I leaned over the parapet of the balcony of my apartment on the fifteenth floor. The preparations for the evening bhajan ritual had begun, I deduced from the escalating hum downstairs. The building watchman was arranging gray Neelkamal chairs in a semi-circle between a sleek red Honda and a black Chevrolet SUV. I looked back up at the jumble of skyscrapers. Yardley Gardens was one of Mumbai’s plushest townships that my family had recently relocated to from the humble cobwebs of Nashik. The westward sun made me squint and I withdrew to my cushy C-backed bamboo swing, resuming the novel in my hand. There are few things as relaxing as an evening breeze tickling you while you turn the delicious pages of Adiga’s The White Tiger.