The 3 Mistakes of My Life

  Paresh had the same shocked expression as Ish, when Ali had hit a six off his first ball.

  ‘Hey, what? You hero or something?’ Ish ran to Ali.

  Ali looked puzzled at the reprimand.

  ‘This is not a cricket ground. We are playing in a bank. If the ball goes out and hits someone, who will be responsible? What if things break? Who will pay?’ Ish shouted.

  Ali still looked surprised.

  ‘That was a good shot,’ Paresh said.

  ‘Shut up. Hey Ali, I know you can do that. Learn the other aspects of the game.’

  Ali froze, very near tears.

  ‘Ok, listen. I am sorry. I did not mean to…,’ Ish said.

  ‘That is all I know. I can’t do anything else,’ Ali’s voice cracked.

  ‘We will teach you. Now why don’t you bowl?’

  Ali didn’t bat anymore that day. Ish kept the practice simple for the next half an hour and tried not to scream. The latter was tough, especially because he was an animal when it came to cricket.

  ‘Get your books from upstairs. We will study in the backyard,’ I told a sweaty Ali.

  He brought his books down and opened the first chapter of his maths book. It was on fractions and decimals.

  Omi brought two polypacks of milk. ‘Here,’ he gave one to Ish.

  ‘Thanks,’ Ish said, and tore it open with his mouth.

  ‘And here, one more,’ Omi said.

  ‘For what?’ Ish said, after taking a big sip.

  ‘Give it to your stick insect,’ Omi said. ‘Have you seen his arms? They are thinner than the wicket. You want to make him a player or not?’

  ‘You give him yourself,’ Ish smiled.

  Omi shoved the milk packet near Ali and left.

  ‘You have done some fractions before?’ I said.

  He nodded.

  I told him to simplify 24/64 and he started dividing the numerator and denominator by two again and again. Of course, he lacked the intuition he had in hitting sixes in mathematics. However, his father had tried his best.

  ‘See you at the shop,’ Ish told me and turned to Ali, ‘Any questions on cricket, champ?’

  ‘Why do people run between the wickets to score runs?’ Ali said, nibbling the end of his pen.

  ‘That’s how you score. It’s the rule,’ Ish said.

  ‘No, not that way. I mean why run across and risk getting out for one or two runs when you can hit six with one shot?’

  Ish scratched his head. ‘Keep your questions to maths,’ he said and left.

  ‘I have figured it out. The young generation from the Sixties to the Eighties is the worst India ever had. These thirty years are an embarrassment for India,’ Ish said as we lay down in the shop.

  We had spread a mat on the shop’s floor. A nap was a great way to kill time during slow afternoons. It was exam time and business was modest. Omi snoozed while Ish and I had our usual philosophical discussion.

  ‘Not all that bad,’ I said. ‘We won the World Cup in 1983.’

  ‘Yeah, we played good cricket, but that’s about it. We remained poor, kept fighting wars, electing the same control freaks who did nothing for the country. People’s dream job was a government job, yuck. Nobody took risks or stuck their neck out. Just one corrupt banana republic marketed by the leaders as this new socialist, intellectual nation. Tanks and thinktanks, nothing else,’ Ish said.

  ‘And guess who was at the top? Which party? Secular nonsense again,’ Omi joined in, opening one eye.

  ‘Well, your right-wing types didn’t exactly get their act together either,’ Ish said.

  ‘We will, man. We are so ready. You wait and see, elections next year and Gujarat is ours,’ Omi said.

  ‘Anyway, screw politics. My point is, that the clueless Sixties to Eighties generation is now old, and running the country. But the Nineties and the, what do they say…’

  ‘Zeroes.’

  ‘Yeah, whatever. The Zeroes think different. But we are being run by old fogeys who never did anything worthwhile in their primetime. The Doordarshan generation is running the Star TV generation,’ Ish said.

  I clapped. ‘Wow, wisdom is free at the Team India Cricket Shop.’

  ‘Fuck off. Can’t have a discussion around here. You think only you are the intellectual type. I am just a cricket coach,’ Ish grumbled.

