The 3 Mistakes of My Life Read online

  Dr Multani sighed. ‘Well, not at the moment. His headaches are a problem, for instance. While his brain can analyse fast, it also tires quickly. He needs to stay in the game. He has to survive until his brain gets refreshed to use the gift again.’

  ‘Can that happen?’ Ish said.

  ‘Yes, under a training regimen. And he has to learn the other aspects of cricket. I don’t think he ever runs between the wickets. The boy has no stamina. He is weak, almost malnourished,’ the doctor said.

  ‘I am going to coach him,’ Ish vowed. ‘And Omi will help. Omi will make him eat and make him fit.’

  ‘No, I can’t,’ Omi refused as all looked at him. ‘Dr Verma, tell them why I can’t.’

  ‘Because he’s a Muslim. Multani, remember Nasser from the Muslim University? Ali is his son.’

  ‘Oh, that Nasser? Yes, he used to campaign in the university elections. Used to be a firebrand once, but I have heard that he has toned down.’

  ‘Yes, he is in politics full time now. Moved from a pure Muslim to a secular party,’ Dr Verma said.

  Ish looked at Dr Verma, surprised.

  ‘I found out after you guys left yesterday. Sometimes I feel I run a gossip centre, not a clinic.’ Dr Verma chuckled. ‘Anyway, that’s the issue then. A priest’s son teaching a Muslim boy.’

  ‘I don’t want to teach him,’ Omi said quickly.

  ‘Shut up, Omi. You see what we have here?’ Ish spoke.

  Omi stood up, gave Ish a disapproving glance and left the room.

  ‘How about the state academy?’ Dr Verma said.

  ‘They’ll ruin him,’ Ish said.

  ‘I agree.’ Dr Multani paused. ‘He is too young, Muslim and poor. And he is untrained. I’d suggest you keep this boy and his talent under wraps for now. When the time comes, we will see.’

  We left the clinic. I took out four marbles from my pocket and called Ali.

  ‘Ali, time to go. Here, catch.’

  I threw the four marbles high in the air towards him. I had thrown them purposely apart.

  Ali looked away from his game and saw the marbles midair. He remained in his squat position and raised his left hand high. One, two, three, four – like a magic wand his left hand moved. He caught every single one of them.

  Six

  ‘He won’t agree, I spoke to him already,’ Ali huffed. We reached the end of Belrampur to get to his house. He lived in a particularly squalid pol. Ali pressed the bell. I noticed his father’s nameplate had a motif of the secular political party.

  ‘Ali, so late again,’ his dad said as he opened the door. He wore an impeccable black achkan, which contrasted with his white beard and a tight skullcap of lace material. He looked around sixty, which meant Ali came late in his life.

  ‘And who are you gentlemen?’ he said.

  ‘I am Ishaan,’ Ish said. ‘And this is Govind and Omi. We are Ali’s friends.’

  ‘Friends?’ Ali’s dad said, underlining the absurd age difference.

  ‘Yes abba, they came to play cricket at the school. They have a sports shop. I told you, remember?’

  ‘Come in,’ Ali’s dad said.

  We sat in the living room. Ali’s mother, wearing a brown-coloured salwar suit, brought in glasses of roohafza. Even though a dupatta covered most of her face, I could make out that she must’ve been at least twenty years younger than her husband. She scolded Ali for not studying for his test the next day. I think Indian mothers have two tasks – to tell children to eat more or study more.

  ‘We wanted to talk about coaching Ali,’ Ish began after Ali left the room with his mom.

  ‘Cricket coaching? No, thanks. We are not interested,’ Ali’s dad said in a tone that was more conclusive than discussion oriented.

  ‘But uncle…,’ Ish protested.

  ‘Look above,’ Ali’s dad said and pointed to the roof, ‘look, there are cracks on the ceiling. There is this room and one other tiny room that I have taken on rent. Does it look like the house of a person who can afford cricket coaching?’

  ‘We won’t be charging Ali,’ Ish said.

  I glared at Ish. I hate it when he gives discounts at the shop, but a hundred per cent off is insane.

  ‘What will he do with cricket coaching? Already school is difficult for him after the madrasa. This is the first time Ali is studying maths. And I can’t even afford a maths tutor…’

  ‘Govind teaches maths,’ Ish said.

  ‘What?’ Ali’s dad and I said together.

  ‘Really, he is the best in Belrampur. He got hundred per cent marks in the Class XII board exam.’

  I double glared at Ish. I was fully booked in tuitions and I already taught his clown of a sister for free. ‘But Ish, I can’t,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe we can do a combined deal. If you allow him cricket coaching with us, we will teach him maths for free,’ Ish said ignoring my words.

  ‘How can I teach for free? I have paying students waiting,’ I said.

  Ish glanced at me with disdain as if I had shot down his mission to Mars.

  ‘For free?’ I mouthed to him.

  ‘I will pay whatever I can,’ Ali’s dad said in a muffled voice.

  ‘I am sorry, but this is how I earn my living. I can’t…’ I said, in a desperate attempt to salvage my asshole image.

  ‘Just take it from my salary, ok? Can you let me talk?’ Ish said with great politeness.

  I wanted to get up and leave.

  ‘I get a small retirement pension. How much do you charge?’

  ‘Four hun…,’ I started to say but Ish interrupted with ‘Why don’t we start and see how it goes?’

  Everyone nodded, even Omi because he did whatever everyone else was doing anyway.

  ‘Right, Govind?’ he said to me last.

  I gave the briefest nod possible, a five-degree tilt.

  ‘Stay for dinner, please,’ Ali’s dad implored as we stood up to leave.

  ‘No, no,’ Omi said, horrified at the idea of eating in a Muslim home.

  ‘Please, I insist. For us, hospitality is important. You are our mehmaan.’

  I would have disagreed, but I wanted to get something for the free maths-and-cricket coaching programme.

  We sat on the living room floor. Ali’s mom brought us two extra large plates, one for the three of us and another for Ali’s dad. The plates had simple food – chapattis, daal and a potato-cauliflower vegetable.

  Omi sat down. He did not touch the food.

  ‘Sorry I can’t offer you meat. This is all we have today.’

  ‘I don’t eat meat. I am a priest’s son,’ Omi said.

  An awkward pause followed. Ish jumped in, ‘The food looks great. Dig in guys.’

  To share a single plate is strangely intimate. Ish and I broke off the same chapatti. His long fingers reminded me of his sister’s. Damn, I had to teach her again the next day.

  ‘They don’t teach maths in madrasas?’ I asked for the sake of conversation and mathematics.

  ‘Not in this one,’ Ali’s dad said as he spooned in daal. ‘Maths and science are forbidden.’

  ‘That’s strange. In this day and age,’ I said. I thought of a business opportunity, a massive maths tuition chain outside every madrasa.

  ‘Not really,’ Ali’s dad said. ‘Madrasas were not even supposed to be schools. Their role is confined to teaching Islamic culture. Here, have some more chapattis.’

  ‘And that’s why you had him switch schools?’ Ish said.

  ‘Yes. I would have done it earlier, but my father was adamant Ali goes to a madrasa. He died six months ago.’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry,’ Ish said.

  ‘He was unwell for a long time. I miss him, but not the years of medical expenses that wiped me out,’ Ali’s father said. He drank a glass of water. ‘When I retired from university, I had to leave the campus quarters. The party wanted me to move here. The Belrampur Municipal School was close, so I put him there. Is it good?’

  ‘Yes, we studied there for tw