There are alot of people with something to sell in India. No where more so than in the street, or rather on the road. Most, sadly, are kids or teenagers who wait for traffic lights to turn red before brazenly leaping out, weaving between cars with athletic intent to try and get passengers to buy something to alleviate the boredom of being stuck in another traffic jam. They sell everything from mosquito swatters to magazines. The most impressive are the book-sellers who balance stacks of plastic-wrapped novels so high you cant see their faces. "Books Sir, books madam" they insist and persist at the window. It's the bombard-them-until-they-crack school of salesmanship because they only have a few minutes to convince you that life is not worth living without that Salman Rushdie paperback.
Tonight, stuck in Delhi's obligatory evening traffic, I saw an elegantly-suited arm appear from the back of a slick, shiny Mercedes waving around some one hundred rupee notes. The mysterious passenger was buying a copy of Aravind Adiga's "White Tiger". Now, if you have read "White Tiger" you'll understand the bitter-sweetness of the moment.
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