Aravind Adiga’s brilliant debut novel ‘White Tiger’ unexpectedly stole the £50,000 prize at last year’s Man Booker Prize ceremony. Much like his protagonist, Balram Hawai, the White Tiger, his credentials are not typical of such success: his age and experience don’t match that of previous winners or even his rivals for this particular prize, so how did he get there?
This particular literary big cat reached his goal, according to Judge Michael Portillo, by creating something ‘cutting edge’ and ‘original’, qualities that Balram himself endlessly strives towards in the novel.
Yet unlike Balram, Adiga cannot claim to be from the ‘Darkness’ of rural India, nor does he know what it is like to be one of the ‘small bellied men’. I can’t help feeling that what makes the novel interesting is the tantalising wait for the protagonist to commit the ultimate and inevitable crime he promises. Although I loved reading this book, I am not convinced that it truly deserves to rank alongside such masterpieces as ‘Midnight’s Children’, ‘The English Patient’, ‘The God of Small Things’, and ‘Disgrace’.
Presumably Adiga is aware of the parallel between his novel and the popular crime magazines read by Balram’s fellow taxi drivers within it, and uses this parallel to link fiction with the real world, to legitimise his narrator’s point of view. Unfortunately though, this parallel works in two directions, and I actually found that it diminished any investment I had in the White Tiger.
The world of ‘New India’ in the novel is dangerous, but exciting and full of opportunity for those who are willing to take it by any means possible. As a presentation of the dark side of this developing nation it is extremely successful and breaks many tired clichés of Indian literature in English along the way. However Adiga barely even hints of an alternative to Balram’s India, which makes for a somewhat uncomfortable reading experience and perhaps a slightly superficial novel.
The biggest problem I found with the novel was that the only means of social mobility available to those in ‘the Darkness’ is violence. Of course I don’t expect literature to be an anti-reality where the good are rewarded and the bad punished, but at times Balram’s inhuman lack of remorse made it difficult to suspend my disbelief. Although it made for gripping reading, I do not believe that ‘White Tiger’ works on the level of social commentary that it has been praised for.
In ascribing the inspiration for the novel to his experiences as a journalist and encounters with India’s underclass, Adiga has not only betrayed himself as distinctly upper class, but also confirmed that his insights are those of a professional observer with a taste for the sensational.
Adiga’s success is due to the way the ‘White Tiger’ has brought to light issues of India’s new economic growth that do not often feature in literature, as well as for it’s witty and engaging prose. In this respect it is very deserving: I thoroughly enjoyed this novel and couldn’t put it down, but it just didn’t quite ‘knock my socks off’, which is, according to Portillo, the final requirement for a Booker Prize Winner.
