The 3 Mistakes of My Life

  So, probability = 5/20 = 0.25

  ‘There you go. The probability is 0.25, or twenty-five per cent.’ I said and placed the pen back on the table. She reread what I wrote for a few moments.

  ‘That is simple. But the exam problems are harder,’ she said at last.

  ‘We will get there. But the basic concept needs to be understood first. And you didn’t vomit.’

  I was interrupted by two beeps on her cellphone. She rushed to her bedside table to pick up the phone. She sat on the bed and read her message. ‘My school friend. She’s stupid,’ she smiled fondly at the phone.

  I kept silent and waited for her to come back. ‘Ok, let’s do another one,’ I said. ‘Let us say we have a jar with four red and six blue marbles.’

  I finished three more problems in the next half an hour. ‘See, it’s not that hard when you focus. Good job!’ I praised her as she solved a problem.

  ‘You want tea?’ she said, ignoring my compliment.

  ‘No thanks, I don’t like to have too much tea.’

  ‘Oh me neither. I like coffee. You like coffee?’

  ‘I like probability and you should too. Can we do the next problem?’

  Her cellphone beeped again. She dropped her pen and leaped to her phone.

  ‘Leave it. No SMS-ing in my class,’ I said.

  ‘It’s just…,’ she said as she stopped her hand midway.

  ‘I will go if you don’t concentrate. I have turned down many students for this class.’

  She was zapped at my firmness. But I am no Mr Nice, and I hate people who are not focused. Especially those who hate maths.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  ‘We only have an hour. Do your fun activities later.’

  ‘I said sorry.’ She picked up her pen again and opened the cap in disgust.

  Five

  ‘You. Must. Come. Now.’ The kid sucked in air after every word. ‘Ali. Is…’

  ‘Relax Paras,’ Ish told the panting boy. He had come running from the Belrampur Municipal School and was insisting we go with him.

  ‘Now? It is only four, how can I close business?’ I said.

  ‘He doesn’t play cricket that often. He always plays marbles. Please come today, Ish bhaiya.’

  ‘Let’s go. It is a slow day anyway,’ Ish said as he slipped on his chappals.

  Omi had already stepped out. I locked the cashbox and told the owner of the flower shop next to ours to keep watch.

  We reached our school’s familiar grounds. Twenty boys circled Ali.

  ‘I don’t want to play now,’ a voice said from the centre of the crowd.

  A thin, almost malnourished boy sat on the ground, his face covered with his hands.

  ‘No, Ish bhaiya has to see you play,’ Paras joined the cajoling crowd and tugged at Ali’s elbow.

  ‘I don’t like cricket. It gives me a headache,’ Ali said, his hands still covering his face.

  ‘I have heard a lot about you,’ Ish said as he bent down on one knee to Ali’s level.

  Ali parted his fingers to see Ish’s face. His eyes were a startling green.

  ‘Hi, I am Ish. I studied in this school for thirteen years. And I teach cricket too,’ Ish said and extended a handshake to Ali.

  Ali studied Ish’s face. He brought his hand forward with reluctance.

  Ali’s long hair was neatly parted. His young and fragile body resembled a girl’s. He looked like an arts or music prodigy, not a cricketer.

  ‘How old is he?’ I asked a spectacled kid in the crowd.

  ‘He is in Class VII C,’ the kid sniffed due to a cold.

  I calculated, he could be no more than twelve.

  ‘He just joined, no? Where from?’ I said.

  ‘He was in Shahpur Madrasa before. His daddy moved him here. Since then, every bowler has lost confidence,’ he sneezed. I narrowly escaped a mucous spray.

  Ish and Omi sat cross-legged on the ground with Ali.

  ‘I can’t play long. I get a headache,’ Ali said.

  ‘It’s ok if you don’t want to play,’ Ish said. ‘Let’s go, Omi.’

  Ish and Omi stood up and dusted their pants.

  ‘I can play an over, if you will bowl,’ Ali said as we turned to leave.

  ‘Sure,’ Ish said casually. Another kid tossed a ball into his hand.

  The crowd backed off. Some kids volunteered to be fielders. Omi became the wicket keeper. I stood near the bowler’s end, at the umpire’s slot. Ali took the crease. He strained hard to look at the bowler. The crowd clapped as Ish took a short run-up. I couldn’t understand the fuss in seeing this delicate, doe-eyed boy play. The bat reached almost two-thirds his height.

