The 3 Mistakes of My Life Read online

  So, probability = 5/20 = 0.25

  ‘There you go. The probability is 0.25, or twenty-five per cent.’ I said and placed the pen back on the table. She reread what I wrote for a few moments.

  ‘That is simple. But the exam problems are harder,’ she said at last.

  ‘We will get there. But the basic concept needs to be understood first. And you didn’t vomit.’

  I was interrupted by two beeps on her cellphone. She rushed to her bedside table to pick up the phone. She sat on the bed and read her message. ‘My school friend. She’s stupid,’ she smiled fondly at the phone.

  I kept silent and waited for her to come back. ‘Ok, let’s do another one,’ I said. ‘Let us say we have a jar with four red and six blue marbles.’

  I finished three more problems in the next half an hour. ‘See, it’s not that hard when you focus. Good job!’ I praised her as she solved a problem.

  ‘You want tea?’ she said, ignoring my compliment.

  ‘No thanks, I don’t like to have too much tea.’

  ‘Oh me neither. I like coffee. You like coffee?’

  ‘I like probability and you should too. Can we do the next problem?’

  Her cellphone beeped again. She dropped her pen and leaped to her phone.

  ‘Leave it. No SMS-ing in my class,’ I said.

  ‘It’s just…,’ she said as she stopped her hand midway.

  ‘I will go if you don’t concentrate. I have turned down many students for this class.’

  She was zapped at my firmness. But I am no Mr Nice, and I hate people who are not focused. Especially those who hate maths.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  ‘We only have an hour. Do your fun activities later.’

  ‘I said sorry.’ She picked up her pen again and opened the cap in disgust.

  Five

  ‘You. Must. Come. Now.’ The kid sucked in air after every word. ‘Ali. Is…’

  ‘Relax Paras,’ Ish told the panting boy. He had come running from the Belrampur Municipal School and was insisting we go with him.

  ‘Now? It is only four, how can I close business?’ I said.

  ‘He doesn’t play cricket that often. He always plays marbles. Please come today, Ish bhaiya.’

  ‘Let’s go. It is a slow day anyway,’ Ish said as he slipped on his chappals.

  Omi had already stepped out. I locked the cashbox and told the owner of the flower shop next to ours to keep watch.

  We reached our school’s familiar grounds. Twenty boys circled Ali.

  ‘I don’t want to play now,’ a voice said from the centre of the crowd.

  A thin, almost malnourished boy sat on the ground, his face covered with his hands.

  ‘No, Ish bhaiya has to see you play,’ Paras joined the cajoling crowd and tugged at Ali’s elbow.

  ‘I don’t like cricket. It gives me a headache,’ Ali said, his hands still covering his face.

  ‘I have heard a lot about you,’ Ish said as he bent down on one knee to Ali’s level.

  Ali parted his fingers to see Ish’s face. His eyes were a startling green.

  ‘Hi, I am Ish. I studied in this school for thirteen years. And I teach cricket too,’ Ish said and extended a handshake to Ali.

  Ali studied Ish’s face. He brought his hand forward with reluctance.

  Ali’s long hair was neatly parted. His young and fragile body resembled a girl’s. He looked like an arts or music prodigy, not a cricketer.

  ‘How old is he?’ I asked a spectacled kid in the crowd.

  ‘He is in Class VII C,’ the kid sniffed due to a cold.

  I calculated, he could be no more than twelve.

  ‘He just joined, no? Where from?’ I said.

  ‘He was in Shahpur Madrasa before. His daddy moved him here. Since then, every bowler has lost confidence,’ he sneezed. I narrowly escaped a mucous spray.

  Ish and Omi sat cross-legged on the ground with Ali.

  ‘I can’t play long. I get a headache,’ Ali said.

  ‘It’s ok if you don’t want to play,’ Ish said. ‘Let’s go, Omi.’

  Ish and Omi stood up and dusted their pants.

  ‘I can play an over, if you will bowl,’ Ali said as we turned to leave.

  ‘Sure,’ Ish said casually. Another kid tossed a ball into his hand.

  The crowd backed off. Some kids volunteered to be fielders. Omi became the wicket keeper. I stood near the bowler’s end, at the umpire’s slot. Ali took the crease. He strained hard to look at the bowler. The crowd clapped as Ish took a short run-up. I couldn’t understand the fuss in seeing this delicate, doe-eyed boy play. The bat reached almost two-thirds his height.

  Ish’s run-up was fake, as he stopped near me. A grown man bowling pace to a twelve-year-old is silly. Ish looked at the boy and bowled a simple lollipop delivery.

  The slow ball pitched midway and took its time to reach the crease. Thwack, Ali moved his bat in a smooth movement and connected. The ball surged high as Ish and I looked at it for its three seconds of flight – six!

  Ish looked at Ali and nodded in appreciation. Ali took a stance again and scrunched his face, partially due to the sun but also in irritation for not receiving a real delivery.

  For the next ball, Ish took an eight step run-up. The boy could play, girlie features be damned! The medium pace ball rose high on the bounce and smash! Another six.

  Ish gave a half smile. Ali’s bat had not hit the ball, but his pride. The crowd clapped.

  Ish took an eleven-step run-up for the next ball. He grunted when the ball left his hand. The ball bounced to Ali’s shoulder. Ali spun on one leg as if in a dance and connected – six!

  Three balls, three sixes – Ish looked molested. Omi’s mouth was open but he focused on wicket-keeping. I think he was trying to control his reaction for Ish’s sake.

  ‘He is a freak. Ali the freak, Ali the freak,’ a kid fielding at mid-on shouted and distracted Ali.

  ‘Just play,’ Ish said to Ali and gave the fielder a glare.

  Ish rubbed the ball on his pants thrice. He changed his grip and did some upper body twists. He took his longest run-up yet and ran forward with full force. The ball went fast, but was a full toss. Ish’s frustration showed in this delivery. It deserved punishment. Ali took two steps forward and smash! The ball went high and reached past the ground, almost hitting a classroom window.

  I laughed. I knew I shouldn’t have, but I did. To see the school cricket champion of my batch raped so in public by a mere boy of twelve was too funny. At least to me. Actually, only to me.

  ‘What?’ Ish demanded in disgust.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said.

  ‘Where is the fucking ball?’

  ‘They are trying to find it. You want to buy one from my shop, coach?’ I jeered lightly.

  ‘Shut up,’ Ish hissed as the ball came rolling back to him.

  Ish was about to take a run-up when Ali sat down at his crease.

  ‘What happened?’ Omi was the first to reach him.

  ‘I told you. I get a headache. Can I go back now?’ Ali said, his childish voice almost in tears.

  Omi looked at Ish and me. I shrugged.

  ‘I told you, no? Freak!’ Paras ran up to us.

  Ali stood. ‘Can I go?’

  We nodded. From his pocket, Ali took out some marbles that resembled his eyes. Rolling them in his hand, he left the ground.

  ‘I cannot believe it,’ Ish declared as he finished his fifty morning pushups. He came and sat next to me on the bank’s backyard floor.

  Omi continued to complete his hundred.

  ‘Tea,’ I announced and handed Ish his cup. My best friend had faced serious mental trauma yesterday. I couldn’t do much apart from making my best cup of ginger tea in the bank kitchen.

  ‘It can’t be just luck, right? No way,’ Ish answered his own questions.

  I nodded my head towards a plate of biscuits, which he ignored. I wondered if the Ali episode would cause permanent damage to Ish’