I Am Not An Original Thinker-but I

A White Tiger Keeps No Friends. It's Too Dangerous.

Mangalore, The Coastal Indian Town Where I Lived Until I Was Almost 16, Is Now A Booming City Of Malls And Call-centres. But, In The 1980s, It Was A Provincial Town In A Socialist Country.

But Isn't It Likely That Everyone In This World...has Killed Someone Or Other On Their Way To The Top?...all I Wanted Was A Chance To Be A Man--and For That, One Murder Is Enough.

When I Was Growing Up In The South Indian City Of Madras, There Were Only Two Political Parties That Mattered; One Was Run By A Former Matinee Idol, And The Other Was Run By His Former Screenwriter.

A Rich Man's Body Is Like A Premium Cotton Pillow, White And Soft And Blank. ''ours'' Is Different. My Father's Spine Was A Knotted Rope, The Kind That Women Use In Villages To Pull Water From Wells; The Clavicle Curved Around His Neck In High Relief, Like A Dog's Collar; Cuts And Nicks And Scars, Like Little Whip Marks In His Flesh, Ran Down His Chest And Waist, Reaching Down Below His Hip Bones Into His Buttocks. The Story Of A Poor Man's Life Is Written On His Body, In A Sharp Pen.