  Ish’s run-up was fake, as he stopped near me. A grown man bowling pace to a twelve-year-old is silly. Ish looked at the boy and bowled a simple lollipop delivery.

  The slow ball pitched midway and took its time to reach the crease. Thwack, Ali moved his bat in a smooth movement and connected. The ball surged high as Ish and I looked at it for its three seconds of flight – six!

  Ish looked at Ali and nodded in appreciation. Ali took a stance again and scrunched his face, partially due to the sun but also in irritation for not receiving a real delivery.

  For the next ball, Ish took an eight step run-up. The boy could play, girlie features be damned! The medium pace ball rose high on the bounce and smash! Another six.

  Ish gave a half smile. Ali’s bat had not hit the ball, but his pride. The crowd clapped.

  Ish took an eleven-step run-up for the next ball. He grunted when the ball left his hand. The ball bounced to Ali’s shoulder. Ali spun on one leg as if in a dance and connected – six!

  Three balls, three sixes – Ish looked molested. Omi’s mouth was open but he focused on wicket-keeping. I think he was trying to control his reaction for Ish’s sake.

  ‘He is a freak. Ali the freak, Ali the freak,’ a kid fielding at mid-on shouted and distracted Ali.

  ‘Just play,’ Ish said to Ali and gave the fielder a glare.

  Ish rubbed the ball on his pants thrice. He changed his grip and did some upper body twists. He took his longest run-up yet and ran forward with full force. The ball went fast, but was a full toss. Ish’s frustration showed in this delivery. It deserved punishment. Ali took two steps forward and smash! The ball went high and reached past the ground, almost hitting a classroom window.

  I laughed. I knew I shouldn’t have, but I did. To see the school cricket champion of my batch raped so in public by a mere boy of twelve was too funny. At least to me. Actually, only to me.

  ‘What?’ Ish demanded in disgust.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said.

  ‘Where is the fucking ball?’

  ‘They are trying to find it. You want to buy one from my shop, coach?’ I jeered lightly.

  ‘Shut up,’ Ish hissed as the ball came rolling back to him.

  Ish was about to take a run-up when Ali sat down at his crease.

  ‘What happened?’ Omi was the first to reach him.

  ‘I told you. I get a headache. Can I go back now?’ Ali said, his childish voice almost in tears.

  Omi looked at Ish and me. I shrugged.

  ‘I told you, no? Freak!’ Paras ran up to us.

  Ali stood. ‘Can I go?’

  We nodded. From his pocket, Ali took out some marbles that resembled his eyes. Rolling them in his hand, he left the ground.

  ‘I cannot believe it,’ Ish declared as he finished his fifty morning pushups. He came and sat next to me on the bank’s backyard floor.

  Omi continued to complete his hundred.

  ‘Tea,’ I announced and handed Ish his cup. My best friend had faced serious mental trauma yesterday. I couldn’t do much apart from making my best cup of ginger tea in the bank kitchen.

  ‘It can’t be just luck, right? No way,’ Ish answered his own questions.

  I nodded my head towards a plate of biscuits, which he ignored. I wondered if the Ali episode would cause permanent damage to Ish’
s appetite. Ish continued to talk to himself as I tuned myself out. Omi moved on to sit-ups. He also belted out Hanuman-ji’s forty verses along with the exercise. I loved this little morning break – between the students’ leaving and the shop’s opening. It gave me time to think. And these days I only thought about the new shop. ‘Twenty-five thousand rupees saved already, and fifteen thousand more by December,’ I mumbled, ‘If the builder accepts forty as deposit, I can secure the Navrangpura lease by year end.’

  I poured myself another cup of tea. ‘Here are your shop’s keys, Mama. We are moving to our shop in Navrangpura, in the airconditioned mall,’ I repeated my dream dialogue inside my head for the hundredth time. Three more months, I assured myself.

  ‘You guys ate all the biscuits?’ Omi came to us as he finished his exercise.

  ‘Sorry, tea?’ I offered.

  Omi shook his head. He opened a polypack of milk and put it to his mouth. Like me, he didn’t have much tea. Caffeine ran in Ish’s family veins though. I remembered Vidya offering me tea. Stupid girl, duh-ing me.

  ‘Still thinking of Ali?’ Omi said to Ish, wiping his milk moustache.

