The 3 Mistakes of My Life

  A nurse came peeking into the room on hearing my loud voice. We became quiet. The clock showed midnight.

  He sat there stunned. Everyone had behaved nicely with him today. I stood up and turned away from him.

  ‘I know what a friend is,’ he said at last.

  I sat down next to him.

  ‘I do know what a friend is. Because I had two, the best ones in the world.’

  One

  India vs South Africa

  4th ODI, Vadodra

  17 March 2000

  Over 45

  ‘Why the fuck did you have to move?’ Ishaan’s scream drowned out the stadium din on the TV. I had shifted up to a sofa from the floor.

  ‘Huh?’ I said. We were in Ishaan’s house – Ishaan, Omi and I. Ishaan’s mom had brought in tea and khakra for us. ‘It is more comfortable to snack on the sofa. That is why I moved.’

  ‘Tendulkar’s gone. Fuck, now at this stage. Omi, don’t you dare move now. Nobody moves for the next five overs.’

  I looked at the TV. We were chasing 283 to win. India’s score a ball ago was 256-2 after forty-five overs. Twenty-seven runs in five overs, with eight wickets to spare and Tendulkar on the crease. A cakewalk. The odds were still in India’s favour, but Tendulkar was out. And that explained the frowns on Ishaan’s forehead.

  ‘The khakra’s crispy,’ Omi said. Ishaan glared at Omi, chiding him for his shallow sensory pleasure in a moment of national grief. Omi and I kept our tea cups aside and looked suitably mournful.

  The crowd clapped as Tendulkar made his exit. Jadeja came to the crease and added six more runs. End of forty-six overs, India 262/3. Twenty-one more runs to win in four overs, with seven wickets in hand.

  Over 46

  ‘He made 122. The guy did his job. Just a few final closing shots left. Why are you getting so worked up?’ I asked during a commercial break. I reached for my tea cup, but Ishaan signalled me to leave it alone. We were not going to indulge until the fate of the match was decided. Ishaan was pissed with us anyway. The match was in Vadodra, just two hours away from Ahmedabad. But we could not go – one, because we didn’t have money, and two, because I had my correspondence exams in two days. Of course, I had wasted the whole day watching the match on TV instead, so reason number two did not really hold much weight.

  ‘It is 5.25 runs required per over,’ I said, not able to resist doing a mathematical calculation. That is one reason I like cricket, there is so much maths in it.

  ‘You don’t know this team. Tendulkar goes, they panic. It isn’t about the average. It is like the queen bee is dead, and the hive loses order,’ Ishaan said.

  Omi nodded, as he normally does to whatever Ishaan has to say about cricket.

  ‘Anyway, I hope you realise, we didn’t meet today to see this match. We have to decide what Mr Ishaan is doing about his future, right?’ I said.

  Ishaan had always avoided this topic ever since he ran away from NDA a year ago. His dad had already sarcastically commented, ‘Cut a cake today to celebrate one year of your uselessness.’

  However, today I had a plan. I needed to sit them down to talk about our lives. Of course, against cricket, life is second priority.

  ‘Later,’ Ishaan said, staring avidly at a pimple cream commercial.

  ‘Later when Ishaan? I have an idea that works for all of us. We don’t have a lot of choice, do we?’

  ‘All of us? Me, too?’ Omi quizzed, already excited. Idiots like him love to be part of something, anything. However, this time we needed Omi.

  ‘Yes, you play a critical role Omi. But later when Ish? When?’

  ‘Oh, stop it! Look, the match is starting. Ok, over dinner. Let’s go to Gopi,’ Ish said.

  ‘Gopi? Who’s paying?’ I was interrupted as the match began.

  Beep, beep, beep. The horn of a car broke our conversation. A car zoomed outside the pol.

  ‘What the hell! I am going to teach this bastard a lesson,’ Ish said, looking out the window.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Bloody son of a rich dad. Comes and circles around our house everyday.’

  ‘Why?’ I said.

  ‘For Vidya. He used to be in coaching classes with her. She complained about him there too,’ Ish said.

  Beep, beep, beep, the car came near the house again.

