The White Tiger Book Review
The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga is a rags to riches story. It tells a tale that I’m sure you’re already familiar with, one of a country bumpkin, who goes to work in the big city, where he eventually overcomes a number of obstacles to make it to the big time. In this bumpkin’s case, that means getting a job as the driver for a wealthy businessman where he is able to ingratiate himself to the family, learn from them, eavesdrop on their conversations, and of course, grab his chance for success the moment it lands at his feet. What makes it a bit more unique than similar stories you might have heard, is how reprehensible the lessons he learns from the wealthy family are. In his time as driver, he witnesses the family pursue under the table political bribes and buy their way out of any legal problems they might have. A complete display of amorality is what the young man sees in the class he wants to join and he replicates it to the fullest in a story that sees him murder, lie and cheat his way to the top, with all the charisma of a used car salesman. That is to say, I thought the book was a lot of fun. My enjoyment of The White Tiger did come with an interesting twist though.
The entire novel is set in India. The author, Aravind Adiga, was born there himself but was educated in the west from high school on. Even so, I gathered he had enough of a history with the place to write about it with some degree of authority, to the extent that I was happy enough to get lost in the novel without putting it under too much scrutiny. And get lost I did. The main character drew me into the heart of India, such that I felt less like I was indulging in a bit of slum tourism and more like I was a welcome visitor. So far as I was concerned the passages about rustic villages, country temperaments, bustling city traffic and the great chasms of inequality were integral elements that couldn’t have been omitted if Adiga was going to be true to his tale. Indeed, there’s so much personality and life in everything he describes I would have assumed it only could have been written by somebody who lived there. Then, however, I read a couple of negative reviews from people who were more familiar with the country than me. People who said that these elements in the story were just a bunch of tired old clichés. So I began to wonder; had I just been led around a theme park after all? Is The White Tiger A hackneyed Indian Disneyland stuffed to the brim with familiar mascots? When I thought about it, there really wasn’t much in there I wouldn’t have seen in the b-role of a BBC travel documentary. Moreover, the accusation that the novel was built around a bunch of well-worn tropes was a pretty familiar concern for me.
As an Irish person, I know all too well the kind of hokey stories that can be produced about my country, both by people from abroad and other Irish people aiming to cash in on the Hollywood idea. Just a few months ago, a trailer for a movie called Wild Mountain Thyme went viral in Ireland for just how bad it was in this regard. Green rolling hills, a fiery red-headed woman and a brooding love interest, were all used to such a cartoonish extent that you couldn’t help but laugh. The movie was filmed in Ireland, sure, and we really do have green rolling hills and fiery red-headed women, but it was so clearly written for an audience who had little interest in getting to know the country beyond these well-known tropes that it might as well have been set in a fantasy fairyland, more akin to Tolkien’s middle-earth than anything I would have grown up with. So then, you can understand why I felt disappointed to read similar accusations levied against The White Tiger. Though I have to say, it didn’t really spoil the experience for me. It just put it in another light.
The White Tiger is unapologetic about its protagonist’s sins, yet I was sympathetic to him even as he committed so many horrendous acts. I believe there’s a Netflix adaptation of the novel out at the moment, and while I haven’t seen it, I imagine they would have had a hard time casting a leading man who could render the sleazy charm required in a way that was both sleazy and charming enough. This is the strong aspect of Adiga’s writing I think. While he might dip into a pile of stock photography to create a cartoonish picture of India, the vibrant internal life of his protagonist always shines through. What’s more, the pitiless sense of humour with which the story is delivered set alongside the optimistic worldview espoused by the narrator left me feeling like I’d experienced something distinctly Indian. It’s hard to imagine, for example, an Irish style of literary murderer smiling wanly to himself and stating that’s just how the world is. More likely he’d find some rationale to blame the entire affair on his alcoholic father. That said, I’m probably not the right guy to confirm whether the traits I’ve described here can be ascribed to the entire Indian nation. Really, I’d just like to get to know the place by visiting it myself someday. But, until then, I’m glad to enjoy Adiga’s view of it even in the face of what some people might rightly consider to be the novel’s shortcomings.
Besides, I’ve actually managed to enjoy some of those picture-postcard stories of Ireland, so a handful of hackneyed traits were never really going to ruin my enjoyment of this one. I think it’s just important to take these type of stories with a grain of salt. Make sure to sprinkle some on your copy of the book if you decide to pick it up. And check out my video on In Cold Blood if you’d like to learn about another murder story that contains a few embellishments and fibs.