  ‘He is amazing, man. I didn’t bowl my best, but not so bad either. But he just, just…,’ Words failed Ish.

  ‘Four sixes. Incredible!’ Omi said, ‘No wonder they call him a freak.’

  ‘Don’t know if he is a freak. But he is good,’ Ish said.

  ‘These Muslim kids man. You never know what…,’ Omi said and gulped the remainder of his milk.

  ‘Shut up. He is just fucking good. I have never seen anyone play like that. I want to coach him.’

  ‘Sure, as long as he pays. He can’t play beyond four balls. You could help him,’ I told Ish.

  ‘What? You will teach that mullah kid?’ Omi’s face turned worrisome.

  ‘I will teach the best player in Belrampur. That kid has serious potential. You know like…’

  ‘Team India?’ I suggested.

  ‘Shh, don’t tempt fate, but yes. I want to teach him. They’ll ruin him in that school. They can barely teach the course there, forget sports.’

  ‘We are not teaching a Muslim kid,’ Omi vetoed. ‘Bittoo Mama will kill me.’

  ‘Don’t overreact. He won’t know. We just teach him at the bank,’ Ish said. For the rest of the argument, Ish and Omi just exchanged stares. Ultimately, like always, Omi gave in to Ish.

  ‘Your choice. Make sure he never comes near the temple. If Bittoo Mama finds out, he will kick us out of the shop.’

  ‘Omi is right. We need the shop for a few more months,’ I said.

  ‘We also need to go to the doctor,’ Ish said.

  ‘Doctor?’ I said.

  ‘His head was hurting after four balls. I want a doctor to see him before we begin practicing.’

  ‘You’ll have to talk to his parents if you want him to pay,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll teach him for free,’ Ish said.

  ‘But still, for Indian parents cricket equals time waste.’

  ‘Then we’ll go to his house,’ Ish said.

  ‘I am not going to any Muslim house,’ Omi said almost hysterically. ‘I am not going.’

  ‘Let’s go open the shop first. It’s business time,’ I said.

  ‘No cricket, I like marbles,’ Ali protested for the fifth time. Ish took four chocolates (at the shop’s expense, idiot) for him, a reward for every sixer. Ali accepted the chocolates but said no to cricket coaching, and a foot-stomping no to meeting the doctor.

  ‘Our shop has marbles,’ I cajoled. ‘Special blue ones from Jaipur. One dozen for you if you come to the doctor. He is just across the street.’

  Ali looked at me with his two green marbles.

  ‘Two dozen if you come for one cricket coaching class in the morning,’ I said.

  ‘Doctor is fine. For coaching class, ask abba.’

  ‘Give me abba’s name and address,’ I said.

  ‘Naseer Alam, seventh pol, third house on the ground floor.’

  ‘What name did you say?’ Omi said.

  ‘Naseer Alam,’ Ali repeated.

  ‘I have heard the name somewhere. But I can’t recall…’ Omi murmured, but Ish ignored him.

  ‘Dr Verma’s clinic is in the next pol. Let’s go,’ Ish said.

  ‘Welcome, nice to have someone young in my clinic for a change.’ Dr Verma removed his spectacles. He rubbed his fifty-year-old eyes. His wrinkles had multiplied since I last met him three years ago. His once black hair had turned white. Old age sucks.

  ‘And who is this little tiger? Open your mouth, baba,’ Dr Verma said and switched on his torch out of habit. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong. We have some questions,’ Ish said.

  The doctor put his torch down. ‘Questions?’

  ‘This boy is gifted in cricket. I want to know how he does it,’ Ish said.

  ‘Does what?’ Dr Verma said. ‘Some people are just talented.’

  ‘I bowled four balls to him. He slammed sixes on all of them,’ Ish said.

  ‘What?’ Dr Verma said. He knew Ish was one of the best players in the neighbourhood.

  ‘Unbelievable but true,’ I chimed in. ‘Also, he sat down after four balls. He said his head hurt.’

  Dr Verma turned to Ali. ‘You like cricket, baba?’

  ‘No,’ Ali said.

  ‘This is more complicated than the usual viral fever. What happened after the four balls, baba?’

  ‘Whenever I play with concentration, my head starts hurting,’ Ali said. He slid his hands into his pocket. I heard the rustle of marbles.

  ‘Let us check your eyes,’ Dr Verma said and stood up to go to the testing room.

