The Coop Is Guarded From The Inside.

I Had Grown Up In A Privileged, Upper-caste Hindu Community; And Because My Father Worked For A Catholic Hospital, We Lived In A Prosperous Christian Neighborhood.

When I Was Writing 'the White Tiger' I Lived In A Building Pretty Much Exactly Like The One I Described In This Novel, And The People In The Book Are The People I Lived With Back Then. So I Didn't Have To Do Much Research To Find Them.

Columbia University, Where I Went To Study In 1993, Insisted Its Undergraduates Learn A Foreign Language, So I Discovered French.

See, The Poor Dream All Their Lives Of Getting Enough To Eat And Looking Like The Rich. And What Do The Rich Dream Of?? Losing Weight And Looking Like The Poor.

A Rich Man's Body Is Like A Premium Cotton Pillow, White And Soft And Blank. ''ours'' Is Different. My Father's Spine Was A Knotted Rope, The Kind That Women Use In Villages To Pull Water From Wells; The Clavicle Curved Around His Neck In High Relief, Like A Dog's Collar; Cuts And Nicks And Scars, Like Little Whip Marks In His Flesh, Ran Down His Chest And Waist, Reaching Down Below His Hip Bones Into His Buttocks. The Story Of A Poor Man's Life Is Written On His Body, In A Sharp Pen.