The White Tiger: A Novel (Man Booker Prize),Books,Free Shipping,1416562605,

	The White Tiger: A Novel (Man Booker Prize) by Aravind Adiga
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Product Details Binding Paperback Dewey Decimal Number 823.92 EAN 9781416562603 ISBN 1416562605 Manufacturer Free Press Number Of Items 1 Number Of Pages 304 Publication Date October 14, 2008 Publisher Free Press Availability Usually ships in 24 hours Product Description Introducing a major literary talent, The White Tiger offers a story of coruscating wit, blistering suspense, and questionable morality, told by the most volatile, captivating, and utterly inimitable narrator that this millennium has yet seen. Balram Halwai is a complicated man. Servant. Philosopher. Entrepreneur. Murderer. Over the course of seven nights, by the scattered light of a preposterous chandelier, Balram tells us the terrible and transfixing story of how he came to be a success in life -- having nothing but his own wits to help him along. Born in the dark heart of India, Balram gets a break when he is hired as a driver for his village's wealthiest man, two house Pomeranians (Puddles and Cuddles), and the rich man's (very unlucky) son. From behind the wheel of their Honda City car, Balram's new world is a revelation. While his peers flip through the pages of Murder Weekly ('Love -- Rape -- Revenge!'), barter for girls, drink liquor (Thunderbolt), and perpetuate the Great Rooster Coop of Indian society, Balram watches his employers bribe foreign ministers for tax breaks, barter for girls, drink liquor (single-malt whiskey), and play their own role in the Rooster Coop. Balram learns how to siphon gas, deal with corrupt mechanics, and refill and resell Johnnie Walker Black Label bottles (all but one). He also finds a way out of the Coop that no one else inside it can perceive. Balram's eyes penetrate India as few outsiders can: the cockroaches and the call centers; the prostitutes and the worshippers; the ancient and Internet cultures; the water buffalo and, trapped in so many kinds of cages that escape is (almost) impossible, the white tiger. And with a charisma as undeniable as it is unexpected, Balram teaches us that religion doesn't create virtue, and money doesn't solve every problem -- but decency can still be found in a corrupt world, and you can get what you want out of life if you eavesdrop on the right conversations. Sold in sixteen countries around the world, The White Tiger recalls The Death of Vishnu and Bangkok 8 in ambition, scope, and narrative genius, with a mischief and personality all its own. Amoral, irreverent, deeply endearing, and utterly contemporary, this novel is an international publishing sensation -- and a startling, provocative debut. Starred Review. First-time author Adiga has created a memorable tale of one taxi driver's hellish experience in modern India. Told with close attention to detail, whether it be the vivid portrait of India he paints or the transformation of Balram Halwai into a bloodthirsty murderer, Adiga writes like a seasoned professional. John Lee delivers an absolutely stunning performance, reading with a realistic and unforced East Indian dialect. He brings the story to life, reading with passion and respect for Adiga's prose. Lee currently sits at the top of the professional narrator's ladder; an actor so gifted both in his delivery and expansive palette of vocal abilities that he makes it sound easy. A Free Press hardcover (Reviews, Jan. 14). (May) Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. In this darkly comic début novel set in India, Balram, a chauffeur, murders his employer, justifying his crime as the act of a 'social entrepreneur.' In a series of letters to the Premier of China, in anticipation of the leader’s upcoming visit to Balram’s homeland, the chauffeur recounts his transformation from an honest, hardworking boy growing up in 'the Darkness'—those areas of rural India where education and electricity are equally scarce, and where villagers banter about local elections 'like eunuchs discussing the Kama Sutra'—to a determined killer. He places the blame for his rage squarely on the avarice of the Indian élite, among whom bribes are commonplace, and who perpetuate a system in which many are sacrificed to the whims of a few. Adiga’s message isn’t subtle or novel, but Balram’s appealingly sardonic voice and acute observations of the social order are both winning and unsettling. Copyright ©2008Click here to subscribe to The New Yorker [Audio Review] Debut author Aravind Adiga offers this revealing and truthful look at class struggle in modern-day India as seen through the eyes of chauffeur Balram Halwai. Halwai escapes a brutal existence in rural India only to end up murdering his rich employer in Delhi. The novel is told, in part, as a correspondence between Halwai and the premier of China, for whom the driver believes he holds