The GPS assured that we had arrived: in place of the curving, lengthening arrow mark, there was the sprogged onion. The famous toddy shop was supposed to be on our left side. Instead of – as I imagined it to be – lit up like Merryland, parking attendants struggling hard to find space for customers coming in and harder to aid those leaving, lungis flying high mast, politics discussed in bigsie voices and people gathering around in an impromptu belching contest, it was a desolate stretch swamped in pitch dark.