Author’s Note: This story follows narrator Monica and her friend Saira, two Indian American women in their 20s, as they travel in India. For Monica, this is her first trip to India without her parents and the trip has proved to disagree with her in a number of ways – specifically her health. She is also discovering that her friendship with Saira isn’t exactly what she thought it was. After seeing the sights of Mumbai, the girls end up at a trendy nightclub where the realities of India’s global digital culture are hard to escape. 
       
        At the lounge, I sink into a deep leather couch and don’t feel like talking to anyone. The place is swanky with a DJ booth upstairs and waiters wearing stylish asymmetrical white shirts, but you can still see that they are skinny poor kids with bad haircuts and messed-up teeth. Every time I look over at Saira, she has her head tossed back and is laughing this deep, throaty laugh, which I think makes her look like she is trying too hard. She is wearing a red silk kurta top over cropped black pants with a pair of shiny gold high-heeled sandals that she hasn’t quite gotten the hang of wearing yet. Every time she gets up to walk around, she teeters on the heels like an old drunk. She tries to make up for it by moving her hips in large swings, but it’s obvious that she’s struggling. All the other girls in the club are wearing little tank tops and designer jeans. You can tell the Indian girls from the foreigners like us, because they look like supermodels. This is the kind of place that only spoiled rich kids frequent. They sip at tall drinks with bored expressions on their faces and look over at us in disdain. I see Saira tugging at her red silk top and feeling self-conscious in light of the unexpected competition. It makes me smile.  The boys from London are Saira’s dream: shaved-head brown boys with hot sneakers and dirty mouths. The lounge is half full of other travelers like us. Indian kids who have spent the last 10 days with their families and then met up with friends in Mumbai to blow off steam, or just up from Goa where they took Ecstasy on the beach with all the trance heads from Australia or Amsterdam. There is a sense of entitlement about us. The London boys in particular give off an air of superiority, they utilize a smarmy sneer with the wait staff and greasy Indian club promoters who lurk around the corners in ill-fitting Nike t-shirts and dress slacks.
        "It was mad, I tell you,” says one of the London boys, wearing a trucker hat that says Southhall. “I was on the beach rolling my arse off with a bunch of crazy Aussies and then right when the DJ was going off and the sun was coming up, when everybody was peaking, that’s when all the little dodgy beggars come out. Right then, asking you for money when you’re heart’s about to explode, so of course everybody’s emptying the change from their pockets into their greasy little hands. Fucking brilliant, I tell you. They knew exactly when people were going to give it all away. Imagine, every night gouging those fuckers when they’re blitzed outta their heads. Fucking brilliant.”
        Saira, who is perched next to this guy, laughs the loudest and makes sure to touch his shoulder. I roll my eyes. The skinny waiter with beady eyes comes back for another round of drinks. The London boys order Johnny Walker and Saira gets a gin and tonic. The nerdy computer dudes from New Jersey order beers and the artsy filmmaker chick and her balding boyfriend get glasses of wine.
        “Monica, don’t you want something?” Saira asks. I wish she would have just left me alone, now everyone turns their head toward me like they didn’t even notice I was there fading into the couch.
        “No, I’m fine,” I say, glaring at her.
        “Come on, get a drink. Don’t worry, they use good ice here,” Saira teases, she turns to the others. “Monica’s a little paranoid about the water.”
        The beady waiter breaks in. “Please ma’am, our drinking is very good here. Clean, all very, very clean. Good ice.”
        “That’s fine,” I say, feeling the heat rising to my cheeks.
        “Come on, girl, have a drink. I got the shits too, that hasn’t stopped me from knocking back a few every night,” an overweight London boy wearing a G-Unit sweatshirt calls out. Everyone laughs. I put on a smile, which feels like it is breaking my face.
        “I’ll have a beer,” I say to the waiter.
        “That a girl,” the fat London boy says winking at me. 
