What else could I demand from life?

Gregorian chants, mantras, solitude and the time to plant trees? Equilibrium? But I remain quiet.

...The night air is thick with smoke and fumes. There's ceaseless movement of people on the road and the footpaths. The traffic is as debilitating as a clogged artery. The heavy rumble of trucks and the metallic noise of auto-rickshaws -- all this sound is relentless. We inch forward in the snarl.

A Hindi song from one of Bollywood's celluloid nightmares blares from a roadside food stall. Between the vehicles agile boys weave, plying their wares for sale. We are offered muri and spiced peanuts, plastic toys and biros. One small fellow pushes the palm of his hand against my window. From my side, I slap a high five. He looks bemused and then breaks into a toothless grin.

'Don't encourage them!' Zia snaps. 'I can't understand why you lack ambition.'

Garish neon signs flicker seductive messages of consumerism to uninterested pedestrians. Someone has damaged an IBM sign next to the brightly lit billboard espousing the virtues of flying with a popular Middle Easter airline -- the model aircraft has been forcibly tilted, so that it appears to be nose diving into the defaced cardboard container.

Just up ahead, a truck has broken down. We grind to a stop in a line of cars. A policeman waves a torch and begins to direct the traffic along a single lane of the road. Someone in front of us yells abuse through a car window. Another policeman blows a whistle and stops the vehicle.

'The police here are extremely sensitive during the day to accusations of corruption,' Zia says. 'But at night...That poor man will pay heavily for his indiscretion. The free market economy thrives after dark.'

Angry voices. Several cars rev their engines, adding to the din. A pushcart, piled high with furniture, clatters past us.

I feel powerless, boxed in the stationary car.

After nearly twenty minutes, we begin to move again. Boldly, Zia threads the car through the seething street to Dhaka Club. I'm sweaty and palpitating when we get there.

'Not much point in arriving here after midnight.' Zia is unmoved by the ordeal.

The club rooms are dismal. Tacky furniture and poor lighting. But there's a feverish energy in the dining area, as though matters of political urgency are being loudly discussed over sumptuous meals. Everywhere middle-aged men are eating and drinking. The bar is well stocked and business is brisk. We hear raucous laughter and high-pitched arguments.

An unfamiliar face, I'm scrutinised.

I have memories of a less frenetic atmosphere in the club. The swimming pool was rarely crowded and, during the afternoon, the main club room was a regular sanctuary for privileged teenagers mimicking adult behaviour. No one ever told us the limits of how much we could eat or how much we could spend. The families picked up the tabs without admonishment. This was the network of the younger generation of powerful people -- conceited, wasteful, and aspiring towards executive positions in the world of our elders.

Zia waves to several men eating mutton biryani. I order a beer as we scan the menu. We order chicken tikka, prawn dopiazza, pea pulau and naan.

'This is where we solve the problems of the world,' Zia declares. 'The Taliban either disappear or become reasonable; suited politicians develop a social conscience; Israel and Palestine sort themselves out. A form of global egalitarianism is usually in place by midnight, before most of us stagger out to our cars. Then it's home to our wives, children and debts.'

'The unseating of imperialism brought about by altruistic vision, plans of noble deeds and gluttony.'

'Great dreams need to be nourished.'