Lost in Pattaya by Kishore Modak Read Free Book Online

squash seemed
commonplace, but when I turned on the lights, I noticed a neat snip on the side
of my T-shirt and another one at the bottom of my shorts. Both the cuts were
tidy, as if done with a pair of scissors, not hurriedly, just haphazardly,
making useless the articles of clothing attacked by the hands of wrath. Back in
my wardrobe, I realised all my clothes had a snip on them at various locations,
but all were cut and left neatly for me to find as I picked them out to wear.
    Was it still reasonable for me to harbour a
hope of a reunion with Fang Wei?
    At the Squash Club, I got a T-shirt and a
pair of shorts, which I changed into before joining the guys, courtside.
    “Hey, where have you been, missed whipping
your arse,” one of them quipped, seeing me come in.
    “Ya, we will see,” I simply said, smiling
and hi-fiving, like when one is happy to be in the company of squash friends.
    The games were good, though I did not hit
too well, given that my stamina had depleted in the strain of the weekend
behind me, but the abstinence for at least the last couple of days and the runs
and weights in the gym ensured that I saved some face. It also reaffirmed my
belief that with discipline, I would rise to play again at peak form.
    The squash had one major downside, it made
one want to sin, to compensate for what we squash players believe is physical
worship in the squash room. Prayer to us is the motion of running and hitting
the ball inside of the squash room.
    It is a ritual, like all prayers are.
    Outside, we settled for beers, me sliding
continuously for messages and updates on my phone from people who could salvage
my life. People like the policemen, who may have made a breakthrough; people
like my wife, who may soften into dialling my number for conversation; people
like Georgy, who may agree with my reason of logic that a business must be run
with. There were none and I simply slid and slipped on the phone, for others to
imagine that I was busy with matters.
    “You Ok man?” my buds asked, sweating in
the after-glow of a game, though they did not miss the droop my face assumed.
    “Yes, fine,” I said, begging leave, making
dates for another game on the following evening, before moving back to the flat
with a parcel of food in my hand. Nothing fancy, just a bed of rice with
succulent chicken, sliced and laid on top, a little accompaniment of
vinegar-chilli on the side.
    To play and to eat well, without Li Ya, was
I wrong, you judge?
    At home, I poured myself a drink from the
same bottle with the rough drawn sad emoticon, settling in front of the TV,
which refused stubbornly to come on despite the knocks and prods that I coaxed
its remote with. The remote was light with no batteries in it, just the same
thick lined emoticon at the base of the empty battery cavity. I ate and drank a
bit more without any TV. Then I drank a bit more, hoping the squash would
compensate for what the alcohol was draining away. I messaged Fang Wei, asking
for her to meet me, so we could talk. She never replied. I went to bed awake,
pictures of Li Ya kept flashing across my mind. Images from her short life with
me, and more disturbingly, images from the three long days that she had now
spent on her own, without me. The alcohol helped, at least temporarily, since I
finally fell asleep.
    When I awoke, I could hear sounds from what
had been Li Ya’s room. It was Fang Wei, all dressed and ready for work, as if
it was just another day. She was standing in front of Li Ya’s cabinet, inside
which were all of Fang Wei’s clothes; she had simply moved out of our room and
into Li Ya’s.
    “When did you get home? I tried reaching
you?” I said, rubbing my eyes, clearly in the aftermath of the night’s drinking
and the deprived sleep, which she may have noticed, given the smirk that
appeared on her face.
    “That is not a matter that you need to
concern yourself with,” she replied without looking at me.
    “Fang Wei, we have to sit and talk