        The beer comes and I decide that of all the things I could ingest, at least I know the beer is clean. When I raise it to my lips, I realize how thirsty I am, even my ravaged stomach seems to rejoice at the wheaty flavor. I tilt my head back and gulp at the beer like I’ve been lost in the desert. I don’t realize that people are watching me until I plop down the empty glass and drag my hand across the back of my mouth. Everyone stares at me in amusement until a loud burp breaks out of my mouth. Saira lets out a peal of laughter and teeters over to me on her heels.
        “That’s how we do,” she says, her arm firmly around my shoulders, as though she trained me to do that trick at parties. Everyone laughs and raises their drinks in a toast to the recklessness that is suddenly in the air. The fat London boy orders me another beer.
        Four beers later, everything is both amplified and slightly bleary. The nerds from New Jersey have gone back to their families. The artsy couple has busted out some hash and rolled it into tiny little cigarettes that are being passed around. Some skinny girls from San Francisco have joined the group and are engaged in a vigorous debate with the artsy couple about Bollywood versus Indian art films. The London boys keep switching out to DJ. Whenever the fat one isn’t getting more to drink or trainwrecking bad house-mixed bhangra, he sits next to me on the couch and talks incessantly.
        “Me mum, she’s from Punjab, so that side of the family’s like real hardcore Sikh, you know. But me dad’s side is straight Marati, from here, so I’ve always been more into that side of things, you know. Father knows best and all that. I been up to Punjab though, tons of times. Now, they’re really into me being a DJ. Say that I should go up and DJ all the weddings. I thought about it too, imagine being a wedding DJ in this country. There’s like 100 weddings a day, innit?” Fat London boy readjusts so he is sitting even closer to me on the couch. He’s displacing so much weight that it’s like quicksand and I can’t help but falling into him. He takes the opportunity to put his arm around me. I can smell his cologne battling with the body odor that is emanating from his large armpit. I’m too tired to get up and move, so I just sit there awkwardly leaned into him and wishing that Saira would suddenly appear and save me.
        “Hey garcon, get us some more beers, and some food, would ya?” Fat London boy yells rudely to the beady-eyed waiter who is unloading another tray of mixed drinks to the rest of the crew. The waiter shoots a concerned look down at me and it makes me feel worse that even the waiter feels sorry for me. I struggle out of the sweaty armpit and look around the lounge, which has filled up considerably.
        “What’s up, love?” Fat London boy whispers in my ear.
        “I’m just looking for my friend,” I say, trying to catch Saira’s loud laugh through the frenzied clatter of conversation and music.
        “Oh, she’s fine. She’s with me mate Sunder. Don’t you worry,” Fat London boy tries to pull me back to his sinkhole in the couch. I shake his hand off my shoulder and continue looking around. I get up unsteadily and the whole room tilts at a severe angle. I sit back down heavily and Fat London boy takes the opportunity to pull me back onto the couch, letting his oversized hand linger on my left breast.
        “Get off me,” I shrug and stand up again. The room is steadier this time. I look back at the pervert on the couch and he is looking the other way, pretending like nothing happened. I tromp off in the direction of the stairs, determined to find Saira. The music seems unnaturally loud and I can feel each beat pounding in my temple. I see a sign for the bathroom and push my way past the line of long-haired girls who declare at me in different languages and accents, until I am standing at the sink. The circles under my eyes seem to stretch down my cheeks. I splash cold water on my face and try and shake off the dizziness. I stumble my way out of the bathroom and climb the stairs towards the DJ booth. One of the shorter London boys sifts through a crate of records with the headphones held up to his ear with his shoulder. He looks up at me and smiles.
        “You have a request?” he yells. I shake my head and turn around. I look over the balcony to try and track Saira down. The couch where I was sitting is almost directly below me. From here I can see that Fat London boy is balding. I think I see Saira near the door but it is just another girl wearing red. Suddenly, I feel exhausted like I have been running for miles. I think about how operatic it would be to jump off the balcony and land perfectly onto the couch below me, maybe crushing Fat London boy on my way down. I close my eyes and see the flight I’ve just imagined in the jerky stop-motion of my Malaria dreams. Someone taps me on the shoulder and I turn around thinking it will be Saira, but it is the waiter.
