We stood on the corner of a multi-species crossroads. Holy cows, hybrid street dogs, autos. Frankenstein-inspired cycle-rickshaws creaked along, much to the anguish of their equally seasoned riders.
My girlfriend gave me a shady handshake that concealed a crumpled wad of rupees. I squinted into the unlit corridor next to the wine shop, which should strictly be called an alleyway with a ceiling. I let the sting of shame wash over me like homebrewed spirits and stepped in, leaving the honking and mooing behind.