's life is written on his body, in a sharp pen.”

Ezra stalks Little India. Singapore, May 2017.

The White Tiger is a novel presented in the form of a long series of letters from our protagonist – the entrepreneurial Balram Halwai – to the visiting Chinese Premier, Wen Jiabao. In it, we learn the life story of Balram, a transformation from the humble son of a rickshaw puller in deepest, darkest, most backward region of India to a confident businessman in the prosperous south of Bangalore (via a blossoming in Dehli).

This is a dark, funny book that does not shy away from modern, globalising India's cruel realities. It explores the issues at the heart of the Indian experience: the tensions inherent in religion, caste, loyalty, freedom, duty, individualism, greed, corruption and poverty in a country that creates numerous multi-millionaires while so many remain trapped in the most desperate of circumstances.

Tackling issues of masculinity, class and sexuality without fear, there are no simple dichotomies of good and evil or neat and tidy resolutions. It is a hard book. Cruelty exists on every page, yet done so with an incredible lightness of touch.

I loved it. This book hums with energy and throbs with tension and is alive with India's smell, vigour and noise. How the novel stoked my passion and righteous anger! How it led me to accept many of the barbarous and misanthropic justifications of our very flawed narrator as just an fair!

This one is a must-read.

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Comments

If you want to be loved, be lovable.

Henry admires the view.

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral

Zeal, n. A certain nervous disorder afflicting the young and inexperienced. A passion that goeth before a sprawl.

Here I have tried my hand at the homemade sepia-toned photo. I wasn’t happy with the way that the sun had washed out some of the colours in the original, so had a bit of a fiddle because I like the look on Henry’s face, and didn’t want to pass on posting it. I have a tip for those of you burdened with the great, unceasing weight of parenthood. I have a new recipe, in the vein of the quick microwaved chocolate cake . Get this, microwaved potato chips . I gave them a run on Sunday, Henry liked the so much I did it again last night. Tonight, I shall be experimenting with sweet potato. I think that the ground is open for me to exploit opportunities in the swede, turnip, carrot and maybe even explore in the area of pumpkins. Radical, I know. I’m a boundary-pusher by nature. It's pretty simple, take the potato. Slice it thinly (it doesn't have to be too thin, but thin enough). Lay the slices on the microwave plate, whack a bit of salt over the top and nuke the buggers for five minut

This will hurt me...

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