By Suzanne Donahue | Thursday, October 02, 2014 - Off the Shelf

I have a friend, who when I first met him, seemed to only be able to read Booker Prize shortlist and winning books. Every reading group, when it came time for him to pick, he chose a Booker. Sometimes an Orange or a Whitbread prizewinner would sneak in but never a National Book Critics Circle or National Book Award winner. I felt his choices were downright un-American. But they were almost always good. One, The White Tiger, by Aravind Adiga has stuck with me for years and on revisiting it for this review I realized how much I missed the first time I read it and how much this book rewards a second and third trip.

 A sort of a murderous Indian Gatsby without the thwarted love and the faux polish, Balram Malwi is a poor man who does whatever he must in order to break out of the lowly social caste and appalling life into which he is born.

 He tells his own story – he cannot trust anyone else to tell the truth or portray him in the correct light – in a letter he writes over several nights to the Chinese Premiere on the eve of the Premiere’s visit to India. He writes under the blazing chandelier that hangs in the 150 square foot office of his new taxi service enterprise in Bangalore, land of the call centers. He wants the Chinese Premier to understand that, he, Balram represents the new India.