  ‘Damn, I don’t want to miss this match,’ Ish said as he saw India hit a four. Ish picked up his bat. We ran out the house. The silver Esteem circled the pol and came back for another round of serenading. Ish stood in front of the car and asked the boy to stop. The Esteem halted in front of Ish. Ish went to the driver, an adolescent.

  ‘Excuse me, your headlight is hanging out.’

  ‘Really?’ the boy said and shut off the ignition. He stepped outside and came to the front.

  Ish grabbed the boy’s head from behind and smashed his face into the bonnet. He proceeded to strike the headlight with his bat. The glass broke and the bulb hung out.

  ‘What’s your problem,’ the boy said, blood spurting out of his nose.

  ‘You tell me what’s up? You like pressing horns?’ Ish said.

  Ish grabbed his collar and gave six non-stop slaps across his face. Omi picked up the bat and smashed the windscreen. The glass broke into a million pieces. People on the street gathered around as there is nothing quite as entertaining as a street fight.

  The boy shivered in pain and fear. What would he tell his daddy about his broken car and face?

  Ish’s dad heard the commotion and came out of the house. Ish held the boy in an elbow lock. The boy was struggling to breathe.

  ‘Leave him,’ Ish’s dad said.

  Ish gripped him tighter.

  ‘I said leave him,’ Ish’s dad shouted, ‘what’s going on here?’

  ‘He has been troubling Vidya since last week,’ Ish said. He kicked the boy’s face with his knee and released him. The boy kneeled on the floor and sucked in air. The last kick from Ish had smeared the blood from his nose across his face.

  ‘And what do you think you are doing?’ Ish’s dad asked him.

  ‘Teaching him a lesson,’ Ish said and unhooked his bat stuck in the windscreen.

  ‘Really, when will you learn your lessons?’ Ish’s dad said to him.

  Ish turned away.

  ‘You go now,’ Ish’s dad said to the beeping driver, who folded his hands. Seeing that no one cared about his apology, he trudged back to his car.

  Ish’s dad turned to his neighbours. ‘For one whole year he’s been sitting at home. Ran away from the army of his own country and then wants to teach lessons to others! He and his loafer friends hanging around the house all day long.’

  One sidelong glance at his dad and Ish walked back home.

  ‘Where the hell are you going now?’ Ish’s dad said.

  ‘Match. Why? You want to curse me some more?’ Ish said.

  ‘When you’ve wasted your entire life, what’s another day?’ Ish’s father said and the neighbours half-nodded their heads in sympathy.

  We missed the final five overs of the match. Luckily, India won and Ish didn’t get that upset.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ Ishaan jumped. ‘Gopi on me tonight.’ I love idiots.

  Actually, Ishaan is not an idiot. At least not as much as Omi. It is just that both of them suck at studies, especially maths, and I am good at it. Hence, I have this chip on my shoulder. It does sound a bit conceited, but it is the only chip on my shoulder. For instance, I am easily the poorest of the three (though I will be the richest one day), even though Ishaan and Omi aren’t particularly wealthy. Ishaan’s dad works in the telephone exchange, and while they have lots of phones in the house, the salary is modest. Omi’s dad is the priest of the Swamibhakti temple, which actually belongs to Omi’s mom’s family for generations. And that does not pay well either. But still, they are a lot better off than me and my mom. My mom runs a small Gujarati snacks business, and the little bit of money I make from tuitions helps us get by, but that’s about i
t.

  ‘We won, we won the series 3-1,’ Omi repeated what he read on the TV screen. Of course, it would have been too much for him to express such original insight. Some say Omi was born stupid, while some say he became stupid after a cork ball hit him on the head in Class VI. I didn’t know the reason, but I did know that maybe the best idea for him would be to become a priest. He wouldn’t have much of a career otherwise, given that he barely scraped through Class XII, after repeating the maths compartment exam twice. But he didn’t want to be a priest, so my plan was the best one.

  I ate the khakra. My mother made it better than Ishaan’s mom. We were professionals after all.

  ‘I’ll go home to change and then we will go to Gopi, ok?’ I said as Ishaan and Omi were still dancing. Dancing after an Indian victory was a ritual we had started when we were eleven, one that should have stopped by thirteen. However, here we were at twenty-one, jigging like juveniles. Ok, so we won, someone had to. In mathematical terms, there was a pretty good probability – did it really need jumping around?

