The 3 Mistakes of My Life Read online

  ‘It is so fucking unfair,’ Ish said, ‘I slaved for years. I gave up my future for this game. Nothing came of it. And you have this kid who is born with this talent he doesn’t even care about.’

  ‘What do you mean nothing came of it? You were the best player in school for years.’

  ‘Yeah, in Belrampur Municipal School, that’s like saying Vidya is the Preity Zinta of our pol. Who cares?’

  ‘What?’ I said and couldn’t control a smile.

  ‘Nothing, our aunt once called her that, and I keep teasing her on it,’ Ish said. His mood lightened up a little. We came close to our shop. The temple dome became visible.

  ‘Why does God do this Govind?’ Ish said.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Give so much talent to some people. And people like me have none.’

  ‘You are talented.’

  ‘Not enough. Not as much as Ali. I love this game, but have no gifts. I pushed myself – woke up at 4 a.m. everyday, training for hours, practice and more practice. I gave up studies, and now that I think of it, even my future. And then comes this marble player who has this freakish gift. I could never see the ball and whack it like Ali. Why Govind?’

  Continuing my job as the parent of my friends, I had to try and answer every silly question of his. ‘I don’t know. God gives talent so that the ordinary person can become extraordinary. Talent is the only way the poor can become rich. Otherwise, in this world the rich would remain rich and the poor would remain poor. This unfair talent actually creates a balance, helps to make the world fair,’ I said. I reflected on my own statement a little.

  ‘So why doesn’t he care? Marbles? Can you believe the boy is more interested in marbles?’

  ‘He hasn’t seen what he can get out of cricket. Right now he is the marble champ in his pol and loves that position. Once he experiences the same success in cricket, he will value his gift. Until now, he was a four ball freak show. You will turn him into a player Ish,’ I said.

  We reached the shop. Omi had reached before us and swept the floor. He missed coming to coaching, but he had promised his Mama to attend the morning rallies at least twice a week. Today was one of those days.

  ‘Good practice?’ Omi asked idly as he ordered tea.

  Ish went inside. I put a finger on my lips to signal Omi to be quiet.

  A ten-year-old came with thirty coins to buy a cricket ball.

  ‘A leather ball is twenty-five bucks. You only have twenty-one,’ I said as I finished the painful task of counting the coins.

  ‘I broke the piggy bank. I don’t have anymore,’ the boy said very seriously.

  ‘Then come later,’ I said as Ish interrupted me.

  ‘Take it,’ Ish said and gave the boy the ball.

  The boy grabbed it and ran away.

  ‘Fuck you Ish,’ I said.

  ‘Fuck you businessman,’ Ish said and continued to sulk about Ali in the corner.

  It took Ish one box of chocolates, two dozen marbles and a new sports cap to woo Ali back. Ali missed us, too. His mother told us he cried for two hours that day and never attended the marble tournament. He hadn’t come for practice the next two days either. Ish’s guilt pangs had turned into an obsession. Ali had an apology ready – probably stage-managed by his mother. He touched Ish’s feet and said sorry for insulting his guru. Ish hugged him and gave the gifts. Ish said he’d cut off his hand rather than hit him again. All too melodramatic if you ask me. The point was Ali came back, this time more serious, and Ish mellowed somewhat. Ali’s cricket improved, and other students suggested we take him to the district trials.

  Ish vetoed the idea. ‘No way, the selection people will destroy him. If they reject him, he is going to be disappointed forever. If they accept him, they will make him play useless matches for several years. He will go for selections, but only the big one – the national team.’

  ‘Really? You confident he will make it,’ Omi said, passing us lassi in steel glasses after practice.

  ‘He will be a player like India never had,’ Ish announced. It sounded a bit mad, but we had seen Ali demolish the best of bowlers, even if for a few balls. Two more years and Ish could well be right.

  ‘Don’t talk about Ali’s gift at all. I don’t trust anyone.’ Ish wiped his lassi moustache.

  ‘Excuses don’t clear exams, Vidya. If you study this, it will help. Nothing else will.’ I opened the chemistry book again.

  ‘I tried,’ she said and pushed back her open hair. She had not bathed. She had a track pant on that I think she had been wearing since she was thirteen and a pink T-shirt that said ‘fairy queen’ or something. How can a grown-up woman wear something that says ‘fairy queen’? How can anyone wear something that says ‘fairy queen’?

  ‘I pray everyday. That should help,’ she said.

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or flip my fuse again at her nonchalance. Maybe if she didn’t look like a cute ragdoll in those clothes, I would have lost my temper again.

  ‘Don’t leave it to God, nothing like reading organic chemistry yourself,’ I said.

  She nodded and moved her chair, as a bottle fell over on the ground.

  ‘Oops,’ she said and bent down.

  ‘What?’ I stood up in reflex. It was a bottle of coconut oil, fortunately closed.

  ‘Nothing, I thought I’ll oil my hair,’ she said and lifted the blue bottle.

  I looked at her face. My gaze lasted a quarter second more than necessary. There is an optimal time for looking at women before it gets counted as a stare. I had crossed that threshold. Selfconsciously she tugged at the T-shirt’s neckline as she sat back up. The tug was totally due to me. I didn’t look there at all, but she thought I did. I felt sick.

  ‘Coconut oil,’ I said, probably the dumbest thing to say but it changed the topic.

  ‘Yes, a bit of organic chemistry for my head. Maybe this will help.’

  I flipped the book’s pages to see how benzene became oxidised.

  ‘When is your birthday?’ she said.

  ‘14 March,’ I replied. ‘Pi Day.’

  ‘What day?’

  ‘Pi Day. You see, Pi approximates to 3.14 so 14 March is the same date. It is Einstein’s birthday, too. Cool, isn’t it?’

  ‘A day for Pi? How can you have a day for something so horrible?’

  ‘Excuse me? It is an important day for maths lovers. We never make it public though. You can say you love literature, you can say you love music but you can’t say you feel the same way for maths.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘People label you a geek.’

  ‘That you are,’ she giggled.

  She pulled the oil bottle cap close.

  ‘Can you help me oil my hair? I can’t reach the back.’

  My tongue slipped like it was coated in that oil as I tried to speak. ‘Vidya, we should study now.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, almost done. Just above the back of my neck, please.’

  She twisted on her chair so her back faced me. She held up the cap of the oil bottle.

  What the hell, I thought. I dipped my index finger in the oil and brought it to her neck.

  ‘Not here,’ she giggled again. ‘It tickles. Higher, yes at the roots.’

  She told me to dip three fingers instead of one and press harder. I followed her instructions in a daze. The best maths tutor in town had become a champi man.

  ‘How’s the new shop coming?’ she said.

  ‘Great, I paid the deposit and three months advance rent,’ I said. ‘Fifty thousand bucks, cash. We will have the best location in the mall.’

  ‘I can’t wait,’ she said.

  ‘Two more months,’ I said. ‘Ok, that’s enough. You do it yourself now, I will hold the cap for you.’

  She turned to look at me, dipped her fingers in the oil and applied it to her head.

  ‘I wish I were a boy,’ she said, rubbing oil vigorously.

  ‘Why? Easier to oil hair?’ I said, holding up the cap in my hand even though m