Neither You Nor I Speak English, But

When I Was Writing 'the White Tiger' I Lived In A Building Pretty Much Exactly Like The One I Described In This Novel, And The People In The Book Are The People I Lived With Back Then. So I Didn't Have To Do Much Research To Find Them.

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.

Indians Mock Their Corrupt Politicians Relentlessly, But They Regard Their Honest Politicians With Silent Suspicion. The First Thing They Do When They Hear Of A Supposedly 'clean' Politician Is To Grin. It Is A Cliche That Honest Politicians In India Tend To Have Dishonest Sons, Who Collect Money From People Seeking An Audience With Dad.

An Honest Politician Has No Goodies To Toss Around. This Limits His Effectiveness Profoundly, Because Political Power In India Is Dispersed Throughout A Multi-tiered Federal Structure; A Local Official Who Has Not Been Paid Off Can Sometimes Stop A Billion-dollar Project.

I Had Grown Up In A Privileged, Upper-caste Hindu Community; And Because My Father Worked For A Catholic Hospital, We Lived In A Prosperous Christian Neighborhood.