Here is a strange fact: Murder a man and you feel responsible for his life – possessive, even. You know more about him than his father and mother; they know his faetus, but you know his corpse. Only you can complete the story of his life.
Considering how poor they were, Balram wanted a change. He wanted his life to be better. He wanted to be an entrepreneur; and he became an entrepreneur.
How, how I wanted to write about what he did… what he did to become one, because this would be my last post about the book.
I don’t know whether to justify or crucify him for what he did to change his life. He was a poor man. He just didn’t drive; he became a driver. He cleaned his master’s feet. He cooked his master’s meals. He was made to confess a crime he didn’t commit. He saw what it was like to be rich and not like to live that kind of life. He felt how it was like to eat in cozy restaurants but crave for street foods. He knows how a bag with a million rupees inside it looks like. He witnessed crimes committed bloodless within the four walls of the parliament. He know how it felt to drive a Honda City. He saw an opportunity.
After all, his granny said he was a white tiger. Only one chance to have for every generation. And he only had one chance, and maybe the last.
Wouldn’t you have done the same if you were the white tiger that your granny says you are?
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