It was at a packed intersection in Koramangala that the general absurdity of a night out in Bangalore first became apparent. Vikram, our stylish college student friend, was driving Em and I to the MG Road area and its assortment of bars and pubs, blasting an addictive dance track on the stereo, but the music wasn’t going to push us through this red light faster. As we waited for the lights to change, a woman in rags holding a crying child approached the window. “I don’t care if you can’t dance, just wanna see that ass bounce,” bellowed the speaker system as she held her hand out to us, then to her mouth, then to us again. I pushed a ten-rupee note into her hand and wound the window up. She stayed in the same spot as the lights changed and watched us as we pulled away, her flat expression unchanged by our encounter.

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