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Authors: Aravind Adiga
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whistle, I would have been in paradise!
Kishan came once a month to see me. Kusum had decided that I could keep ninety rupees a month for myself: the rest would go straight to Kishan—who would send it straight to her, in the village. I gave him the money every month through the black bars of the rear gate, and we would talk for a few minutes before the Nepali shouted, “That’s enough—the boy has work to do now!”
The work of a number two driver was simple. If the number one driver, Ram Persad, was busy driving the masters around town in the Honda City, and someone in the house wanted to go to the market, or to a coal mine, or to the train station, I got into the Maruti Suzuki and drove them there. Otherwise I had to stay around the house and make myself useful.
Now, I say they took me on as their “driver.” I don’t exactly know how you organize your servants in China. But in India—or, at least, in the Darkness—the rich don’t have drivers, cooks, barbers, and tailors. They simply have servants.
What I mean is that anytime I was not driving the car, I had to sweep the floor of the courtyard, make tea, clean cobwebs with a long broom, or chase a cow out of the compound. There was one thing I was not allowed to do, and this was to touch the Honda City: Ram Persad alone had the right to drive it and clean it. In the evenings I’d watch him wash the sleek exterior of the car with a soft cloth. And I’d burn with envy.
I could see, even from outside, that this was a beautiful, modern car, with all the necessary comforts: a speaker system, A/C, nice glossy leather seats, and a big stainless-steel spittoon in the back. It must be like paradise to drive such a nice car. All I had was a battered old Maruti Suzuki.
One evening, as I was watching, Mr. Ashok came and poked his nose around the car. I was discovering that he was a very inquisitive man.
“What’s that for? That shiny thing in the back.”
“Spittoon, sir.”
“What?”
Ram Persad explained. This spittoon was for the Stork, who liked to chew paan . If he spat the paan out the window the paan might streak the sides of the car, so he spat near his feet, into the spittoon, which the driver washed and cleaned at the end of every ride.
“Disgusting,” Mr. Ashok said.
He was asking about something else when Mukesh Sir’s son Roshan came running up to us with a plastic bat and ball in his hand.
Ram Persad snapped his fingers for me.
(Playing cricket with any brat in the household who wanted to play—and letting him win, handsomely—was one of the prescribed duties of driver number two.)
Mr. Ashok joined the game. He stood as the wicket-keeper while I bowled full tosses to the brat.
“I’m Azharuddin, captain of India!” the boy shouted every time he hit a six or a four.
“Call yourself Gavaskar. Azharuddin is a Muslim.”
It was the Stork. He had come into the courtyard to watch.
Mr. Ashok said, “Father, what a silly thing to say! Hindu or Muslim, what difference does it make?”
“Oh, you young people and your modern ideas!” the Stork said. He put his hands on me. “I have to steal the driver, Roshan—I’m sorry, you’ll have him back in an hour, okay?”
The Stork had a special use for driver number two. He had bad legs, with blue veins in them, and had been told by a doctor to sit in the courtyard in the evening with his feet in warm water and have them massaged by a servant.
I had to heat water on the stove, carry it into the courtyard, and then lift the old man’s feet up one after the other and immerse them in the hot water and then massage them both gently; as I did this, he would close his eyes and moan.
After half an hour, he would say, “The water’s gone cold,” and then I had to lift his feet out, one at a time, from the bucket, and carry the bucket in to the toilet. The water in it was dark—dead hair and bits of skin floated on it. I had to fill the bucket with fresh hot water, and bring it back.
As
Kishan came once a month to see me. Kusum had decided that I could keep ninety rupees a month for myself: the rest would go straight to Kishan—who would send it straight to her, in the village. I gave him the money every month through the black bars of the rear gate, and we would talk for a few minutes before the Nepali shouted, “That’s enough—the boy has work to do now!”
The work of a number two driver was simple. If the number one driver, Ram Persad, was busy driving the masters around town in the Honda City, and someone in the house wanted to go to the market, or to a coal mine, or to the train station, I got into the Maruti Suzuki and drove them there. Otherwise I had to stay around the house and make myself useful.
Now, I say they took me on as their “driver.” I don’t exactly know how you organize your servants in China. But in India—or, at least, in the Darkness—the rich don’t have drivers, cooks, barbers, and tailors. They simply have servants.
What I mean is that anytime I was not driving the car, I had to sweep the floor of the courtyard, make tea, clean cobwebs with a long broom, or chase a cow out of the compound. There was one thing I was not allowed to do, and this was to touch the Honda City: Ram Persad alone had the right to drive it and clean it. In the evenings I’d watch him wash the sleek exterior of the car with a soft cloth. And I’d burn with envy.
I could see, even from outside, that this was a beautiful, modern car, with all the necessary comforts: a speaker system, A/C, nice glossy leather seats, and a big stainless-steel spittoon in the back. It must be like paradise to drive such a nice car. All I had was a battered old Maruti Suzuki.
One evening, as I was watching, Mr. Ashok came and poked his nose around the car. I was discovering that he was a very inquisitive man.
“What’s that for? That shiny thing in the back.”
“Spittoon, sir.”
“What?”
Ram Persad explained. This spittoon was for the Stork, who liked to chew paan . If he spat the paan out the window the paan might streak the sides of the car, so he spat near his feet, into the spittoon, which the driver washed and cleaned at the end of every ride.
“Disgusting,” Mr. Ashok said.
He was asking about something else when Mukesh Sir’s son Roshan came running up to us with a plastic bat and ball in his hand.
Ram Persad snapped his fingers for me.
(Playing cricket with any brat in the household who wanted to play—and letting him win, handsomely—was one of the prescribed duties of driver number two.)
Mr. Ashok joined the game. He stood as the wicket-keeper while I bowled full tosses to the brat.
“I’m Azharuddin, captain of India!” the boy shouted every time he hit a six or a four.
“Call yourself Gavaskar. Azharuddin is a Muslim.”
It was the Stork. He had come into the courtyard to watch.
Mr. Ashok said, “Father, what a silly thing to say! Hindu or Muslim, what difference does it make?”
“Oh, you young people and your modern ideas!” the Stork said. He put his hands on me. “I have to steal the driver, Roshan—I’m sorry, you’ll have him back in an hour, okay?”
The Stork had a special use for driver number two. He had bad legs, with blue veins in them, and had been told by a doctor to sit in the courtyard in the evening with his feet in warm water and have them massaged by a servant.
I had to heat water on the stove, carry it into the courtyard, and then lift the old man’s feet up one after the other and immerse them in the hot water and then massage them both gently; as I did this, he would close his eyes and moan.
After half an hour, he would say, “The water’s gone cold,” and then I had to lift his feet out, one at a time, from the bucket, and carry the bucket in to the toilet. The water in it was dark—dead hair and bits of skin floated on it. I had to fill the bucket with fresh hot water, and bring it back.
As
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