There was a time I used to read all the Booker prize winners, from 1997 to 2003 – I read 6 out of the 7 winners; only missing out on the 2001 winner – True History of the Kelly Gang by Peter Carey. Of late though, the awards have become pretty mediocre, at least by the reviews I have read of them, and more importantly, their impact. I have seen a steady deterioration since 2004, when they awarded the Booker to Alan Hollinghurst’s “The line of Beauty” over David Mitchell’s “Cloud Atlas”. The selection was universally panned at that time. I did not read the former but read the latter and was bowled over by the sheer literary inventiveness of Mitchell. Post 2003, most of the books were apparently very dull and eminently forgettable and probably have been. Even Kiran Desai’s “Inheritance of Loss” was supposedly a very weak winner.
On the whole, most of the Booker winners I have read have really impressed me and I would gladly re-read many of them and have actually re-read like “God of Small Things”.
To be honest, I decided to read the White Tiger not because it won the Booker but just because it was available at the British Library. It being Indian was the least of my concerns.
The story is about Balram Halwai, born into a very poor family in Laxmangarh, a village near Dhanbad. His father is a rickshaw puller and his childhood is similar to millions of other children we read about everyday. The area is steeped in feudalism and there are faint stirrings of change, ostensibly through the Mandalisation of politics and the lower classes appear to be finding their place in governance. All this is only a minor backdrop to Balram’s story. He is pulled out of school to help his family out. He works in tea shops and other assorted places before learning car driving as a way out of the Darkness (as he calls the region). He is recruited by the local landlord’s family to be a driver, first in Dhanbad and then in Delhi. Balram, though achieving more than anyone in his family ever has, is still not comfortable with his current state and his outlook and he aspires to breaking free. He realises that the only way of getting out of the rut would be to steal money from his employer, but ends up killing him. He runs away to Bangalore to start a new career for himself as a taxi operator for call centre workers.
To say that I was disappointed by the book is an understatement. It was totally underwhelming. The book has nothing which caught my attention – either story or narrative or sheer self-indulgent literary craftiness (like a God of Small Things or Cloud Atlas). The story is very straightforward, which one would often read in newspapers or magazines. To make a story about it would require more than reporting. Unfortunately, Adiga has been a reporter for Time and this is the angle he takes. There is little additional depth he brings to his any of his characters, has superficial knowledge of the region or people he speaks about and has barely any understanding or insights into modern India which the book attempts to show a mirror to. It come across as a shallow effort, like one of those 2 page articles in Time or Economist which one encounters every other month, talking about the “real India” and how development is passing them by etc etc. If you are writing a 300 page book, your should aspire to more than that. The shining example which Adiga should have followed is “Bombay – Maximum City” which shows the real Bombay, things we know about but with a grittiness, a realism and sheer reporting brilliance and guts.
I could have forgiven all this if the language or narrative was brilliant or had a distinctive voice. There was scarcely a passage or phrase which held me in thrall. White Tiger looks like something which a schoolboy would write for his school magazine, high intentions coupled with a mediocrity and inability to rise above his position. In fact, I could not understand why Balram was writing his biography as letters to the Chinese premier. Why? It seems to be a lame attempt by the author to infuse some narrative style which seems downright juveline.
Finally, the only thing going for the book is that it is a very easy read, so is your Sidney Sheldon or Jeffrey Archer but that does not mean they get feted by awards.
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