The White Tiger

I have been in deep depression all day today after reading this book. Deep enough that I understand why it got the Booker. It was brilliant, and savage. And brilliant.

The book lashes out like only the truth will. A mark of a good anything is always how deep it embeds itself into your unconscious, how long it lasts, how much it hurts, or heals.

Has it depicted India in the worst way possible, yes undoubtedly. Is it true, well, we all know the truth, we who live and die here, reality anyone?

The beautiful culture of servitude we all gently sweep under the carpet. The man sure did a number on my head. I was reminded of Kahlil Gibrans words

“I admire him who reveals his mind to me; I honor him who unveils his dreams. But why am I shy, and even a little ashamed before him who serves me?”

I am tired of pushing this book down the throat of everyone I know ad infinitum, so I decided on en masse.

I am a believer of focusing on the positive, but there are some things you cannot overlook, and if you can, then well, ain’t that just 5 star for you!

I wont make comparisons with other books, because it was a truth, not fiction. There was no technique visible, which means the technique was flawless. A truth told flawlessly. What more is there to talk about really?

The chicken coop is guarded from the inside. I will never forget this.

Read it, and if it doesn’t change the beautiful vision of our hope as measured in real estate prices, this vision of “India Ever Shining”, not a fucking thing can!