The 3 Mistakes of My Life Read online

  Eleven

  ‘Goa, wow! Someone has a good life,’ Vidya said with a pin in her mouth. She stood on a stool in her room, fixing a poster of Aamir Khan in Dil Chahta Hai on the wall. I, her tutor, held the pin tray. So much for my position of authority.

  ‘Goa is your brother’s idea. I really don’t need this break from work,’ I said.

  ‘Of course, you do,’ she said as she stepped down. ‘It will help you get over the earthquake.’

  ‘What will help me get over the earthquake is work, and the money I make to pay back those loans. This trip is costing us three thousand bucks.’ I came back to her desk.

  She took her seat, opened her book and slapped each page as she turned it over.

  ‘Can you act more interested?’

  ‘I am not a good actor,’ she said.

  ‘Very funny. So did you do the calculus chapter in your so-called self-study mode.’

  ‘I did self-study as you did not have time for me,’ she said. ‘Anyway, I don’t understand it. As usual, I suck. What is all this “dx dt”, and why are they so many scary symbols?’

  ‘Vidya, you are appearing for medical entrance. Don’t talk like…,’ I stopped mid-sentence. I opened the calculus chapter. Some spoilt brats have to be spoonfed even the basics.

  ‘Don’t talk like what?’

  ‘Like a duffer. Now pay attention.’

  ‘I am not a duffer. Just go to Goa, manage your business, make money, insult people who don’t salivate for maths and don’t make any time for friends. I can manage fine.’

  The last word ‘fine’ had the loudest volume.

  ‘Excuse me. Is there a problem?’ I said after a pause.

  ‘Yes, calculus problems. Can we please start?’

  I explained calculus to her for an hour. ‘Try the exercises in the end. And read the next chapter by the time I come back,’ I said as I finished class.

  She kept quiet.

  ‘Vidya, why is it that sometimes making you talk is like extracting teeth.’

  ‘I am like this only, you have a problem? Only you have the right to ignore people?’ she threw back. Her eyes turned moist and her long fingers trembled. Before moisture turned to rain, I had to exit.

  ‘I’ll be back in four days,’ I said as I headed to the door.

  ‘Who cares?’ she said from behind me.

  ‘Eat on time and don’t stay up late,’ said Ali’s dad as the train signal went off.

  Ali was too excited to care for his dad’s instructions. He reserved the top berth for himself and climbed up. Omi said his pre-journey prayers.

  ‘Ali’s ammi doesn’t care. He is a piece of my heart,’ Ali’s dad said and his eyes became moist. ‘Sometimes I wish I had not married again.’

  I wrapped the cash and tickets in plastic and placed it inside my socks. Travelling with a twelve-year-old, and two other grown-up kids, this responsibility had to fall on me.

  ‘It is ok, chacha. See now you can go to your election rally in Baroda,’ I said.

  ‘That’s right. I cannot leave Ali with his ammi for four days.’

  ‘Are you getting a ticket this year,’ I said as I chained our suitcase to the lower berth.

  The train began to move.

  ‘No, no. I am not that senior in the party. But I will be helping the Belrampur candidate. Ali beta, don’t jump between berths, Ali…’ his voice trailed off as the train picked speed.

  Ish pulled Ali’s arm and drew him into his lap. ‘Say bye properly,’ Ish said.

  ‘Khuda Hafiz, abba,’ Ali called out as the train left for sunnier climes.

  ‘Organisers. We have to meet the organisers. Let us go in,’ I said. A hairy arm stopped me. The arm belonged to a security guard outside the VIP stand.

  ‘Thirty thousand people here want to go in there. Who are you? Autograph hunters?’

  ‘Say it,’ Ish said to me in a hushed voice.

  ‘Get your senior. I want to talk to him.’

  ‘Why?’ the hairy guard said.

  I flashed out a card. It said ‘Zuben Singh, Chairman, Wilson Sport,’ Pandit-ji had once met the chairman of the biggest sports company in India. I had borrowed the card from his trunk.

  ‘I own Wilson Sports. We want to talk about some endorsement deals. Now will you cooperate or…’

  The security guard broke into a sweat and called his manager. I repeated the story to him. He called the senior-most security person who came in a suit. I made a fake phone call pretending to talk about ten-crore-rupees business orders. He remained sceptical. I ended another call in Gujarati and his face softened.

  ‘Gujarati?’ he said.

  I stared at him, trying to decipher the better answer. In India you don’t know whether someone will like you or hate you because you are from a certain place.

  ‘Yes,’ I said guardedly.

  ‘Oh, how are you?’ he said in Gujarati. Thank God for India’s various regional clubs.

  ‘I just landed from Ahmedabad,’ I said.

  ‘Why have you come without an appointment?’ he said.

  ‘I came to see the match. I saw the Australians play and thought maybe we could find a brand ambassador.’

  ‘Why Australian? Why don’t you take an Indian?’

  A totally irrelevant question, but it hinted at his growing belief is us. ‘Can’t afford the Indian team. The good players are too expensive. The bad ones, well, tell me, will you buy a bat endorsed by Ajit Agarkar?’

  The guard nodded. He spoke into a microphone hanging from his ear and turned to us.

  ‘One of you stay with us,’ the security head said.

  ‘He will,’ I said and pointed to Omi.

  ‘One guard will accompany you. What about the kid? He has to go?’

  ‘Oh yes, he is in the campaign. You see, we are doing a coach and student theme.’

  The gates creaked open. The guards frisked us to the point of molestation. Finally, we made it to the enclosure. We walked through the posh, red fibreglass seats and sat down in an empty row. We had the best view in the stadium. We came after the Indian innings had ended. Australia would bat now. Apart from the batsmen on crease, their team would be in the stands soon.

  ‘Omi will be ok?’ Ish whispered.

  I nodded.

  ‘We will wait for the Australian team to come, ok?’ I said to the security guard lest he became suspicious again. He nodded.

  ‘Are you from Gujarat?’ Ish asked him.

  ‘No,’ the guard said. He looked upset, as if a Gujarati girl broke his heart.

  ‘Hey, look slowly five rows behind,’ Ish said.

  I turned. There was a young Sikh boy in a burgundy turban wearing the Indian team dress.

  ‘Sharandeep Singh, the twelfth man. He may be in the team soon. Should I go shake his hand?’

  ‘Don’t be nuts. One suspicion you are star-struck and they will kick our asses out of here,’ I said.

  ‘Can I take that?’ Ali said as waiters in white uniforms walked around with soft drinks.

  ‘Pretend you own a two-hundred-crore company. Go for it Ali,’ I said.

  Soon we were all drinking Fanta in tall glasses. Thank God for sponsors.

  Murmurs rippled in our stand. Everyone turned back to see men in yellow dresses emerge from the dressing room. Ish clutched my hand tight as he saw the Australian team members. They came and sat two rows ahead of us.

  ‘That is Steve Waugh, the Australian captain,’ Ish whispered in my ear. I could hear his heart beat through his mouth.

  I nodded and a deep breath. Yes, everyone was there – Bevan, Lehman, Symonds and even McGrath. But we didn’t come here to check out the Australian team like awestruck fans. We were here for a purpose.

  ‘Ish bhaiya, there is Ponting, in the pads. He is one down,’ Ali’s scream ruined my effort to act placid.

  A few people noticed, but looked away as Ali was a kid. True VIPs never screamed at stars even though they liked to hang around them.

  A young white m