  ‘No, you are the intellectual, bro. I am the sleepy type. Now can we rest until the next pesky kid comes,’ I said, closing my eyes.

  Our nap was soon interrupted.

  ‘Lying down, well done. When rent is cheap, shopkeepers will sleep,’ Bittoo Mama’s voice made us all sit up. Now what the hell was he doing here?

  ‘It is slow this time of the day, Mama,’ Omi said as he pulled out a stool. He signalled me to get tea. I opened the cash box and took some coins.

  ‘Get something to eat as well,’ Mama said. I nodded. Now who the fuck pays for Mama’s snacks? The rent is not that cheap, I thought as I left the shop with a fake smile. I returned with tea for everyone.

  Mama was telling Omi, ‘You come help me if it is slow in the afternoons. Your friends can come too. Winning a seat is not that easy. These secular guys are good.’

  ‘What do you want me to do, Mama?’ Omi said as he took the tea glasses off the crate and passed them around.

  ‘We have to mobilise young people. Tell them our philosophy, warn them against the hypocrites. During campaign time, we need people to help us in publicity, organising rallies. There is work to be done.’

  ‘I’ll come next time, Mama,’ Omi said.

  ‘Tell others, too. If you see young people at the temple, tell them about our party. Tell them about me.’

  I stood up, disgusted. Yes, I could see the point in targeting temple visitors, given the philosophy of the party. But when someone comes to pray, should they be pitched to join politics? I opened the accounts register to distract myself.

  ‘You will come?’ Mama turned to Ish.

  ‘Someone has to man the shop. At least one person, even if it is slow,’ Ish said. Smartass, that was supposed to be my excuse.

  ‘And you, Govind?’ Mama said.

  ‘I am not into that sort of stuff. I am agnostic, remember?’ I said, still reading the register.

  ‘But this isn’t about religion. It is about justice. And considering we gave you this shop at such a low rent, you owe us something.’

  ‘It is not your shop. Omi’s mother gave it to us. And given the location, the rent we pay is fair,’ I said.

  ‘I alone am enough, Mama. Dhiraj will come as well, right?’ Omi said, to break the ever escalating tension between Mama and me. Dhiraj was Mama’s fourteen-year-old son and Omi’s cousin.

  ‘Look at his pride! This two-bit shop and a giant ego,’ Mama said. ‘If Omi wasn’t there, I’d get you kicked out.’

  ‘There will be no need. We are leaving soon anyway,’ I said without thinking. I couldn’t help it. I wanted to tell him only at the last minute, just before we moved to the Navrangpura mall. But I was sick of his patronising tone.

  ‘Oh, really? Where, you will pull a hand-cart with these bats and balls?’ Mama said.

  ‘We are moving to Navrangpura mall. You can take your shop back then.’

  ‘What?’ Mama exclaimed.

  ‘We will make the deposit next month. Possession when it opens in three months. This two-bit shop is about to move to a prime location sports store,’ I said.

  Mama’s mouth remained open. I had dreamt of this expression for months.

  ‘Really?’ Mama turned to Omi.

  Omi nodded.

  ‘How much is the deposit?’ Mama said.

  ‘Forty thousand. We saved it,’ I said.

  ‘You pay one thousand a month for this shop. If you were paying the market rent of two, you wouldn’t be able to save this much,’ Mama said.

  I kept quiet.

  ‘What? Now you are quiet, eh?’ Mama stood up.

  What was I supposed to do? Jump and grab his
feet? I was also giving his nephew employment and an equal share in my business. Sure, Omi was a friend, but given his qualifications, nobody would give him that stature. A cheaper rent was the least he could do.

  ‘Let me know when you want me, Mama,’ Omi said.

  ‘Good, I’ll see you,’ he said. ‘continue your rest.’

  Ish raised his middle finger as Mama left. Then we lay down and went back to sleep.

  Seven

  ‘Have you done the sums I gave you?’

  Vidya nodded. I couldn’t see her face as we sat side by side, but I knew she’d just cried when she lifted a hand to wipe an eye.

  I opened her tuition notebook. I am a tutor, not a consoler.