  I walked back home.

  The narrow lanes of the old city were bustling with the evening crowd. My house and Ishaan’s were only half a kilometre apart. Everything in my world fell between this distance. I passed by the Nana Park, extra packed with kids playing cricket as India had won the match. I played here almost every day of my school life. We still come here sometimes, but now we prefer the abandoned bank branch compound near my home.

  A tennis ball landed at my feet. A sweaty twelve-year-old boy came running to me. I picked up the ball for him. Nana Park is where I had first met Ishaan and Omi, over fifteen years ago. There was no dramatic moment that marked the start of our friendship. Maybe we sized each other up as the only six-year-olds in the ground and started playing together.

  Like most neighbourhood kids, we went to the Belrampur Municipal School, hundred metres down Nana Park. Of course, only I studied while Ish and Omi ran to the park at every opportunity.

  Three bicycles tried to overtake each other in the narrow by lane. I had to step inside Qazi restaurant to let them pass. A scent of fried coriander and garlic filled the narrow room. The cook prepared dinner, a bigger feast than usual as India had won the match. Ishaan and I came here sometimes (without telling Omi, of course) for the cheap food and extraordinary mutton. The owner assured us ‘small mutton’, implying goat and not beef. I believed him, as he would not have survived in the neighbourhood if he served beef. I wanted to eat here instead of Gopi. But we had promised Gopi to Omi, and the food was fantastic there as well. Food is a passion here, especially as Gujarat is a dry state. People here get drunk on food.

  Yes, Ahmedabad is my city. It is strange, but if you have had happy times in a city for a long time, you consider it the best city in the world. I feel the same about Ahmedabad. I know it is not one of those hip cities like Delhi, Bombay or Bangalore. I know people in these cities think of Ahmedabad as a small town, though that is not really the case. Ahmedabad is the sixth largest city in India, with a population of over five million. But I guess if you have to emphasise the importance of something, then it probably isn’t as important in the first place. I could tell you that Ahmedabad has better multiplexes than Delhi or nicer roads than Bombay or better restaurants than Bangalore – but you will not believe me. Or even if you do, you won’t give a damn. I know Belrampur is not Bandra, but why should I defend being called a small-townperson as if it is a bad thing? A funny thing about small towns is that people say it is the real India. I guess they do acknowledge that at one level the India of the big cities is fake. Yes, I am from the old city of Ambavad and proud of it. We don’t have as many fashion shows and we still like our women to wear clothes. I don’t see anything wrong with that.

  I stepped out of Qazi and continued my way home, turning in the pol towards Omi’s temple. Of course, we called it Omi’s temple because he lived there, but the official name was the Swamibhakti temple. As I entered the by lane, two people fought over garbage disposal around the crammed pol.

  There are things about my small town neighbourhood that I want to change. In some ways, it is way behind the rest of Ahmedabad. For one, the whole old city could be a lot cleaner. The new city across the other side of the Sabarmati river has gleaming glass and steel buildings, while the old city finds it difficult to get rubbish cleared on time.

  I want to change another thing. I want to stop the gossip theories people come up with about other people. Like the theory about Omi becoming stupid because a cricket ball hit him. There is no basis for it, but every pol in Belrampur talks about it. Or the theory that Ish was thrown out of NDA and did not run away. I know for a fact that it is not true. Ish cannot handle unquestioned authority, and even though he was really excited about the army (which was his only option), he could not stand some Major ordering him around for the next two decades of his life. So he paid the penalty, cited personal reasons like ailing parents or something and ran right back to Belrampur.

  And of course, what I want to stop the most – the weirdest theory that I became emotionless the day dad left us. Dad left mom and me over ten years ago, for we found out he had a second wife across town. As far as I can remember, I was never good with emotional stuff. I love maths, I love logic and those subjects have no place for emotion. I think human beings waste too much time on emotions. The prime example is my mother. Dad’s departure was followed by months of crying with every lady in every pol coming down to sympathise with her. She spent another year consulting astrologers as to which planet caused dad to move out, and when will that position change. Thereafter, a string of grandaunts came to live with her as she could not bring herself to stay alone. It wasn’t until I turned fifteen and understood how the world worked that I could coax her into opening the snacks business. Of course, my coaxing was part of it, the rest of it was that all her jewellery was officially sold by then.