valuable insights. Narrator John Lee reads with an accurate East Indian accent that will astound listeners searching for his normally stern British tone. Lee captures Halwai and his imperfect world perfectly, relating Adiga's views with a raw honesty. Lee puts his own twist on the work but never disowns Adiga's story rather, he welcomes it with open arms. Lee is the quintessential narrator. AudioFile Earphones Award winner, July 2008. --AudioFile [Starred Review Audio Edition] First-time author Adiga has created a memorable tale of one taxi driver's hellish experience in modern India. Told with close attention to detail, whether it be the vivid portrait of India he paints or the transformation of Balram Halwai into a bloodthirsty murderer, Adiga writes like a seasoned professional. John Lee delivers an absolutely stunning performance, reading with a realistic and unforced East Indian dialect. He brings the story to life, reading with passion and respect for Adiga's prose. Lee currently sits at the top of the professional narrator's ladder; an actor so gifted both in his delivery and expansive palette of vocal abilities that he makes it sound easy. A Free Press hardcover (Reviews, Jan. 14). (May) --Publisher's Weekly 'Compelling, angry, and darkly humorous, The White Tiger is an unexpected journey into a new India. Aravind Adiga is a talent to watch.' -- Mohsin Hamid, author of The Reluctant Fundamentalist 'An exhilarating, side-splitting account of India today, as well as an eloquent howl at her many injustices. Adiga enters the literary scene resplendent in battle dress and ready to conquer. Let us bow to him.' -- Gary Shteyngart, author of Absurdistan and The Russian Debutante's Handbook 'The perfect antidote to lyrical India.' - Publishers Weekly 'This fast-moving novel, set in India, is being sold as a corrective to the glib, dreamy exoticism Western readers often get...If these are the hands that built India, their grandkids really are going to kick America's ass...BUY IT.' - New York Magazine 'Darkly comic...Balram's appealingly sardonic voice and acute observations of the social order are both winning and unsettling.'- The New Yorker 'Aravind Adiga's The White Tiger is one of the most powerful books I've read in decades. No hyperbole. This debut novel from an Indian journalist living in Mumbai hit me like a kick to the head -- the same effect Richard Wright's Native Son and Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man had. - USA Today 'Extraordinary and brilliant... At first, this novel seems like a straightforward pulled-up-by-your-bootstraps tale, albeit given a dazzling twist by the narrator's sharp and satirical eye for the realities of life for India's poor... But as the narrative draws the reader further in, and darkens, it becomes clear that Adiga is playing a bigger game... Adiga is a real writer - that is to say, someone who forges an original voice and vision. There is the voice of Halwai - witty, pithy, ultimately psychopathic... Remarkable... I will not spoil the effect of this remarkable novel by giving away ... what form his act of blood-stained entrepreneurship takes. Suffice to say that I was reminded of a book that is totally different in tone and style, Richard Wright's Native Son, a tale of the murderous career of a black kid from the Chicago ghetto that awakened 1940s America to the reality of the racial divide. Whether The White Tiger will do the equivalent for today's India - we shall see.' - Adam Lively, The Sunday Times (London) 'Fierce and funny...A satire as sharp as it gets.' - Michael Upchurch, The Seattle Times 'There is a new Muse stalking global narrative: brown, angry, hilarious, half-educated, rustic-urban, iconoclastic, paan-spitting, word-smithing--and in the case of Aravind Adiga she hails from a town called Laxmangarh. This is the authentic voice of the Third World, like you've never heard it before. Adiga is a global Gorky, a modern Kipling who grew up, and grew up mad. The future of the novel lies here.' - John Burdett, author of Bangkok 8 'Adiga's training as a journalist lends the immediacy of breaking news to his writing, but it is his richly detailed storytelling that will captivate his audience...The White Tiger echoes masterpieces of resistance and oppression (both The Jungle and Native Son come to mind) [and] contains passages of startling beauty...A book that carefully balances fable and pure observation.' - Lee Thomas, San Francisco Chronicle Introducing a major literary talent, The White Tiger offers a story of coruscating wit, blistering suspense, and questionable morality, told by the most volatile, captivating, and utterly inimitable narrator that this millennium has yet seen. Balram Halwai is a complicated man. Servant. Philosopher. Entrepreneur. Murderer. Over the course of seven nights, by the scattered light of a preposterous chandelier, Balram tells us the terrible and transfixing