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By Aravind Adiga
Welcome to Kittur, India. Of its 193,432 citizens, merely 89 claim themselves to be with out faith or caste. And if the characters in Between the Assassinations are any indication, Kittur is a unprecedented crossroads among the brightest minds and the poorest morals, the up-and-coming and the downtrodden, and the poets and the prophets of an India that smooth literature has not often addressed.
A sequence of sketches that jointly shape a dazzling, outstanding, and courageous mosaic of Indian existence because it is lived in a spot known as Kittur, Between the Assassinations, with the entire humor, sympathy, and unflinching candor of The White Tiger, enlarges our figuring out of the area we are living in this present day.
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Extra resources for Between the Assassinations
Sample text
In the past nine years, the man known as “Xerox” Ramakrishna has been arrested twenty-one times on the granite pavement in front of Deshpremi Hemachandra Rao Park for the sale, at discounted rates, of illegally photocopied or printed books to the students of St. Alfonso’s College. ” Then he holds his hands out for the cuffs. In jail, Xerox is unchained and put in a cell. Holding on to the bars, he regales the policemen with ingratiating stories. He may tell them a smutty tale about some college girl whom he saw that morning wearing blue jeans in the American style, or a new swear word in Tulu he has heard on the bus while going to Salt Market Village, or perhaps, if they are in the mood for longer entertainment, he will narrate to them, as he has done so many times before, the story of what his father did for a living all his life—taking the crap out of the houses of rich landlords, the traditional occupation of people of his caste.
He sipped his tea; Ziauddin did not touch his. ” Ziauddin shook his head. ” The stranger brought his face closer. The boy saw things he had not seen before: scars on the Pathan’s nose and cheeks, and a small tear in his left ear. “The Indian army is setting up a base somewhere between Kittur and Calicut. For one reason and one reason only—” He held up a thick finger. ” Ziauddin looked down at the tea. A rippled skin of milk fat was congealing on its surface. “I’m a Muslim,” he said. ” “Exactly.
Thimma roared. ” The next morning there was a storm at the tea-and-samosa store. This time Ziauddin had been caught red-handed. Holding him by the collar of his shirt and dragging him out in front of the customers, Ramanna Shetty said: “Tell me the truth—you son of a bald woman. Did you steal it? ” “I am telling the truth,” Ziauddin said, touching his pink, vitiligo-discolored lips with a crooked finger. ” Ramanna grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him to the ground, kicked him, and then shoved him out of the tea shop, while the other boys huddled together and watched impassively, as sheep do when watching one of their flock being shorn.