  ‘You did them all?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘How many did you do?’

  She showed me seven fingers. Ok, seven out of ten weren’t bad. But why wasn’t she saying anything.

  ‘What’s up?’ I said, more to improve communication than the sight of her smudged eyes.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said in a broken voice.

  A girl’s ‘nothing’ usually means ‘a lot’. Actually, it meant ‘a lot and don’t get me started’. I thought of a suitable response to a fake ‘nothing’.

  ‘You want to go wash your face?’ I said.

  ‘I am fine. Let’s get started.’

  I looked at her eyes. Her eyelashes were wet. She had the same eyes as her brother. However, the brown was more prominent on her fair face.

  ‘Your second problem is correct too,’ I said, and ticked her notebook. I almost wrote ‘good’ out of habit. I normally taught young kids, and they loved it if I made comments like ‘good’, ‘well done’ or made a ‘star’ against their answers. But Vidya was no kid.

  ‘You did quite well,’ I said as I finished reviewing her work.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said and ran to the bathroom. She probably had an outburst of tears. She came back, this time her eyeliner gone and the whole face wet.

  ‘Listen, we can’t have a productive class if you are disturbed. We have to do more complex problems today and…’

  ‘But I am not disturbed. It’s Garima and her, well, forget it.’

  ‘Garima?’

  ‘Yes, my cousin and best friend in Bombay. I told you last time.’

  ‘I don’t remember,’ I said.

  ‘She told me last night she would SMS me in the morning. It is afternoon already, and she hasn’t. She always does that.’

  ‘Why don’t you SMS her instead?’

  ‘I am not doing that. She said she would. And so she should, right?’

  I looked at her blankly, unable to respond.

  ‘She is in this hi-fi PR job, so she is too busy to type a line?’

  I wished that woman would SMS her so we could start class.

  ‘Next time I will tell her I have something really important to talk about and not call her for two days,’ she said.

  Some, I repeat only some girls, measure the strength of their friendship by the power of the emotionally manipulative games they could play with each other.

  ‘Should we start?’

  ‘Yeah, I am feeling better. Thanks for listening.’

  ‘No problem. So what happened in problem eight?’ I said.

  We immersed ourselves into probability for the next half an hour. When she applied her mind, she wasn’t dumb at maths as she came across on first impression. But she rarely applied it for more than five minutes. Once, she had to change her pen. Then she had to reopen and fasten her hairclip. In fifteen minutes, she needed a cushion behind her back. After that her mother sent in tea and biscuits and she had to sip it every thirty seconds. Still, we plowed along. Forty minutes into the class, she pulled her chair back.

  ‘My head is throbbing now. I have never done so much maths continuously in my life. Can we take a break?’

  ‘Vidya, we only have twenty minutes more,’ I said.

  She stood up straight and blinked her eyes. ‘Can we agree to a five-minute break during class? One shouldn’t study maths that long. It has to be bad for you.’

  She kept her pen aside and opened her hair. A strand fell on my arm. I pulled my hand away.

  ‘How is your preparation for other subjects? You don’t hate science, do you?’ I said. I wanted to keep the break productive.

  ‘I like science. But the way they teach it, it sucks,’ Vidya said.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like the medical entrance guides, they have thousands of multiple choice questions. You figure them out and then you are good enough to be a doctor. That’s not how I look at science.’

  ‘Well, we have no choice. There are very few good colleges and competition is tough.’

  ‘I know. But the people who set these exam papers, I wonder if they ever are curious about chemistry anymore. Do they just cram up reactions? Or do they ever get fascinated by it? Do they ever see a marble statue and wonder, it all appears static, but inside this statue there are protons buzzing and electrons madly spinning.’

  I looked into her bright eyes. I wished they would be as lit up when I taught her probability.

  ‘That’s quite amazing, isn’t it?’ I said.

  ‘Or let’s talk of biology. Think about this,’ she said and touched my arm. ‘What is this?’

  ‘What?’ I said, taken aback by her contact.

  ‘This is your skin. Do you know there are communities of bacteria living here? There are millions of individual life forms – eating, reproducing and dying right on us. Yet, we never wonder. Why? We only care about cramming up an epidermal layer diagram, because that comes in the exam every single year.’

