Second Lives by Anish Sarkar Read Free Book Online

sickening thud. A long swathe of colourful saree trailing from a crumpled form lying on the road. The truck speeding away with a loud screech. People running. Me sinking to the ground.
    I wondered how I had survived these nine terrible months. I had wept. Attempted suicide. Locked myself in a room for days. Drank until I passed out. Picked fights with strangers. Banged my head on a wall until it bled.
    The grief had now become a part of me. I had no more tears left to cry. Nothing left to punish myself with. I breathed. I ate. I slept. But I felt as lifeless as the two people who had been more precious to me than life itself.
    Especially because I had killed them. As surely as if I had been at the wheel of that truck.

    14
    Omar
    Writwik was right. We were wasting our time.
    Neel, Sara and I had already spent the better part of three days trying to find a ghost called Grigor. All we had was a description provided by one of Writwik’s staff reporters, who had met him once in Panjim. Short and squat, bald, blue eyes, handlebar moustache, arms covered in tattoos. He was distinctive enough, I imagined, and wouldn’t be difficult to recognise.
    Searching all of Goa for one man seemed a Herculean task. The obvious place to start was the hotels but there were hundreds of them, of course. It fell upon me to plan our little manhunt. I guessed that he wouldn’t be too far from Panjim, which meant that North Goa was the stretch to focus on. That, however, only reduced our problem by half. The next logical thing would be to begin with the shacks and hotels that were near the beach. The first day, we went to the twin beaches of Baga and Calangute, closest to Sara’s villa. These are the tourist hotspots of Goa but this was off-season and they weren’t overly crowded. Many of the beach shacks were closed.
    We tramped laboriously to each of the hotels. The names ranged from the exotic Villa Goesa and Estrela Do Mar to the more mundane Nitya Resort and Hotel Seagull. Most of the desk clerks were helpful but we drew a blank, as neither the name nor the description rang a bell with anyone. Over the rest of that day and the next, we ticked off Arambol, Morjim and Vagator; Sinquerim, Miramar, Dona Paula and Bogmalo. Our efforts yielded nothing except tired bodies and sore feet.
    Neel said flatly, ‘That prick Writwik was just bullshitting us. This is a wild-goose chase.’
    Sara gave him a reproachful look but didn’t say anything.
    We agreed that we would cover Anjuna on the fourth day, and give up after that.
    Though not the best beach in Goa, Anjuna is probably the most well-known, mainly for its rave parties on full-moon nights. I have been to one long ago and believe me, it’s a heady cocktail of drugs and sex. I hear the government has now cracked down on these illegal jamborees but they keep finding new places further inland to have them.
    Anjuna also has numerous nightclubs, bars, restaurants, bazaars, shacks and hotels; and draws foreign tourists in droves. Russians, Germans, Britishers, Israelis—anyone interested in a good time. It’s buzzing all year round. I decided to try the hangout joints I knew, instead of the hotels, since they were always full of people, and would be a good source of information.
    We first went to Curly’s, which was next to the flea market at the southern end of the beach. The trance music hit us even before we entered. It was relatively early, which explained the uncharacteristically sober crowd. I went up and spoke to the bartender, and he helpfully announced to everyone what we were there for.
    Several folks came forward to speak to us but all went away shaking their heads. One man wearing only a pair of dirty Bermudas and dreadlocks in his hair asked Sara if she wanted to join him for a drink. Neel was ready to take a swing at him but I put a restraining hand on his arm, for it wasn’t the time or place to pick a fight.
    We went on to the other restaurants and shacks—La Franza, Munchies,