"Indian liquor makes you go blind."
11:40 P.M. I’m still sitting in my auto-rickshaw. My driver claims his name is Forty, like the number. “When are we going?” I ask. “One minute Mr. Jack,” retorts Forty. He is holding a plastic cup full of a brownish liquid in one hand and a spliff in the other. “Whisky, Mr. Jack?” “No, thank you Forty." He downs what must be at least five shots of whisky, takes a huge drag of his spliff and passes it on to a nearby driver. “Let’s go, Mr. Jack.” According to my mum, Indian liquor makes you go blind.
Jacques Testard spends a week at a book festival in India, where he encounters a talk on Che Guevara sponsored by Goldman Sachs, the irascible Junot Diaz, and some clearly awesome rickshaw drivers.