        “Are you okay, miss?” he asks.
        “I’m fine,” I say, turning back towards the balcony.
        “I bring some water for you,” he says, holding out a bottle of water. I shake my head but he insists, putting it into my hands. The bottle feels so cool that I think about pouring it over my head instead of drinking it. The waiter stands in front of me looking uncomfortable. I realize that I am slumped nearly sideways, leaning along the balcony. I straighten myself up and nod at him, realizing again how dry and pasty my mouth is. But when I go to twist the cap of the bottle, it is loose under the plastic seal. All I can think about is how the wait staff fills the bottles from a dirty tap out back, affixes the seal and then sells each one for 45 rupees. 
        “I can’t drink this,” I say, handing the bottle back to him.
        “Good water, ma’am. Drink. Good water,” he says insistently. I notice that he has an underbite that gives his face a slightly pre-historic look. 
        “I don’t want it,” I mumble and move back towards the stairs. I don’t know where else to go so I just sit down again on the white couch. Luckily, Fat London boy seems to have disappeared. There is a platter of half-eaten chicken sandwiches with the crusts cut off and suddenly I realize how ridiculously hungry I am. I pick one up and start nibbling at it. The food feels really good in my stomach and I perch on the edge of the sofa and finish off one and a half. I pick up my beer and wash down the last morsels of food. It clears my head and I really begin to wonder where Saira is. I don’t see the London boy with the Southhall hat either. Before I can get up again, Fat London boy appears in front of me and sits down.
        “Hello there love,” he says, sinking into the couch.
        “Hey,” I say, trying to be cold. He starts off on a stream of conversation, this time his words a little less coherent, his accent getting thicker.
        “I got something to show you,” he says, pulling out his cell phone. “My cousins got me this here cell phone. It’s a good one to. Better than the one’s we get at home.”
        I want to tell him that I could care less about his cell phone, but I decide that just ignoring him might be the best tactic. My stomach begins the faint grumblings of displeasure and I know that this is not going to end well.
        “Check it out,” Fat London boy sticks his fat hand in my face and on the display screen of his phone is what looks like a video of a plump woman in a sari getting raped by two men. For a moment, I am too shocked to look away. The woman twists her head violently to the side and even though there is no sound, I can imagine the grunts of the men as they struggle to hold her down. I bat the phone out of Fat London boy’s hand and it shatters into two pieces on the floor.
        “What the fuck d’you do that for?” he roars, kneeling on the ground and trying to piece the phone back together.
        “Why the fuck were you showing me that?” I say.
        “It’s just what Indian porn is like, you crazy bitch. Damnit, my cousin’s gonna kill me,” Fat London boy tries to piece the parts of his phone back together. He turns back and glares murderously at me and I close my eyes and wish that Saira would come back, and then suddenly, she’s there.
        “What’s all the commotion?” she asks brightly, holding the hand of the guy wearing the Southhall hat. I pull her down to my level and tell her I need to go home right now. The boy she was with converses with Fat London boy who is talking animatedly and pointing at me. Saira’s boy shakes his head and laughs, patting Fat London boy on the back. I notice that Saira’s boy has a dimple in his right cheek and eyebrows that angle naturally.
        “Oh Monica, I’m having so much fun with this guy though,” Saira says, squeezing my hand. “Let’s hang out some more.
        “No. I have to go back right now,” I say. “If you don’t come just tell me how to get home and I’ll go myself.”
        I think Saira sees something in my face that worries her and she gets up and pulls her boy aside. She whispers in his ear for a while and he shakes his head. She pulls him in closer and I watch as his eyes widen. I don’t care if she says she’ll do him and all his boys, I just want to go home.