story of how he came to be a success in life -- having nothing but his own wits to help him along. Born in the dark heart of India, Balram gets a break when he is hired as a driver for his village's wealthiest man, two house Pomeranians (Puddles and Cuddles), and the rich man's (very unlucky) son. From behind the wheel of their Honda City car, Balram's new world is a revelation. While his peers flip through the pages of Murder Weekly ('Love -- Rape -- Revenge!'), barter for girls, drink liquor (Thunderbolt), and perpetuate the Great Rooster Coop of Indian society, Balram watches his employers bribe foreign ministers for tax breaks, barter for girls, drink liquor (single-malt whiskey), and play their own role in the Rooster Coop. Balram learns how to siphon gas, deal with corrupt mechanics, and refill and resell Johnnie Walker Black Label bottles (all but one). He also finds a way out of the Coop that no one else inside it can perceive. Balram's eyes penetrate India as few outsiders can: the cockroaches and the call centers; the prostitutes and the worshippers; the ancient and Internet cultures; the water buffalo and, trapped in so many kinds of cages that escape is (almost) impossible, the white tiger. And with a charisma as undeniable as it is unexpected, Balram teaches us that religion doesn't create virtue, and money doesn't solve every problem -- but decency can still be found in a corrupt world, and you can get what you want out of life if you eavesdrop on the right conversations. Sold in sixteen countries around the world, The White Tiger recalls The Death of Vishnu and Bangkok 8 in ambition, scope, and narrative genius, with a mischief and personality all its own. Amoral, irreverent, deeply endearing, and utterly contemporary, this novel is an international publishing sensation -- and a startling, provocative debut. Aravind Adiga was born in India in 1974 and raised partly in Australia. He attended Columbia and Oxford universities. A former correspondent for Time magazine, he has also been published in the Financial Times. He lives in Mumbai, India. The First Night For the Desk of: His Excellency Wen Jiabao The Premier's Office Beijing Capital of the Freedom-loving Nation of China From the Desk of: 'The White Tiger' A Thinking Man And an Entrepreneur Living in the world's center of Technology and Outsourcing Electronics City Phase 1 (just off Hosur Main Road) Bangalore, India Mr. Premier, Sir. Neither you nor I speak English, but there are some things that can be said only in English. My ex-employer the late Mr. Ashok's ex-wife, Pinky Madam, taught me one of these things; and at 11:32 p.m. today, which was about ten minutes ago, when the lady on All India Radio announced, 'Premier Jiabao is coming to Bangalore next week,' I said that thing at once. In fact, each time when great men like you visit our country I say it. Not that I have anything against great men. In my way, sir, I consider myself one of your kind. But whenever I see our prime minister and his distinguished sidekicks drive to the airport in black cars and get out and do namastes before you in front of a TV camera and tell you about how moral and saintly India is, I have to say that thing in English. Now, you are visiting us this week, Your Excellency, aren't you? All India Radio is usually reliable in these matters. That was a joke, sir. Ha! That's why I want to ask you directly if you really are coming to Bangalore. Because if you are, I have something important to tell you. See, the lady on the radio said, 'Mr. Jiabao is on a mission: he wants to know the truth about Bangalore.' My blood froze. If anyone knows the truth about Bangalore, it's me. Next, the lady announcer said, 'Mr. Jiabao wants to meet some Indian entrepreneurs and hear the story of their success from their own lips.' She explained a little. Apparently, sir, you Chinese are far ahead of us in every respect, except that you don't have entrepreneurs. And our nation, though it has no drinking water, electricity, sewage system, public transportation, sense of hygiene, discipline, courtesy, or punctuality, does have entrepreneurs. Thousands and thousands of them. Especially in the field of technology. And these entrepreneurs -- we entrepreneurs -- have set up all these outsourcing companies that virtually run America now. You hope to learn how to make a few Chinese entrepreneurs, that's why you're visiting. That made me feel good. But then it hit me that in keeping with international protocol, the prime minister and foreign minister of my country will meet you at the airport with garlands, small take-home sandalwood statues of Gandhi, and a booklet full of information about India's past, present, and future. That's when I had to say that thing in English, sir. Out loud. That was at 11:37 p.m. Five minutes ago. I don't just swear and curse. I'm a man of action and change. I decided right there and then to start