Walking a few more steps ahead, Lara brought them to a shack made with concrete walls but a thatched roof—much bigger than the ones in the vicinity. She entered with an air of familiarity, nodding at a few people here and there. Filip kept close to her while looking around.

Men of all ages were sitting on narrow wooden benches drinking. It wasn't a most unusual sight in Goa, but what caught Filip's attention were the girls spinning under disco lights to Bollywood music, quite acceptably covered up in low-back blouses and see-through saris, while men held up fans of fifty and hundred-rupee notes for the girls to choose from.

For some reason, he couldn't bring out his DSLR to capture all the exotic before him. This was another life, as many would know it. He wasn't part of it, never ventured to be a part of it.

"Don't get wrong ideas. These girls work hard. They are not coerced to leave with someone for the night. If they need quick money, they do it of their own choice."

A twelve maybe thirteen-year-old boy put a plate with half-boiled eggs down on a table as his customer shook out the last drops from a glass into his mouth.

"What about them? Isn't child labour illegal?"

"What about two square meals a day and a small wage, plus occasional tips from the regulars? And no one dares to touch them. They make any mistake, the owner talks to the customer."

She cocked her brow challenging his sound judgment. Filip was left with no other choice than to acquiesce. He held up his hands and said, "No comments."

"Good."

Protected from the sting of the afternoon sun, and located at some obscure part of the city, invisible to the naked eye, this place catered to a diverse crowd of touts, hangers-on, coolies, agents, pawn-brokers, petty businessmen and here and there small-timers who wouldn't have crossed paths otherwise. For some of them, this could be an ideal retreat from their misfortunes and misery. Filip looked at the dancing girls in a new light; they deserved a dedicated section under the community helper's chapter in the school curriculum.

"Who is the owner?"

"Good question." 

When Lara was not forthcoming, Filip prodded, "That's it? No more information, huh?"

She threw him a sly smirk and angled around the side of the shack to enter another smaller shack. There were garish clothes slung to the window ledges and draped on a rickety wooden stool that faced a long rectangular mirror with a cracked plastic frame. Matching accessories were scattered around the ground. Strong odours of hair sprays, cheap perfumes, make-up, and nail polish hung in the air that threatened to clog his nose.

"Wait here," she said and left him, closing the door slightly behind leaving him in semi-darkness. There were a couple of hours left until sunset, yet the place was gloomy and shabby. Light peeked through the braided coconut palm thatches forming a dull trellis on the walls all around. Fil made valiant efforts to hear his own thoughts, yet they were drowned in the shrill notes of the Bollywood song that leaked from the dance bar.

He stepped closer to the mirror and all he could see was a bedraggled person— muddy shoe, a wrinkled t-shirt with sweat stains around armpits, unwashed jeans with unknown smudges, frazzled hair, and a cut chin with dried blood that matted his unkempt beard. He closed his eyes with a sigh and muttered, "Oh shit!"

Not that he wanted to look his best when he eventually met this enigmatic person, but Filip always tried to be presentable. His mother had drilled the idea that first impressions are the best, and he adhered to it like there was no tomorrow. Had he looked this pathetic when he met Fernandes? Some impression he would've made on the would-be mayor of the capital city.

He edged back and through the slit in the doorway, he could see just the bare feet of the dance girls and unseated bottoms of their patrons, and occasionally the round gleam of bottles. He recognized Lara, and so was unable to turn away. He saw her sip a drink, and talk to another person. He couldn't see much of this person past the moving bodies of the dancing girls and their admirers. After a moment, his gaze met Lara's uncertain eyes, and he was disappointed.

There was no point in waiting there any longer; Filip strode past the ever-growing customers of the dance bar to exit in peace, as the day reached its death paving way for the birth of the night.

"I thought you would be lucky today," she said, quickly following Filip out of the place as well. He only shrugged, and they lapsed into silence.

They walked lost in their thoughts when Filip broke it. "Why the painting?"

"Hmm? What do you mean?"

He cleared his throat and asked, "Why did you pose for the painting?"

"Why not? Didn't I look just fabulous?"

He scoffed. "Far from it. You weren't shy but surely out of place."

"How can you say?"

"I'm an artist. Not a painter but a photographer. I can make out certain things. Something like instinct. Am I making sense?"

"You mean gut feeling?"

"Yeah exactly. So why did you do it? And why do it in such a place? Why on a wall? Why not a canvas or at least on stock paper?"

"So many questions? And you are expecting some kind of answers from me?"

When Fil nodded his head in affirmation, she continued, "Hmm...Let's see, I can't answer the first one. It is not my secret to share. As for the rest, what if I say, we could only afford that room and always had plans of going back there, and the painting was done on a whim so no time to get a canvas?"

"You could say that, but is that the truth?"

"Maybe, maybe not. But why do you need the truth?"

"I don't know. Fascination. Want to know about a fellow artist. A talented one for sure," he offered and Lara made no reply, he continued, "Tell me, which serious painter goes around without his tools?"

"I'm not one. So, I don't know."

He felt her eyes on him and turned sideways to look at her. "What?"

"Nothing."

"I don't believe you."

"Fair enough because we are both strangers."

