The 3 Mistakes of My Life Read online

  Ish turned silent. It was a sensitive topic and if it was not for the beer, I would not have said it.

  ‘Succeeding Ish is hard,’ Omi said. ‘Remember the hundred against Mahip Municipal School, in sixty-three balls? No one forgets that innings.’ Omi stood up and patted Ish’s back again, as if the ten-year-old match had ended minutes ago.

  ‘No one forgets the two ducks in the state selection trials either,’ Ish said and paused again.

  ‘Screw that, you were out of form, man,’ Omi said.

  ‘But those are the matches that fucking mattered, right? Now can we flip the topic?’

  Omi backed off and I gladly changed the subject. ‘I think we should thank our sponsors for tonight – The Team India Cricket Shop. In seven months of operation, our profit is 42,600 rupees. Of which, we have distributed 18,000 to the partners and 22,000 is for the Navrangpura shop deposit. And the remaining 2,600 is for entertainment like tonight. So, thank you, dear shareholders and partners, and let’s say cheers to the second bottle.’

  I took out the second bottle for each of us from the ice bucket.

  ‘Stud-boy,’ Ish slurred, standing up, ‘This business and its profit is all owed to Stud-boy, Mr Govind Patel. Thank you, buddy. Because of you this dropout military cadet has a future. And so does this fool who’d be otherwise jingling bells in the temple all his life. Give me a hug, Stud-boy.’

  He came forward to give me a hug. It was drunk affection, but genuine enough.

  ‘Will you do me one more favour buddy?’ Ish said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There is someone who wants maths tuitions,’ Ish said.

  ‘No, I am full, Ish. Seven students already…,’ I said as Ish interrupted me.

  ‘It is Vidya.’

  ‘Your sister?’

  ‘She finished Class XII. She is dropping a year now to prepare for the medical entrance.’

  ‘You don’t need maths to become a doctor.’

  ‘No, but the entrance exams do. And she is awful at it. You are the best man, who else can I trust?’

  ‘If it is your sister, then I mean…,’ I took a breath. ‘Wow, Vidya to join medical college? Is she that old now?’

  ‘Almost eighteen, dude.’

  ‘I teach younger kids though, class five to eight. Her course is more advanced. I am not in touch.’

  ‘But you got a fucking century in that subject, dude. Just try, she needs any help she can get.’

  I said nothing for a while, trying to remember what I knew of Vidya, which was little.

  ‘What are you thinking. Oh, I know, Mr Accounts. Don’t worry, we will pay you,’ Ish said and took a big sip.

  ‘Shut up, man. It is for your sister. Ok, I’ll do it. When do we start?’

  ‘Can you start Monday … no Monday is Parekh-ji’s feast. Damn, Omi what the fuck are we going to do there?’

  ‘The things we do to keep your Mama happy.’ I couldn’t wait to move to Navrangpura.

  ‘Parekh-ji is supposed to be a great man,’ Omi said. ‘And I always listen to you guys. Come for me this time.’

  ‘Anyway, Tuesday then,’ I said to Ish. ‘So is she going to come to the bank?’

  ‘Dad will never send her out alone. You come home.’

  ‘What?’ I said. Maybe I should have accepted a fee. ‘Ok, I’ll move some classes. Say seven in the evening?’

  ‘Sure, now can you answer one maths question, Mr Accounts,’ Ish said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You ordered a crate with ten bottles. We drank three each. Where is the tenth one?’ Ish stood up swaying.

  I stood as well. ‘The question is not where the tenth one is, but who does it belong to.’ I lunged for the ice bucket. Ish dived in as well. Cold water splashed on the floor as we tugged at the bottle. After a ten-second tiff, he released it.

  ‘Take it, dude. What would I do without you?’

  Four

  We reached Parekh-ji’s residence at around eight in the evening. Two armed guards manning the front gate let us in after checking our names. The entrance of the house had an elaborate rangoli, dozens of lamps and fresh flowers.

  ‘See, what a gathering,’ Bittoo Mama met us at the door. ‘Have dinner before the talk begins.’ From an aarti plate, he put big red tikkas on our foreheads. He told us Parekh-ji would make a speech after dinner.

  We moved to the massive food counter. A Gujarati feast, consisted of every vegetarian snack known to man. There was no alcohol, but there was juice of every fruit imaginable. At parties like this, you regret you have only one stomach. I took a Jain pizza and looked around the massive living room. There were fifty guests dressed in either white or saffron. Parekh-ji wore a saffron dhoti and white shirt, sort of a perfect crowd blend. Ish looked oddly out of place with his skull and crossbones, black Metallica T-shirt. Apart from us, every one had either grey hair or no hair. It looked like a marriage party where only the priests were invited. Most of them carried some form of accessory like a trishul or a rudraksha or a holy book.

  Ish and I exchanged a what-are-we-doing-here glance.

  Omi went to meet a group of two bald-whites, one grey-saffron and one bald-saffron. He touched their feet and everyone blessed him. Considering Omi met these kind of people often, he had one of the highest per-capita-blessings ratio in India.

  ‘The food is excellent, no?’ Omi returned. Food in Gujarat was always good. But still people keep saying it. Ish passed his Jain-dimsum to Omi.

  ‘Who are these people?’ I asked idly.

  ‘It is quite simple,’ Omi said. ‘The people in saffron are priests or other holy men from around the city. The people in white are the political party people. Why aren’t you eating any dimsums?’

  ‘I don’t like Chinese,’ Ish said. ‘And who is Parekh-ji?’

  ‘Well, he is a guide,’ Omi said. ‘Or that is what he says to be humble. But actually, he is the chairperson of the main temple trust. He knows the politicians really well, too.’

  ‘So he is a hybrid, a poli-priest,’ I deduced.

  ‘Can you be more respectful? And what is this T-shirt, Ish?’

  Everyone shushed as Parekh-ji came to the centre of the living room. He carried a red velvet cushion with him, which looked quite comfortable. He signalled everyone to sit down on the carpet. Like a shoal of fishes, the saffrons separated from the whites and sat down in two neat sections.

  ‘Where the hell do we sit?’ Ish said as he turned to me. I had worn a blue T-shirt and couldn’t find my colour zone. Bittoo Mama tugged at Omi’s elbow and asked us to join the saffron set. We sat there, looking like the protagonists of those ugly duckling stories in our mismatched clothes. Bittoo Mama came with three saffron scarves and handed them to us.

  ‘What? I am not…,’ I protested to Omi.

  ‘Shh … just wear it,’ Omi said and showed us how to wrap it around our neck.

  Parekh-ji sat on his wonderful magic cushion. There was pin-drop silence. Ish cracked his knuckle once. Omi gave him a dirty look. Everyone closed their eyes, apart from me. I looked around while everyone chanted in Sanskrit. They ended their chants after a minute and Parekh-ji began his speech.

  ‘Welcome devotees, welcome to my humble home. I want to especially welcome the team on the right from the Sindhipur temple. They have returned from kar seva in Ayodhya for over a month. Let us bow to them and seek blessings.’

  Everyone bowed to a group of six saffrons holding trishuls.

  Parekh-ji continued, ‘We also have some young people today. We need them badly. Thanks to Bittoo Mama, who brought them. Bittoo is working hard for the party. He will support our candidate Hasmukh-ji for the election next year.’

  Everyone looked at us and gave smiling nods. We nodded back.

  ‘Devotees, the Hindu religion teaches us to bear a lot. And we do bear a lot. So, today’s discussion is “How much bearing is enough? Until when does a Hindu keep bearing pain?’’’

  Everyone nodded. My knees were stiff with pain fr