  I didn’t know what to say to this girl. Maybe I should have stuck to teaching seven-year-olds.

  ‘There are some good reference books outside your textbooks for science,’ I told her.

  ‘Are there?’

  ‘Yes, you get them in the Law Garden book market. They go into concepts. I can get them for you if you want. Ask your parents if they will pay for them.’

  ‘Of course, they will pay. If it is for studies, they spend like crazy. But can I come along with you?’

  ‘No, you don’t have to. I’ll get the bill.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘In case you are thinking how much I will spend.’

  ‘You silly or what? It will be a nice break. We’ll go together.’

  ‘Fine. Let’s do the rest of the sums. We have taken a fifteen-minute break.’

  I finished a set of exercises and gave her ten problems as homework. Her phone beeped as I stood up to leave. She rushed to grab it. ‘Garima,’ she said and I shut the door behind me.

  I was walking out when Ish came home.

  ‘Hey, good class? She is a duffer, must be tough,’ said Ish, his body covered in sweat after practice.

  ‘Not bad, she is a quick learner,’ I said. I didn’t know why, but looking at Ish right then made my heart beat fast. I wondered if I should tell him about my plan to go to Law Garden with Vidya to buy books. But that would be stupid, I thought. I didn’t have to explain everything to him.

  ‘I figured out a way to rein in Ali,’ Ish said.

  ‘How?’

  ‘I let him hit his four sixes first. Then he is like any of us.’

  I nodded.

  ‘The other boys get pissed though. They think I have a special place for this student.’ Ish added.

  ‘They are kids. Don’t worry,’ I said and wondered how much longer I had to be with him and why the hell did I feel so guilty?

  ‘Yeah. Some students are special, right?’ Ish chuckled. For a nanosecond I felt he was making a dig at me. No, this was about Ali. I didn’t have a special student.

  ‘You bet. Listen, have to go. Mom needs help with a big wedding order.’

  With that, I took rapid strides and was out of his sight. My head buzzed like those electrons inside the marble statue in Omi’s temple.

  She was dressed in a white chikan salwar k
ameez on the day of our Law Garden trip. Her bandhini orange and red dupatta had tiny brass bells at the end. They made a sound everytime she moved her hand. There was a hint of extra make-up. Her lips shone and I couldn’t help staring at them.

  ‘It’s lip gloss. Is it too much?’ she said self-consciously, rubbing her lips with her fingers. Her upper lip had a near invisible mole on the right. I pulled my gaze away and looked for autos on the street. Never, ever look at her face, I scolded myself.

  ‘That’s the bookshop,’ I said as we reached the store.

  The University Bookstore in Navrangpura was a temple for all muggers in the city. Nearly all customers were sleep deprived, over zealous students who’d never have enough of quantum physics or calculus. They don’t provide statistics, but I am sure anyone who clears the engineering and medical entrance exams in the city has visited the bookstore.

  The middle-aged shopkeeper looked at Vidya through his glasses. She was probably the best looking customer to visit that month. Students who prepared for medical entrance don’t exactly wear coloured lip gloss.

  ‘Ahem, excuse me,’ I said as the shopkeeper scanned Vidya up and down.

  ‘Govind beta, so nice to see you,’ he said. One good way old people get away with leching is by branding you their son or daughter. He knew my name ever since I scored a hundred in the board exam. In the newspaper interview I had recommended his shop. He displayed the cutting for two years after that. I still get a twenty-five per cent discount on every purchase.

  ‘You have organic chemistry by L.G.Wade?’ I said. I would have done more small talk, but I wanted to avoid talking about Vidya. In fact, I didn’t even want him to look at Vidya.

  ‘Well, yes,’ the shopkeeper said, taken aback by my abruptness.

  ‘Chemistry book, red and white balls on the cover,’ he screamed at one of his five assistants.

  ‘This is a good book,’ I said as I tapped the cover and gave it to Vidya. ‘Other organic chemistry books have too much to memorise. This one explains the principles.’