dictating a letter to you.To begin with, let me tell you of my great admiration for the ancient nation of China. I read about your history in a book, Exciting Tales of the Exotic East, that I found on the pavement, back in the days when I was trying to get some enlightenment by going through the Sunday secondhand book market in Old Delhi. This book was mostly about pirates and gold in Hong Kong, but it did have some useful background information too: it said that you Chinese are great lovers of freedom and individual liberty. The British tried to make you their servants, but you never let them do it. I admire that, Mr. Premier. I was a servant once, you see. Only three nations have never let themselves be ruled by foreigners: China, Afghanistan, and Abyssinia. These are the only three nations I admire. Out of respect for the love of liberty shown by the Chinese people, and also in the belief that the future of the world lies with the yellow man and the brown man now that our erstwhile master, the white-skinned man, has wasted himself through buggery, cell phone usage, and drug abuse, I offer to tell you, free of charge, the truth about Bangalore. By telling you my life's story. See, when you come to Bangalore, and stop at a traffic light, some boy will run up to your car and knock on your window, while holding up a bootlegged copy of an American business book, wrapped carefully in cellophane and with a title like: TEN SECRETS OF BUSINESS SUCCESS! or BECOME AN ENTREPRENEUR IN SEVEN EASY DAYS! Don't waste your money on those American books. They're so yesterday. I am tomorrow. In terms of formal education, I may be somewhat lacking. I never finished school, to put it bluntly. Who cares! I haven't read many books, but I've read all the ones that count. I know by heart the works of the four greatest poets of all time -- Rumi, Iqbal, Mirza Ghalib, and a fourth fellow whose name I forget. I am a self-taught entrepreneur. That's the best kind there is, trust me. When you have heard the story of how I got to Bangalore and became one of its most successful (though probably least known) businessmen, you will know everything there is to know about how entrepreneurship is born, nurtured, and developed in this, the glorious twenty-first century of man. The century, more specifically, of the yellow and the brown man. You and me. It is a little before midnight now, Mr. Jiabao. A good time for me to talk. I stay up the whole night, Your Excellency. And there's no one else in this 150-square-foot office of mine. Just me and a chandelier above me, although the chandelier has a personality of its own. It's a huge thing, full of small diamond-shaped glass pieces, just like the ones they used to show in the films of the 1970s. Though it's cool enough at night in Bangalore, I've put a midget fan -- five cobwebby blades -- right above the chandelier. See, when it turns, the small blades chop up the chandelier's light and fling it across the room. Just like the strobe light at the best discos in Bangalore. This is the only 150-square-foot space in Bangalore with its own chandelier! But it's still a hole in the wall, and I sit here the whole night. The entrepreneur's curse. He has to watch his business all the time. Now I'm going to turn the midget fan on, so that the chandelier's light spins around the room. I am relaxed, sir. As I hope you are. Let us begin. Before we do that, sir, the phrase in English that I learned from my ex-employer the late Mr. Ashok's ex-wife Pinky Madam is: What a fucking joke. -- -- -- Now, I no longer watch Hindi films -- on principle -- but back in the days when I used to, just before the movie got started, either the number 786 would flash against the black screen -- the Muslims think this is a magic number that represents their god -- or else you would see the picture of a woman in a white sari with gold sovereigns dripping down to her feet, which is the goddess Lakshmi, of the Hindus. It is an ancient and venerated custom of people in my country to start a story by praying to a Higher Power. I guess, Your Excellency, that I too should start off by kissing some god's arse. Which god's arse, though? There are so many choices. See, the Muslims have one god. The Christians have three gods. And we Hindus have 36,000,000 gods. Making a grand total of 36,000,004 divine arses for me to choose from. Now, there are some, and I don't just mean Communists like you, but thinking men of all political parties, who think that not many of these gods actually exist. Some believe that none of them exist. There's just us and an ocean of darkness around us. I'm no philosopher or poet, how would I know the truth? It's true that all these gods seem to do awfully little work -- much like our politicians -- and yet keep winning reelection to their golden thrones in heaven, year after year. That's not to say that I don't respect them, Mr. Premier! Don't you ever let that blasphemous idea into your yellow skull. My country is the kind where it pays to play it both ways: the Indian entrepreneur has to be straight and crooked, mocking and believing, sly and sincere, at the same time. So: I'm closing my eyes, folding my hands in a reverent namaste, and praying to the gods to shine light on my dark story. Bear with me, Mr. Jiabao. This could take a while. How quickly do you think you could kiss 36,000,004 arses? -- -- -- Done. My eyes are open again. 