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Between the Assassinations by Aravind Adiga

By Aravind Adiga

Welcome to Kittur, India. Of its 193,432 citizens, purely 89 claim themselves to be with out faith or caste. And if the characters in Between the Assassinations are any indication, Kittur is a rare 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 glossy literature has not often addressed.

A sequence of sketches that jointly shape a stunning, amazing, and courageous mosaic of Indian lifestyles because it is lived in a spot referred to as Kittur, Between the Assassinations, with all of the humor, sympathy, and unflinching candor of The White Tiger, enlarges our figuring out of the area we are living in this day.

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Beyond a small beach the sea was visible; the smell of roasted fish wafted through the air. A blackboard outside the tea shop proclaimed, in letters of white chalk, WE CHANGE PAKISTANI MONEY AND CURRENCY. The walls of the shop were adorned with a photograph of the Great Mosque of Mecca along with a poster of a boy and a girl bowing to the Taj Mahal. Four benches had been arranged in an outdoor veranda. A dappled white and brown goat was tied to a pole at one end of the veranda; it was chewing on dried grass.

On Sunday, at noon, Ramanna pulled down the shutters and slowly rode his blue-and-cream-colored Bajaj scooter over to the Kittamma Devi Temple, letting the boys follow on foot. As he entered the temple to offer a coconut to the goddess, they sat around the green cushion of the scooter, discussing the bold red words written in Kannada on the cornice of the temple: HONOR THY NEIGHBOR, THY GOD. “That means the person in the house next door is your God,” one boy theorized. “No, it means God is close to you if you really believe in Him,” retorted another.

I am here to do the hard work. You’ll—” Ziauddin said, “I’m not well. ” The foreigner thought about this, and then said, “You are lying to me. ” A finger passed over a pair of vitiligo-discolored lips. “I’m a Muslim. ” The foreigner’s voice crackled with irritation. “Every one of them seethes. Every one of them is ready for action. I was only offering this job to you out of pity. Because I see what the Indians have done to you. ” Ziauddin kicked back his chair and stood up. ” Outside the compound of the guesthouse, he turned around.

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