To sum up—in the old days there were one thousand castes and destinies in India. These days, there are just two castes: Men with Big Bellies, and Men with Small Bellies. And only two destinies: eat—or get eaten up.
I gather you yellow-skinned men, despite your triumphs in sewage, drinking water, and Olympic gold medals, still don’t have democracy. Some politician on the radio was saying that that’s why we Indians are going to beat you: we may not have sewage, drinking water, and Olympic gold medals, but we do have democracy.
These are the three main diseases of this country, sir: typhoid, cholera, and election fever. This last one is the worst; it makes people talk and talk about things that they have no say in.
Never before in human history have so few owed so much to so many, Mr. Jiabao. A handful of men in this country have trained the remaining 99.9 percent—as strong, as talented, as intelligent in every way—to exist in perpetual servitude; a servitude so strong that you can put the key of his emancipation in a man’s hands and he will throw it back at you with a curse.
The Rooster Coop was doing its work. Servants have to keep other servants from becoming innovators, experimenters, or entrepreneurs.
Only three nations have never let themselves be ruled by foreigners: China, Afghanistan, and Abyssinia. These are the only three nations I admire.
Strange thoughts brew in your heart when you spend too much time with old books.
To break the law of his land—to turn bad news into good news—is the entrepreneur’s prerogative.
The story of a poor man’s life is written on his body, in a sharp pen.
Entrepreneurs are made from half-baked clay.
So if your driver is busy flicking through the pages of Murder Weekly, relax. No danger to you. Quite the contrary. It’s when your driver starts to read about Gandhi and the Buddha that it’s time to wet your pants, Mr. Jiabao.
Being called a murderer: fine, I have no objection to that. It’s a fact: I am a sinner, a fallen human. But to be called a murderer by the police! What a fucking joke.
The answer to the first question is that the pride and glory of our nation, the repository of all our love and sacrifice, the subject of no doubt considerable space in the pamphlet that the prime minister will hand over to you, the Indian family, is the reason we are trapped and tied to the coop.
“It’s like we’re in a concert of spitting!” Mr. Ashok said, looking at the autorickshaw driver. Well, if you were out there breathing that acid air, you’d be spitting like him too, I thought.
Iqbal, that great poet, was so right. The moment you recognize what is beautiful in this world, you stop being a slave.
They remain slaves because they can’t see what is beautiful in this world. That’s the truest thing anyone ever said.
Like eunuchs discussing the Kama Sutra, the voters discuss the elections in Laxmangarh.
The trustworthiness of servants is the basis of the entire Indian economy.
I absorbed everything—that’s the amazing thing about entrepreneurs. We are like sponges—we absorb and grow.
Do you know about Hanuman, sir? He was the faithful servant of the god Rama, and we worship him in our temples because he is a shining example of how to serve your masters with absolute fidelity, love, and devotion. These are the kinds of gods they have foisted on us, Mr. Jiabao. Understand, now, how hard it is for a man to win his freedom in India.