The 3 Mistakes of My Life

  ‘Govind,’ Ish said, ‘we can’t do anything. Let’s go.’

  ‘We are finished Ish,’ I said, feeling moist in my eyes for the first time in a decade.

  ‘It’s ok buddy. We have to go,’ Ish said.

  ‘We lost everything. Look, our business collapsed even before it opened…’

  I broke down. I never cried the day my father left us. I never cried when my hand had got burnt one Diwali and Dr Verma had to give me sedatives to go to sleep. I never cried when India lost a match. I never cried when I couldn’t join engineering college. I never cried when we barely made any money for the first three months of business. But that day, when God slapped my city for no reason, I cried and cried. Ish held me and let me use his shirt to absorb my tears.

  ‘Govi, let’s go home,’ Ish said. He never shortened my name before. He’d never seen me like that too. Their CEO and parent had broken down.

  ‘We are cursed man. I saved, and I saved and I fucking saved. And we took loans. But then, this? Ish, I don’t want to see that smug look on Bittoo Mama’s face. I will work on the roadside,’ I said as Ish dragged me away to an auto.

  People must have thought I had lost a child. But when a businessman loses his business, it is similar. It is one thing when you take a business risk and suffer a loss, but this was unfair. Someone out there needed to realise this was fucking unfair.

  Ish bought a Frooti to calm me. It helped, especially since I didn’t eat anything else for the next two days. I think the rest of the Ambavadis didn’t either.

  I found out later that over thirty thousand people lost their lives. That is a stadium full of people. In Bhuj, ninety per cent of homes were destroyed. Schools and hospitals flattened to the ground. Overall in Gujarat, the quake damaged a million structures. One of those million structures included my future shop. In the large scheme of things, my loss was statistically irrelevant. In the narrow, selfish scheme of things, I suffered the most. The old city fared better than the new city. Somehow our grandfathers believed in cement more than the new mall owners.

  Compared to Gujarat, Ahmedabad had better luck, the TV channels said. The new city lost only fifty multi-storey buildings. They said only a few hundred people died in Ahmedabad compared to tens of thousands elsewhere. It is funny when hundreds of people dying is tagged with ‘only’. Each of those people would have had families, and hopes and aspirations all shattered in forty-five seconds. But that is how maths works – compared to thirty thousand, hundreds is a rounding error.

  I had not left home for a week. For the first three days I had burning fever, and for the next four my body felt stone cold.

  ‘Your fever is gone.’ Dr Verma checked my pulse.

  I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

  ‘You haven’t gone to the shop?’

  I shook my head, still horizontal on bed.

  ‘I didn’t expect this from you. You have heard of Navaldharis?’ Dr Verma said.

  I kept quiet.

  ‘You can talk. I haven’t put a thermometer in your mouth.’

  ‘No, who are they?’

  ‘Navaldharis is a hardcore entrepreneur community in Gujarat. Everyone there does business. And they say, a true Navaldhari businessman is one who can rise after being razed to the ground nine times.’

  ‘I am in debt, Doctor. I lost more money in one stroke than my business ever earned.’

  ‘There is no businessman in this world who has never lost money. There is no one who has learnt to ride a bicycle without falling off. There is no one who has loved without getting hurt. It’s all part of the game.’ Dr Verma shrugged.

  ‘I’m scared,’ I said, turning my face to the wall.

  ‘Stop talking like middle-class parents. So scared of losing money, they want their kids to serve others all their lives to get a safe salary.’

  ‘I have lost a lot.’

  ‘Yes, but age is on your side. You are young, you will earn it all back. You have no kids to feed, you have no household to maintain. And the other thing is, you have seen less money. You can live without it. ‘

  ‘I don’t feel like doing anything. This earthquake, why did this happen? Do you know our school is now a refugee camp?’

  ‘Yes, and what are the refugees doing? Lying in bed or trying to recover?’

  I tuned out the doctor. Everyone around me was giving me advice, good advice actually. But I was in no mood to listen. I was in no mood for anything. The shop? It would remain closed for a week more. Who would buy sports stuff after an earthquake?

  ‘Hope to see you out of bed tomorrow,’ Dr Verma said and left. The clock showed three in the afternoon. I kept staring at it until four.