Tired of their endless banter and with not much headway, Filip wanted to get back to his dingy apartment. It was not exactly his ideal retreat but a much better bet than anything else around there. However, the prospect of watching Lara in all her naked glory dulled his zeal to get back. He resolved to plaster some newspapers on that fresco until he returned to London.

"Where to now?" Filip asked to get away from her as fast as possible. For a moment, she gazed at him. She then halted mid-stride, which forced Filip to halt as he expectantly looked at her.

"I'm heading back to my place," she said.

"Okay, which way?"

"You are not invited."

"Oh, Lord! Can we just get over that? I'm not here for it."

She let out a short laugh and said, "You are not that bad!"

"Glad you think that."

"It is not every day I meet someone who has seen me nude. Ok in a painting but still, yet wants to know about the artist," she declared startling Filip. 

He waited for her to add something, anything but when she uttered nothing more, he mused, "You must think, I'm a fool."

"You have no idea what I'm thinking. I seriously wished you were lucky today."

After a beat, she continued, "What's your cell phone number? I'll let you know about your mystery artist as soon as I hear from them."

With eager hands, Filip pulled his phone out from the back pocket of his jeans, "Tell me yours, I'll call back."

"No, it doesn't work that way. Jot down your number on a piece of paper and give it. I don't share my number with strangers."

"But am I a stranger? As you said, I've already seen all of you."

"Hmm, trying to beat me at my own game? Be careful, you might lose. I want your number on a piece of paper. If not, it's your loss, not mine."

"Ok ok. You drive a hard bargain. Here, take this. That's my local number for as long as I stay here."

"How long will you be here, Fil?"

"Eleven days to be precise."

"Okay. Here we part. To get back to your hotel, walk a little ahead. You'll find an auto-rickshaw stand. Tell them you are my customer, they'll drop you wherever you want."

"Am I though?"

"No and never will be."

He ignored her statement and instead asked, "What do you do for a living, Lara?"

"Back with the questions? You don't tire, huh? Look Fil, I need to go. We'll do this some other time, yeah? Bye"

"Okay take care. And Lara? Thanks for today."

"No problem."

Fil came back to his room wearied with a bunch of newspaper rolls. He had got them from Tony after a familiar conversation along the lines, "Are you coming from the carnival?" "Disco dance party tomorrow, you coming?" involving a few more 'comes' that for once did not weird him out.

When he had enquired about this 'disco dance party' he had learnt it was to be held at the Club Noite in Sao Jacinto, a very tiny, peaceful island located in the estuary of river Zuari of the Vasco shores.

At a quarter past eleven, Filip stripped and threw his filthy clothes into a cloth bag. He had found a dhobi nearby who charged a nominal amount to wash and press his clothes, not that he had brought many of them, yet he needn't think of that task.

He then stood under a drubbing stream of cold water, his face held up to it. He had learnt the pressure in the pipes was good late nights and the shower functioned as it should, so he lingered under it, moving around to wash away all the grime of the day. He was thinking, despite himself and the rush of water in his ears, about his strange quest.

After his refreshing shower, he changed into fresh clothes and lay on his bed. There was no sleep yet, however tired he was, and despite his yearning for it, he knew.

He relaxed on the bed, with a bottle of Black Dog Scotch whisky, club soda, and water on the table next to him. He drank in precise pint-sized sips, timed on regular intervals. It was a local brand and many had sworn by it.

He allowed himself one tall glass at the end of working days even in London, which he occasionally shared with his mother, and had been resisting the urge of late to go for two. He looked out from the window, so he could watch the dark silent sea with no visible waves.

To the left was a lone chapel, the building next door, with its crenelated parapet throwing dark shadows due to the amorphous, relentless yellow light of the sodium-vapour lamp hung high above. There was a perfectly round moon hanging low over the staggered oblongs of the roofs, over the dark edge of soggy swamps and the row of thatched shacks and the sea beyond.

Filip stood up. Leaning against the side of the window, he finished the scotch, tipping the glass far over to get the last drop. He leaned out, trying to find a breeze. Though the room was sea-facing, the horizon was hazy and far, with lights burning hard underneath. He looked down, and saw a glint on the road far below.

He thought suddenly how easy it would be to keep leaning over, tipping until gravity sucked him. He saw himself dropping, the t-shirt fretting frantically, with cool breeze raising goosebumps on his chest and stomach underneath and his bare legs with his red and black flip-flops plummeting.

There could be certain torque acting on his body bringing his heavy head down first —just like the head of the shuttlecock which always turns around to be hit again— that could lead to a quick crack of his skull and then silence.

Fil stepped back from the window. He put the glass down on the table, very carefully. Where did that come from? He said it aloud, "Where did that come from?"

Then he sat on the floor, his thighs burning in pain as he had walked everywhere today. He put both his hands on the wall and looked at the painting of the door. Why a door of all things? What did this person want to explore? Was it a means to escape?

He was quiet.

Men, his mother said, were insane sometimes. He had always argued that men were more logical which never failed them; they always thought with their heads. Sometimes, the logic went to bed, a little tired and worn out, that's when the crazy sets in. 

 Was that the reason?

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WC - 2228