Yesterday I visited a bar that reminded me of the tavern where Raskolnikov met Marmeladov. It had high ceilings and from there hung a couple of fans with stems about a metre long. The floor was all wet and one had to squeeze oneself through the plastic tables and chairs. The walls were dirty and on the right, just above my head, there was a single white tile on the wall with Ganapathi’s picture on it. And Ganapathi stared at me. After some time, when I turned to my left, I found Nietzsche sipping his drink and by then I had finished my quarter of Old Monk Rum and ordered for a 60.