  ‘May I come in, Govind sir,’ Vidya’s cheeky voice in my home sounded so strange that I sprang up on bed. And what was with the sir?

  She had the thick M.L. Khanna book and a notebook in her hand.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I pulled up my quilt to hide my pajamas and vest attire.

  She, of course, looked impeccable in her maroon and orange salwar kameez with matching mirror-work dupatta.

  ‘I got stuck with some sums. Thought I’d come here and ask since you were not well,’ she said, sitting down on a chair next to my bed.

  My mother came in the room with two cups of tea. I mimed to her for a shirt.

  ‘You want a shirt?’ she said, making my entire signalling exercise futile.

  ‘What sums?’ I asked curtly after mom left.

  ‘Maths is what I told my mom. Actually, I wanted to give you this.’ She extended the voluminous M.L. Khanna tome to me.

  What was that for? To solve problems while bedridden?

  My mother returned with a shirt and left. I held my shirt in one hand and the M.L. Khanna in another. Modesty vs Curiosity. I shoved the shirt aside and opened the book. A handmade, pink greeting card fell out.

  The card had a hand-drawn cartoon of a boy lying in bed. She had labelled it Govind, in case it wasn’t clear to me. Inside it said: ‘Get Well Soon’ in the cheesiest kiddy font imaginable. A poem underneath said:

  To my maths tutor/ passion guide/ sort-of-friend,

  I cannot fully understand your loss, but I can try.

  Sometimes life throws curve balls and you question why.

  There may be no answers, but I assure time will heal the wound.

  Here is wishing you a heartfelt ‘get well soon’.

  Your poorest performing student,

  Vidya

  ‘It’s not very good,’ she murmured.

  ‘I like it. I am sorry about the sort-of friend. I am just…,’ I said.

  ‘It’s ok. I like the tag. Makes it clear that studies are first, right?’

  I nodded.

  ‘How are you doing?’

  I overcame my urge to turn to the wall. ‘Life goes on. It has to. Maybe an air-conditioned mall is not for me.’

  ‘Of course, it is. It isn’t your fault. I am sure you will get there one day. Think about this, aren’t you lucky you weren’t in the shop already when it happened? Imagine the lives lost if the mall was open?’

  She had a point. I had to get over this. I had to re-accept Bittoo Mama’s smug face.

  I returned her M.L. Khanna and kept the card under my pillow.

  ‘Ish said you haven’t come to the shop.’

  ‘The shop is open?’ I said. Ish and Omi met me every evening but never mentioned it.

  ‘Yeah, you should see bhaiya struggle with the accounts at home. Take tuitions for him, too,’ she giggled. ‘I’ll leave now. About my classes, no rush really.’

  ‘I’ll be there next Wednesday,’ I called out.

  ‘Nice girl,’ my mother said carefully. ‘You like her?’

  ‘No. Horrible student.’

  Ish and Omi came at night when I had finished my unappetising dinner of boiled vegetables.

  ‘How are you running the shop?’ my energetic voice surprised them.

  ‘You sound better,’ Ish said.

/>   ‘Who is doing the accounts?’ I said and sat up.

  Omi pointed at Ish.

  ‘And? What is it? A two for one sale?’

  ‘We haven’t given any discounts all week,’ Ish said and sat next to me on the bed.

  Ish pulled at my pillow to be more comfortable. ‘Wait,’ I said, jamming the pillow with my elbow.

  ‘What’s that?’ Ish said and smiled as he saw an inch of pink paper under my pillow.

  ‘Nothing. None of your business,’ I said. Of course it was his business, it was his sister.

  ‘Card?’ Omi said.

  ‘Yes, from my cousin,’ I said.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Ish came to tickle me, to release my death grip on the pillow.

  ‘Stop it’, I said, trying to appear light hearted. My heart beat fast as I pinned the pillow down hard.

  ‘Pandit’s daughter, isn’t it?’ Omi chuckled.

  ‘Whatever,’ I said, sitting on the pillow as a desperate measure.

  ‘Mixing business with pleasure?’ Ish said and laughed.

  I joined in the laughter to encourage the deception.

  ‘Come back,’ Ish said.

  ‘The loans … It’s all my fault,’ I told the wall.

  ‘Mama said we can continue to use the shop,’ Omi said.