  ‘Eyesight is fantastic,’ Dr Verma said, returning. ‘I recommend you meet my friend Dr Multani from the city hospital. He is an eye specialist and used to be a team doctor for a baseball team in USA. In fact, I haven’t met him for a year. I can take you tomorrow if you want.’

  We nodded. I reached for my wallet. Dr Verma gave me a stern glance to stop.

  ‘Fascinating,’ Dr Multani said only one word as he held up Ali’s MRI scan. He had spent two hours with Ali. He did every test imaginable – a fitness check, a blood test, retinal scans, a computerised hand-eye coordination exam. The Matrix style MRI, where Ali had to lie down head first inside a chamber, proved most useful.

  ‘I miss my sports-doctor days, Verma. This love for Ambavad made me give up a lot,’ Dr Multani said. He ordered tea and khakra for all of us.

  ‘Are we done?’ Ali said and yawned.

  ‘Almost. Play marbles in the garden outside if you want,’ Dr Multani said. He kept quiet until Ali left.

  ‘That was some work, Multani, for a little headache,’ Dr Verma said.

  ‘It is not just a headache,’ Dr Multani said and munched a khakra. ‘Ish is right, the boy is exceptionally gifted.’

  ‘How?’ I blurted. What was in those tests that said Ali could smash any bowler to bits.

  ‘The boy has hyper-reflex. It is an aberration in medical terms, but proving to be a gift for cricket.’

  ‘Hyper what?’ Omi echoed.

  ‘Hyper reflex,’ Dr Multani lifted a round glass paper weight from his table and pretended to hurl it at Omi. Omi ducked. ‘When I throw this at you, what do you do? You reflexively try to prevent the attack. I didn’t give you an advance warning and everything happened in a split second. Thus, you didn’t do a conscious think to duck away, it just happened.’

  Dr Multani paused for a sip of water and continued, ‘It matters little in everyday life, except if we touch something too hot or too cold. However, in sports it is crucial.’ Dr Multani paused to open a few reports and picked up another khakra.

  I looked at Ali outside from the window. He was using a catapult to shoot one marble to hit another one.

  ‘So Ali has good reflexes. That’s it?’ Ish said.

  ‘His reflexes are at least ten times better than ours. But there is more. Apart from reflex action, th
e human brain makes decisions in two other ways. One is the long, analysed mode – the problem goes through a rigorous analysis in our brain and we decide the course of action. And then there is a separate, second way that’s faster but less accurate. Normally, the long way is used and we are aware of it. But sometimes, in urgent situations, the brain chooses the shortcut way. Call it a quick-think mode.’

  We nodded as Dr Multani continued:

  ‘In reflex action, the brain short-circuits the thinking process and acts. He can just about duck, forget try to catch it. However, the response time is superfast. Sports has moments that requires you to think in every possible way – analysed, quick-think or reflex.’

  ‘And Ali?’ Ish said.

  Dr Multani picked up the MRI scan again. ‘Ali’s brain is fascinating. His first, second and even the third reflex way of thinking is fused. His response time is as fast as that of a reflex action, yet his decision making is as accurate as the analysed mode. You may think he hit that superfast delivery of yours by luck, but his brain saw its path easily. Like it was a soft throw.’

  ‘But I bowled fast.’

  ‘Yes, but his brain can register it and act accordingly. If it is hard to visualise … imagine that Ali sees the ball in slow motion. A normal player will use the second or third way of thinking to hit a fast ball. Ali uses the first. A normal player needs years of practice to ensure his second way gets as accurate to play well. Ali doesn’t need to. That is his gift.’

  It look us a minute to digest Dr Multani’s words. We definitely had to use the first way of thinking to understand it.

  ‘To him a pace delivery is slow motion?’ Ish tried again.

  ‘Only to his brain, as it analyses fast. Of course, if you hit him with a fast ball he will get hurt.’

  ‘But how can he hit so far?’ Ish said.

  ‘He doesn’t hit much. He changes direction of the already fast ball. The energy in that ball is mostly yours.’

  ‘Have you seen other gifted players like him?’ I wanted to know.

  ‘Not to this degree, this boy’s brain is wired differently. Some may call it a defect, so I suggest you don’t make a big noise about it.’

  ‘He is Indian team material,’ Ish said. ‘Dr Multani, you know he is.’