Angelo sees some friends come in. He sticks his right arm up in the air trying to catch their attention. Annie, a diminutive but stocky man of about twenty-five, joins us. Annie is the president of the local degree college. ‘You must have seen my name plastered on the boundary wall of almost every house in Dehra Dun,’ he says, introducing himself. He has a confident, proprietorial air about him, like this is his chunk of the planet and everyone who enters, enters at his own risk. If you know him and happen to be sitting next to him, like I am tonight, you cannot help but feel safe. We are soon joined at our table by Annie’s sidekicks, two Indian Military Academy cadets and two exchange teachers called Tui and Richard. They all seem to know Angelo, who continues to sit facing the entrance, not wanting to miss anybody.

I am not in the mood to talk and am slightly irritated by the crowd Angelo has managed to collect around our table. I came here because I wanted to slink in a corner till the stroke of twelve, the hour when the management turn on the bright fuck-off lights. Except that now, seven garrulous men surround me. They are determined to have a good time, get things off their chest. Every once in a while the strobe light falls on a face in our group. I notice how ugly everyone looks. On the floor, men dance in pairs, their teeth shining like diamonds in the oppressive night.

A sailor joins our table. He’s got a girl with him. A dark-skinned girl who wears a big pendant and expensive platinum jewellery. The IMA guys are talking about where they are going to be sent next, may be to an African country on a peace-keeping mission.

Richard and Tui, the exchange teachers, are a trifle shocked at the fact that teachers in their school can beat up kids as and when they want. And, what’s more shocking, the kids don’t seem to mind, in fact, they seem to expect it. If you don’t whip their asses they think you are a fucking wimp.

The place is smoky. The floor is dirty: the floor is all cigarette packets, crushed cigarette ends and burnt out matches.

I go and sit at the bar. I light a cigarette. Two Sikh men to the right of me turn around and raise a protest. I am drunk, so I say, ‘You guys look too white to be Sikh.’

‘We are Canadian,’ they say, ‘but we are Sikh. Smoking is not allowed in our religion. Do not smoke here.’

I want to say: Please stuff your religion up your Royal Canadian ass and yes, might as well give it a good shove while you are at it.

I refuse to budge. There is a situation building.