  ‘No conditions?’ I said, surprised.

  ‘Not really,’ Omi said.

  ‘And that means?’

  ‘It is understood we need to help him in his campaign,’ Ish said. ‘Don’t worry, you don’t have to do anything. Omi and I will help.’

  ‘We have to pay his loan back fast. We have to,’ I said.

  ‘We’ll get over this,’ Ish looked me in the eye. Brave words, but for the first time believable.

  ‘I am sorry I invested…,’ I felt I had to apologise, but Omi interrupted me.

  ‘We did it together as business partners. And you are the smartest of us.’

  I was not sure if his last line was correct anymore. I was a disaster as a businessman.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ I said.

  After they left, I pulled out the card again and smoothed the creases. I read the card eight times before falling asleep.

  My break from work brought out hidden skills in my friends. Save a few calculation errors, they managed the accounts just fine. They tabulated daily sales, had their prices right and had offered no discounts. The shop was clean and things were easy to find. Maybe one day I could create businesses and be hands-off. I checked myself from dreaming again. India is not a place for dreams. Especially when you have failed once. I finally saw the sense inherent in the Hindu philosophy of being satisfied with what one had, rather than yearn for more. It wasn’t some cool philosophy that ancient sages invented, but a survival mantra in a country where desires are routinely crushed. This shop in the temple was my destiny, and earning that meagre income from it my karma. More was not meant to be. I breathed out, felt better and opened the cash drawer.

  ‘Pretty low for two weeks. But first the earthquake, and now the India-Australia series,’ Ish said from his corner.

  ‘People really don’t have a reason to play anymore,’ Omi said.

  ‘No, no. It’s fine. What’s happening in the series?’ I said. I had lost track of the cricket schedule.

  ‘India lost the first test. Two more to go. The next one is in Calcutta,’ Ish said.

  ‘Damn. One-days?’

  ‘Five of them, yet to start,’ Omi said. ‘I wouldn’t get my hopes high. These Australians are made of something else.’

  ‘I’d love to know how the Australians do it,’ Ish said.

  Mama’s arrival broke up our chat. ‘Samosas, hot, careful,’ he said, placing a brown bag on the counter.

  In my earlier avatar, this was my cue to frown, to comment about the grease spoiling the counter. However, the new post-quake Govind no longer saw Mama as hostile. We sat in the sunny courtyard having tea and samosas. They tasted delicious, I think samosas are the best snack known to man.

  ‘Try to forget what happened,’ Mama sighed. ‘I have never seen such devastation.’

  ‘How was your trip?’ Omi said. Mama had just returned from Bhuj. ‘Misery everywhere. We need camps all over Gujarat. But how much can Parekh-ji do?’

  Mama had stayed up nights to set up the makeshift relief camp at the Belrampur school. Parekh-ji had sent truckloads of grain, pulses and other supplies. People had finally begun to move out and regain their lives.

  ‘We’ll close the camp in three weeks,’ Mama said to Omi, ‘and I can go back to my main cause, Ayodhya.’

  The camp had won Mama many fans in the neighbourhood. Technically, anyone could seek refuge. However, a Muslim family would rarely go there for help. Even if they did, camp managers handed out rations but emphasised that everyone in the camp was a Hindu. Despite this soft discrimination, the new-me found it a noble exercise.

  ‘Mama, about your loan,’ I turned to him, but he did not hear me.

  ‘My son is coming with me to Ayodhya. You guys should join,’ he said. He saw our reluctant faces and added, ‘I mean after you restore the business.’

  ‘We can help here, Mama,’ Omi said. ‘Is there any project after the camp?’

  ‘Oh yes, the spoonful of mud campaign,’ Mama said.

  We looked puzzled.

  ‘We are going to Ayodhya for a reason. We will get gunnybags full of soil from there. We will go to every Hindu house in Belrampur and ask them if they want a spoon of mud from Rama’s birthplace in their house. They can put it in their backyard, mix it with plants or whatever. A great idea from Parekh-ji.’

  I saw Parekh-ji’s twisted but impeccable logic. No one would say no to a spoonful of soil from Ayodhya. But with that, they were inadvertently buying into the cause. Sympathy for people fighting for Ayodhya would be automatic. And sympathy converted well into votes.

  Mama noted the cynicism in my expression.