  Her snacks were great, but she was no businessman. Emotional people make terrible businessmen. She would sell on credit and buy on cash – the first mistake a small business can make. Next, she would keep no accounts. The home spending money was often mixed with the business money, and we frequently had months where the choice was to buy either rice for our consumption or black pepper for the papads.

  Meanwhile, I studied as much as I could. Our school was not Oxford, and emphasis on studies was low with more teachers bunking classes than students. Still, I topped maths every single year. People thought I was gifted when I hit a hundred in maths in class X. For me, it was no big deal. For once, the gossip vine helped. The news of my score spread across pols, and we had a new source of income – tuitions. I was the only maths tutor in Belrampur, and bad maths scores had reached epidemic proportions. Along with khaman and khakra, trigonometry and algebra became sources of income in the Patel household. Of course, it was a poor neighbourhood, so people could not pay much. Still, another thousand bucks a month was a lifestyle changing event for us. From fan, we graduated to cooler. From chairs, we went to a secondhand sofa. Life became good.

  I reached Omi’s temple. The loud rhythmic chime of the bell interrupted my thoughts. I checked my watch, it was 6 p.m., the daily aarti time. I saw Omi’s dad from a distance, his eyes closed as he chanted the mantras. Even though I was an agnostic, there was something amazing about his face – it had genuine feeling for the God he prayed to. No wonder he was among the most liked people in the community. Omi’s mother was beside him, her maroon saree draped along her head and hands folded. Next to her was Bittoo Mama, Omi’s maternal uncle. He was dressed in a white dhoti and saffron scarf. His huge biceps seemed even larger with his folded hands. His eyes, too, were transfixed in genuine admiration for the idols of Krishna and Radha.

  Omi would get into trouble for reaching the aarti late. It would not be the first time though, as matches in Nana Park were at a crucial stage around 6 p.m.

  ‘How was the match?’ mom said as I reached home. She stood outside the house.

  She h
ad just finished loading a hired auto with fresh dhokla for a marriage party. Finally, my mother could delegate routine tasks like delivery and focus on her core competence – cooking. She took out a dhokla piece from the auto for me. Bad business – snucking out something from a customer order.

  ‘Great match. Nail-biting finish, we won,’ I said, walking in.

  I switched on the tubelight inside. The homes in our pol required light even during daytime.

  ‘If I have a good Diwali season, I will get you a colour TV,’ mom vowed.

  ‘No need,’ I said. I removed my shoes to get ready for a shower, ‘you need a bigger grinder urgently, the small one is all wobbly.’

  ‘I will buy the TV if only the business makes extra money,’ she said.

  ‘No. If you make extra money, put it back in the business. Don’t buy useless things. I can always see the match in colour in Ishaan’s house.’

  She left the room. My mother knew it was futile arguing with me. Without dad around, it was amazing how much say I had in the house. And I only hoped Ish and Omi would listen to my proposition as well.

  My love for business began when I first started tuitions. It was amazing to see money build up. With money came not only things like coolers and sofas but also the most important stuff – respect. Shopkeepers no longer avoided us, relatives re-invited us to weddings and our landlord’s visit did not throw us into turmoil. And then there was the thrill – I was making money, not earning it under some boss or getting a handout. I could decide my fate, how many students to teach, how many hours per class – it was my decision.

  There is something about Gujaratis, we love business. And Ambavadis love it more than anything else. Gujarat is the only state in India where people tend to respect you more if you have a business than if you are in service. The rest of the country dreams about a cushy job that gives a steady salary and provides stability. In Ahmedabad, service is for the weak. That was why I dreamt my biggest dream – to be a big businessman one day. The only hitch was my lack of capital. But I would build it slowly and make my dream come true. Sure, Ish could not make his dream of being in the Indian cricket team real, but that was a stupid dream to begin with. To be in the top eleven of a country of a billion people was in many ways an impossible dream, and even though Ish was top class in Belrampur, he was no Tendulkar. My dream was more realistic, I would start slow and then grow my business. From a turnover of thousands, to lakhs, to crores and then to hundreds of crores.