The taxi stand is two streets down from the temple. There is a yellow-and-black taxi parked on the kerb and the driver is reading a newspaper inside the car. I knock on the window pane. 'Are you free?'

The driver, an old Sikh with an unkempt beard, unrolls the window and spits out something. 'Who needs the taxi?'

'I do.'

He looks at my dirty clothes and dusty face with unconcealed disdain. 'Oy, have you ever taken a taxi in your life? Do you know how much it costs?' he asks tartly.

'I have been riding in taxis all my life, sardarji,' I bark, surprised at the arrogance in my voice. I flash a couple of thousand-rupee notes in front of him. 'Now take me to Ansal Plaza. And make it quick.'

'Yes, Sahib.' The driver's demeanour changes immediately. 'Please get in.' He dumps the newspaper and cranks the meter.

I settle down on the back seat of a taxi for the first time in my life, cup my hands behind my head and stretch my legs. The high life has begun.

I shop with a vengeance at the upmarket mall. Everything which my heart has always desired but my wallet couldn't afford, I buy. I purchase a shirt from Marks & Spencer, a leather jacket from Benetton, jeans from Levi, sunglasses from Guess, perfume from Lacoste and shoes from Nike. I compress ten years of window-shopping into an hour of frenzied purchasing, blowing twenty thousand rupees in just these six stores. Then I go into the fancy toilets, wash my face and change, putting on my new jeans, shirt and shoes, with the leather jacket on top. I spray my body with the expensive perfume and stand in front of the full-length mirror. The man who stares back at me is a handsome stranger, tall and lean with a clean-shaven face and curly, tousled hair like actor Salim Ilyasi's. I snap my fingers at the mirror and strike a pose like Michael Jackson. Then I stuff my old clothes and shoes in a shopping bag and swagger out of the toilets in my dark glasses. A hep-looking girl in jeans and T-shirt glances at me appreciatively. Ten minutes ago she wouldn't have noticed me. It makes me realize how much garments can change a man. And I know that there is nothing intrinsically different about the rich. They just wear better clothes.

I feel like breaking into a jig and singing, 'Saala main to sahab ban gaya!' Munna Mobile has become a gentleman. And now he needs a rich lady friend.

I spend the rest of the evening in South Extension Market, watching the chic girls in their chic clothes. They alight from their expensive cars and enter expensive stores selling designer handbags and brand-name shoes. I follow a group of girls into the Reebok showroom and the guard at the entrance salutes me and holds open the door. The manager inside asks me if I would like a soft drink or a cup of tea. I laugh and chat with the sales girls. They flirt with me. The experience makes me feel all warm and happy inside. Stepping out of the centrally heated showroom, I decide to try the Deluxe Indian Restaurant next door. I have a lavish meal of butter chicken, seekh kebabs and naan bread, costing eight hundred rupees. Back again on the main street, I make a final survey of the stretch of brightly lit emporiums, their plexiglass windows full of dazzling goods. The lurid glitter of the city does not seem alien today. I, too, have become a denizen of its showy world.

My next stop is Infra Red, an exclusive dance club, considered to be the most hip and happening place in the capital after dark. Dinoo, a friend from the slum who worked there briefly as a waiter, had told me that the best-looking girls come to the joint, and 'half naked' too.

The taxi drops me right in front of the club's sparkling neonlit entrance. It is only nine p.m. but there is already a fairly long queue in front of the carved wooden door, which is blocked off by a velvet rope. Two muscular, bald bouncers in identical black suits stand in front of the door and screen customers. There are a couple of beggars on the pavement who line up hopefully before every car that pulls up. I get in the queue and reach the door after a fifteen-minute wait. One of the bouncers gives me a quick onceover. He nods to his partner, who asks me to fork out three thousand rupees as a 'cover charge for singles'. 'Three thousand rupees? That's outrageous!' I want to shout, but say nothing and strip off three more notes from my wad. I am given a voucher, the velvet rope is unhooked and I am ushered through the door. I go down nearly twenty steps to what seems like a basement. I can hear the distant sound of pumping music. The sound becomes louder as I reach another door. A uniformed doorman checks my voucher and presses a button. The door flips open and I step into a dimly lit hall packed with people. The music is so loud I fear my ear drums will shatter. Immediately to my right is a bar shaped like an island surrounded by small yellow sofas. To my left is the dance floor, a vast space constructed almost entirely of mirrors, with a massive strobe light hanging like a chandelier, flashing green, blue and yellow at regular intervals. The mood is celebratory and the floor is packed with swaying, sweaty bodies dancing with manic energy. The DJ sits some twenty feet above on a projecting balcony made of glass and steel. From time to time white smoke erupts from the middle of the dance floor like a ghostly fountain.

Dinoo wasn't wrong about the club. Every other girl wears a body-hugging dress, halter tops with plunging necklines expose half their breasts, short T-shirts leave midriffs bare and micro mini skirts barely conceal underwear. The dance floor has more skin on display than Fashion TV.

The smoke, the light, the music all contribute to an atmosphere of reckless abandon, as if India has been left behind and we are in some bold new country with its own rules and regulations.

As I become more accustomed to the translucent neon décor and the dim lighting, I recognize some famous faces sitting at the bar. There is Smriti Bakshi, the TV soap star, Simi Takia, the actress, and Chetan Jadeja, the former cricketer. Another familiarlooking man with gelled hair and bulging biceps is chatting to a foreigner. There is a group of girls in designer jeans and stiletto heels, looking like glamour models. Everyone seems important. I feel like I have gatecrashed a party full of movie stars and celebrities.

The bartender, a young man with slick hair and a bow tie, asks me if I would like a drink. 'What do you have?' I ask. 'Everything, Sir.' He points to the array of bottles stacked behind him. I try to eavesdrop on what the models are ordering. They ask for drinks like Long Island Ice Tea, Pina Colada and Strawberry Margarita which I have never heard of and flash their credit cards nonchalantly.

I feel like taking a leak and move to the men's toilets. As soon as I open the door I hear strange sounds. There are a couple of firang white girls inside, giggling and snorting cocaine at the washbasin. They glower at me, making me feel like an intruder. 'Go away,' says one.

I leave hurriedly and head for the dance floor. The DJ, who has been playing English music till now, puts on a remix from the film Dhoom 2 and a loud cheer goes up. It is a song I know very well, having seen the film no less than twelve times. I have memorized each and every move of Hrithik Roshan's amazing dance routine. And I am not alone. Every slum kid is a Michael Jackson waiting for his moment in the sun. It has always been my secret fantasy to go to a dance club one day where the DJ will put on my favourite number and I will show off the moves perfected over ten years of watching dance shows on TV. I will do the moonwalk and the spot shimmy, I will spin on my head and walk on my hands. The crowds will part and everyone will stand to the side, applauding my every move. But now, when I have the opportunity, I feel strangely nervous and diffident, as if my dancing will expose me as an impostor.