Flair Bartender Robin is rinsing beer glasses when I walk in and take my place at the bar. Robin, or FBR as he calls himself, has spiky hair tinged with red dye, and is of stocky build. He suffers from mood swings—cheerful and helpful one minute, brooding the next. I like to think I am responsible for his cheerfulness at least part of the time. He hands me a bottle of Sandpiper across the counter—wants me to check if it is chilled. I touch it and say I will speak the truth and nothing but the truth. FBR grins and opens the bottle. This is our little joke. It has remained so for the last six months, ever since I first made the wisecrack and he responded.

The three men sitting on the other side of the bar have a problem with the cocktails menu. Their uniforms announce that they are from the coffee shop next door; their body language suggests they have just finished a long shift, that they are probably not going to work another one today. It’s not so much that they don’t like what’s on the list or that some drink is missing. They are confused and want FBR to help. FBR, in his turn, patiently explains the concoctions to them: Long Island Ice Tea, Bloody Mary, Tom Collins, Piña Colada, Flaming Ferrari. After much deliberation they decide on orders. FBR pours vodka into three greenish-looking glasses, then pulls out a lighter and ignites the drinks one by one. The three men sit on their stools, swallowing fire, their backs ramrod straight, their bodies rigid, their eyes bulging with fear.

At three in the afternoon, The Blue Hawaii is full. The regulars are already there: the four politicians in white kurtas, the chubby girl with short hair who walks like a man and is supposed to fuck for money. A stately Tibetan girl sits in front of a painted background of rising blue waves, drinking what looks like a gin and tonic, smoking a cigarette. The elbow of her cigarette hand rests on the table and she tilts her head slightly each time she blows out smoke. I notice the empty aquariums and ask FBR where all the goldfish went. He says there was something wrong with the power supply the other day—all the fish got electrocuted.

A portly middle-aged woman presides over a table of young girls aged thirteen to sixteen. Every once in a while when the DJ puts on a Bollywood remix of their choice the girls break from the table, two at a time, and hit the floor, their long black hair flailing in the multicoloured light. There is an incredible quantity of food on their table, the sight of which makes me hungry.

By five everyone is gone. The match is over, the stadium empty. The few men who remain pull their chairs closer together as if consoling each other.