11:52 p.m. -- and it really is time to start. A statutory warning -- as they say on cigarette packs -- before we begin. One day, as I was driving my ex-employers Mr. Ashok and Pinky Madam in their Honda City car, Mr. Ashok put a hand on my shoulder, and said, 'Pull over to the side.' Following this command, he leaned forward so close that I could smell his aftershave -- it was a delicious, fruitlike smell that day -- and said, politely as ever, 'Balram, I have a few questions to ask you, all right?' 'Yes, sir,' I said. 'Balram,' Mr. Ashok asked, 'how many planets are there in the sky?' I gave the answer as best as I could. 'Balram, who was the first prime minister of India?' And then: 'Balram, what is the difference between a Hindu and a Muslim?' And then: 'What is the name of our continent?' Mr. Ashok leaned back and asked Pinky Madam, 'Did you hear his answers?' 'Was he joking?' she asked, and my heart beat faster, as it did every time she said something. 'No. That's really what he thinks the correct answers are.' She giggled when she heard this: but his face, which I saw reflected in my rearview mirror, was serious. 'The thing is, he probably has...what, two, three years of schooling in him? He can read and write, but he doesn't get what he's read. He's half-baked. The country is full of people like him, I'll tell you that. And we entrust our glorious parliamentary democracy' -- he pointed at me -- 'to characters like these. That's the whole tragedy of this country.' He sighed. 'All right, Balram, start the car again.' That night... Debut author Aravind Adiga offers this revealing and truthful look at class struggle in modern-day India as seen through the eyes of chauffeur Balram Halwai. Halwai escapes a brutal existence in rural India only to end up murdering his rich employer in Delhi. The novel is told, in part, as a correspondence between Halwai and the premier of China, for whom the driver believes he holds valuable insights. Narrator John Lee reads with an accurate East Indian accent that will astound listeners searching for his normally stern British tone. Lee captures Halwai and his imperfect world perfectly, relating Adiga's views with a raw honesty. Lee puts his own twist on the work but never disowns Adiga's story--rather, he welcomes it with open arms. Lee is the quintessential narrator. L.B. Winner of AudioFile Earphones Award © AudioFile 2008, Portland, Maine-- Copyright © AudioFile, Portland, Maine Customers who bought this item also bought The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao Sea of Poppies: A Novel The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo A Fraction of the Whole A Mercy Customer Reviews for: The White Tiger: A Novel (Man Booker Prize) Rating - 90% good, 10% bad This book is hilarious. It is witty, with the narrator using contemporay language to make fun of rich people, politics, urban life and even Muslims (who I hope will take no offense). The book is a quick read because it is easier to understand than other Booker award-winning books. The book has no plot as such, with no twists in the story that will surprise you. The only unsatisfying element of the book is the murder of Mr Ashok (don't worry, this ... Read More Rating - White Tiger: Review The novel was very well done, which is why it won a prize. The notion of enterprenuership in a country as disorganized as India is intriguing, and the lengths to which the narrator has to go to be successful are extreme. The characters are flat, but the message Adiga wants to convey is the rage of the common man in India. well done. Rating - white tiger: audiobook This book is read by an Indian gentleman which gives true flavor to the narrative. Since we often speak with natives of Bangalore when getting tech support, it's interesting to gat a taste of life for what the people wo live there c=actually go through. Rating - loved it! Loved loved loved this book. To deal with the obvious comparisons, I was a bit lukewarm but contemplative about The Life of Pi. The book's conceit is wonderful. Up front, you know that the narrator Balram has done something bad to get to his current position of relative wealth and prosperity. Balram is sharing what he knows about being an Indian entrepeneur with the Premier of China in an open letter. The whole story (where he sometimes ... Read More see more reviews See all books by author Aravind Adiga

Books : The White Tiger: A Novel (Man Booker Prize)