Somebody’s hand lands on my face, dislodging my spectacles. They go flying through the smoky air. I don’t even try to find them. I cannot see anything now. ‘Where am I?’ I ask my dancing partner, a scrawny guy wearing a blue T-shirt that bears some brand name. ‘Tum kahan se aa gaye bhai sahib?’ he replies. There is affection in his voice. I break away from the guy and begin to work the dance floor. I whirl around in circles, stumble and trip. Someone proffers a hand, picks me up. I go to every dancing couple, I walk over to the DJ’s cabin. I can hear myself saying: C’mon guys, let’s do it. One last time. I am the foreign coach encouraging his boys to go for the kill. We have to win tonight.

And so the night continues—men dancing in perfect harmony. There is some pushing and some shoving, a bit of aggro but not real, more like role-playing. With no girls around, the men have nothing to fight over. We make the best of whatever we have been given: a floor, a DJ, each other.

I don’t know where Angelo is. The sailor and his companion have already left. I feel tired and decide to leave. I pay the bill and walk out into the night. What do I see? An autorickshaw, a smiling mongrel, a desiccated jacaranda tree, sewage water flowing in a straight line, squashed Pepsi bottles, cinema hoardings.

I walk up Rajpur Road. After a ten-minute walk I see a sign that says The Blue Hawaii. I walk right in. FBR is still there. The chairs are upside down on the tables. They are about to close. FBR is practising juggling. Cocktail shakers fly around his head in rainbow formation. Occasionally, a hyperactive shaker breaks out of the semi-circular arc and smashes to the floor.

FBR fixes me a gin and tonic with lots of lemon. He thinks this is a good idea. I ask him to put on Guns N’ Roses. He says, ‘Can’t you hear it? It’s playing man!’ One of the waiters stands on a stool in front of an aquarium. He holds a grimy fishbowl. Slowly, carefully, he puts new, wriggling goldfish back into the colourful but empty tank.

Fit of Rage

I sit on a blue plastic stool outside the Mother Dairy booth in Def Col Market and do nothing. It’s the end of another grey and cloudy August day. The monsoon has yielded little rain. Even though it’s evening, I’m sweating. The humidity makes me feel like a squeezed sponge.