The Story Of A Poor

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 Inteligent 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.

Inconvenience In Progress, Work Is Regretted.

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.

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.

At A Time When India Is Going Through Great Changes And, With China, Is Likely To Inherit The World From The West, It Is Important That Writers Like Me Try To Highlight The Brutal Injustices Of Society.