The 3 Mistakes of My Life Read online

  ‘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.