Maik presents an unshaven, scarred figure to the world, and the world has got as used to him as he has got to it. Now, in his early fifties, he has transcended all possible convocations and combinations of the German national character, and has reached a sort of pickled limbo in his mind. He is between stereotypes - and he is even between states of humanity. He is neither drunk nor sober, neither happy nor sad, neither desirous nor ever quite beyond desire. The nation of Germany means little to him, but he has lived in it and through it for longer than many who are concerned with nationality, and even in the hedonistic wilderness he has passed through, he has acquired a certain basic wisdom about himself and his place, and I for one enjoy that much of him.

Maik is, by all reasonable measures, an alcoholic. He may be among those that don’t acknowledge their own addiction, and every inch of him is definitely in denial, but this is not self-destructive denial, but rather having-too-much-fun-to-notice denial. This may be just as harmful, but you know, dear reader, there are worse ways to go.

Our story begins in Mumbai - but at a time, 1984, when it was still known as Bombay.