Bhatiyaar Gali

An evening in a centuries old street of dilapidated shops in an Islamic residency dating right back to Ahmed Shah's times, where silk and gold trade flourished in a once upon a time posh market place, the orchestra of the bargainers' choir echoing to this very day; soaked to the bone by the surprise shower of tears by the gloomy evening clouds, feeding on the all night boiling gelatinous flesh of buffalo legs and tongue inside a dingy candle lit cellar of a room that was Hotel Baara Handi.

All that eluded was that chhoti gold flake for dessert which my uncle - the guide, merrily puffed after the meal, oblivious, to the lustful desire of my lungs to kiss the aroma of the burning honey-dew and the desire to get intoxicated, of those few lungfuls of curry flavoured post-meal breath.

Pretty much the Ian Wright experience.