  ‘Only a marketing strategy for a small campaign. The other party does it at a far bigger scale.’

  I picked up another samosa.

  ‘It’s ok, Mama. Politics confuses me,’ I said. ‘I can’t comment. We will help you. You have saved our livelihood, we are forever indebted.’

  ‘You are my kids. How can you be indebted to your father?’

  ‘Business is down, but on the revised loan instalments…,’ but Mama cut me again.

  ‘Forget it, sons. You faced a calamity. Pay when you can. And now you are members of our party, right?’

  Mama stood up to hug us. I half-heartedly hugged him back. I felt sick owing people money. ‘Mama, I am sorry. I was arrogant, rude and disrespectful. I realise my destiny is this shop. Maybe God intended it this way and I accept it,’ I said.

  ‘We are all like that when young. But you have started believing in God?’ Mama said and beamed.

  ‘I’m just less agnostic now.’

  ‘Son, this is the best news I’ve heard today,’ Mama said. ‘Something good has come out of all this loss.’

  A man dragged a heavy wooden trunk into our shop. ‘Who’s that? Oh, Pandit-ji?’ I said.

  Pandit-ji panted, his white face a rosy red. He arranged the trunk on the floor. ‘A sports shop closed down. The guy could not pay. He paid me with trunks full of goods. I need cash, so I thought I will bring this to you.’

  ‘I have no cash either,’ I said as I offered him a samosa. ‘Panditji, business is terrible.’

  ‘Who’s asking you for cash now? Just keep it in your shop. I’ll send one more trunk. Whatever sells, you keep half and give me half. Just this one trunk is worth ten thousand. I have six more at home. What say?’

  I took in the trunks as I had no risk. We needed a miracle to move that many goods. Of course, I wasn’t aware that the second test match of the India Australia series would be one.

  Mama introduced himself to Pandit-ji. They started talking like grown-ups do, exchanging hometowns, castes and sub-castes.

  ‘We are late,’ Ish whi
spered, but loud enough for Mama and Pandit-ji to hear.

  ‘You have to go somewhere?’ Mama said.

  ‘Yes, to a cricket match. One of the students we coach is playing,’ Ish said, avoiding Ali’s name.

  Omi downed the shutters of the shop. Omi signalled and all of us bent to touch Mama’s feet.

  ‘My sons,’ Mama said as he held a palm over our heads and blessed us.

  ‘Don’t worry about that idiot from that stupid team. You creamed them,’ Ish said to Ali.

  We returned from a neighbourhood match. Ali’s side had won with him scoring the highest. Ali lasted eight overs. Ish looked pleased that the training was finally showing results. However, our celebratory mood dampened as the opposing team’s captain kicked Ali in the knee before running away.

  ‘Will they hurt me again?’ Ali said.

  ‘No, because I will hurt them before anyone touches you,’ Ish said, kissing Ali’s forehead, Ish would make a good father. Not like his own father who never said one pleasant sentence.

  Omi picked up a limping Ali. ‘I’ll take him to the shop,’ Omi said. ‘And ask ma to make him some turmeric milk. You guys get dinner, whatever he wants.’

  ‘I want kebabs,’ Ali said promptly.

  ‘Kebabs? In the shop?’ I hesitated.

  ‘Fine, just don’t tell anyone,’ Omi said.

  ‘He’s ready,’ Ish said. His face glowed behind the smoke of roasting kebabs at Qazi dhaba. ‘Did you see him play? He can wait, run and support others. He plays along until time comes for the big hits. Fielding sucks, but other than that, he is perfect. He is ready, man.’ The smell of chicken tikka filled my nostrils. Omi was really missing a lot in life. ‘For what?’ I asked.

  ‘Australia is touring India at present, right?’ Ish said as the waiter packed our order of rumali rotis, lamb skewers and chicken tikka with onions and green chutney.

  ‘So?’ I said.

  ‘He is ready to meet the Australians.’

  Ten

  India vs Australia Test Match

  Kolkata, 11-15 March 2001

  Day 1

  Most of the time crap happens in life. However, sometimes miracles do too. To us, the second test match of the India-Australia series was the magic cure for the quake. I remember every day of that match. Ish continued with his weird and highly improbable ideas of making Ali meet the Australian team.