Driving Ashok back after his master’s affair in Chapter 6, Balram is distraught. The minister’s assistant has corrupted his master by hiring the blond prostitute, Delhi’s poor continue to suffer, and he feels trapped by his own station in life. For a moment, he smolders with indignation:
My heart was bitter that night. The city knew this—and under the dim orange glow cast everywhere by the weak streetlamps, she was bitter.
Speak to me of civil war, I told Delhi.
I will, she said.
Balram briefly personifies the city in this instance—“she feels bitter,” senses the “burning” emotions within him, and speaks back to him. He asks Delhi questions, and she responds in kind. More than “civil war,” the city promises him “blood on the streets” and the death of the minister’s assistant. His conversation with Delhi carries murmurs of revolt and violence.
Such personification adds to the novel’s fantastical dimensions. Balram’s story grounds itself in cockroaches, Johnnie Walkers, and burning trash. But here, his conversation with the city takes an eerie turn—he casts aside his snide jokes and exaggerations to broach the threat of violence. The Naxals have been secretly organizing. The streetside beggars are like “prophets” awaiting the fulfillment of their visions. Backdropped by signs of growing social unrest, Balram’s conversation with the city has the feel of something cosmic if supernatural, as though Delhi itself can foretell the uprising. It reflects his own psychologically turbulent state, and it reads as a moment of transcendence—Balram has overcome the limits of his own body to commune with something far larger than himself.