The 3 Mistakes of My Life Read online

  Paresh had the same shocked expression as Ish, when Ali had hit a six off his first ball.

  ‘Hey, what? You hero or something?’ Ish ran to Ali.

  Ali looked puzzled at the reprimand.

  ‘This is not a cricket ground. We are playing in a bank. If the ball goes out and hits someone, who will be responsible? What if things break? Who will pay?’ Ish shouted.

  Ali still looked surprised.

  ‘That was a good shot,’ Paresh said.

  ‘Shut up. Hey Ali, I know you can do that. Learn the other aspects of the game.’

  Ali froze, very near tears.

  ‘Ok, listen. I am sorry. I did not mean to…,’ Ish said.

  ‘That is all I know. I can’t do anything else,’ Ali’s voice cracked.

  ‘We will teach you. Now why don’t you bowl?’

  Ali didn’t bat anymore that day. Ish kept the practice simple for the next half an hour and tried not to scream. The latter was tough, especially because he was an animal when it came to cricket.

  ‘Get your books from upstairs. We will study in the backyard,’ I told a sweaty Ali.

  He brought his books down and opened the first chapter of his maths book. It was on fractions and decimals.

  Omi brought two polypacks of milk. ‘Here,’ he gave one to Ish.

  ‘Thanks,’ Ish said, and tore it open with his mouth.

  ‘And here, one more,’ Omi said.

  ‘For what?’ Ish said, after taking a big sip.

  ‘Give it to your stick insect,’ Omi said. ‘Have you seen his arms? They are thinner than the wicket. You want to make him a player or not?’

  ‘You give him yourself,’ Ish smiled.

  Omi shoved the milk packet near Ali and left.

  ‘You have done some fractions before?’ I said.

  He nodded.

  I told him to simplify 24/64 and he started dividing the numerator and denominator by two again and again. Of course, he lacked the intuition he had in hitting sixes in mathematics. However, his father had tried his best.

  ‘See you at the shop,’ Ish told me and turned to Ali, ‘Any questions on cricket, champ?’

  ‘Why do people run between the wickets to score runs?’ Ali said, nibbling the end of his pen.

  ‘That’s how you score. It’s the rule,’ Ish said.

  ‘No, not that way. I mean why run across and risk getting out for one or two runs when you can hit six with one shot?’

  Ish scratched his head. ‘Keep your questions to maths,’ he said and left.

  ‘I have figured it out. The young generation from the Sixties to the Eighties is the worst India ever had. These thirty years are an embarrassment for India,’ Ish said as we lay down in the shop.

  We had spread a mat on the shop’s floor. A nap was a great way to kill time during slow afternoons. It was exam time and business was modest. Omi snoozed while Ish and I had our usual philosophical discussion.

  ‘Not all that bad,’ I said. ‘We won the World Cup in 1983.’

  ‘Yeah, we played good cricket, but that’s about it. We remained poor, kept fighting wars, electing the same control freaks who did nothing for the country. People’s dream job was a government job, yuck. Nobody took risks or stuck their neck out. Just one corrupt banana republic marketed by the leaders as this new socialist, intellectual nation. Tanks and thinktanks, nothing else,’ Ish said.

  ‘And guess who was at the top? Which party? Secular nonsense again,’ Omi joined in, opening one eye.

  ‘Well, your right-wing types didn’t exactly get their act together either,’ Ish said.

  ‘We will, man. We are so ready. You wait and see, elections next year and Gujarat is ours,’ Omi said.

  ‘Anyway, screw politics. My point is, that the clueless Sixties to Eighties generation is now old, and running the country. But the Nineties and the, what do they say…’

  ‘Zeroes.’

  ‘Yeah, whatever. The Zeroes think different. But we are being run by old fogeys who never did anything worthwhile in their primetime. The Doordarshan generation is running the Star TV generation,’ Ish said.

  I clapped. ‘Wow, wisdom is free at the Team India Cricket Shop.’

  ‘Fuck off. Can’t have a discussion around here. You think only you are the intellectual type. I am just a cricket coach,’ Ish grumbled.

  ‘No, you are the intellectual, bro. I am the sleepy type. Now can we rest until the next pesky kid comes,’ I said, closing my eyes.

  Our nap was soon interrupted.

  ‘Lying down, well done. When rent is cheap, shopkeepers will sleep,’ Bittoo Mama’s voice made us all sit up. Now what the hell was he doing here?

  ‘It is slow this time of the day, Mama,’ Omi said as he pulled out a stool. He signalled me to get tea. I opened the cash box and took some coins.

  ‘Get something to eat as well,’ Mama said. I nodded. Now who the fuck pays for Mama’s snacks? The rent is not that cheap, I thought as I left the shop with a fake smile. I returned with tea for everyone.

  Mama was telling Omi, ‘You come help me if it is slow in the afternoons. Your friends can come too. Winning a seat is not that easy. These secular guys are good.’

  ‘What do you want me to do, Mama?’ Omi said as he took the tea glasses off the crate and passed them around.

  ‘We have to mobilise young people. Tell them our philosophy, warn them against the hypocrites. During campaign time, we need people to help us in publicity, organising rallies. There is work to be done.’

  ‘I’ll come next time, Mama,’ Omi said.

  ‘Tell others, too. If you see young people at the temple, tell them about our party. Tell them about me.’

  I stood up, disgusted. Yes, I could see the point in targeting temple visitors, given the philosophy of the party. But when someone comes to pray, should they be pitched to join politics? I opened the accounts register to distract myself.

  ‘You will come?’ Mama turned to Ish.

  ‘Someone has to man the shop. At least one person, even if it is slow,’ Ish said. Smartass, that was supposed to be my excuse.

  ‘And you, Govind?’ Mama said.

  ‘I am not into that sort of stuff. I am agnostic, remember?’ I said, still reading the register.

  ‘But this isn’t about religion. It is about justice. And considering we gave you this shop at such a low rent, you owe us something.’

  ‘It is not your shop. Omi’s mother gave it to us. And given the location, the rent we pay is fair,’ I said.

  ‘I alone am enough, Mama. Dhiraj will come as well, right?’ Omi said, to break the ever escalating tension between Mama and me. Dhiraj was Mama’s fourteen-year-old son and Omi’s cousin.

  ‘Look at his pride! This two-bit shop and a giant ego,’ Mama said. ‘If Omi wasn’t there, I’d get you kicked out.’

  ‘There will be no need. We are leaving soon anyway,’ I said without thinking. I couldn’t help it. I wanted to tell him only at the last minute, just before we moved to the Navrangpura mall. But I was sick of his patronising tone.

  ‘Oh, really? Where, you will pull a hand-cart with these bats and balls?’ Mama said.

  ‘We are moving to Navrangpura mall. You can take your shop back then.’

  ‘What?’ Mama exclaimed.

  ‘We will make the deposit next month. Possession when it opens in three months. This two-bit shop is about to move to a prime location sports store,’ I said.

  Mama’s mouth remained open. I had dreamt of this expression for months.

  ‘Really?’ Mama turned to Omi.

  Omi nodded.

  ‘How much is the deposit?’ Mama said.

  ‘Forty thousand. We saved it,’ I said.

  ‘You pay one thousand a month for this shop. If you were paying the market rent of two, you wouldn’t be able to save this much,’ Mama said.

  I kept quiet.

  ‘What? Now you are quiet, eh?’ Mama stood up.

  What was I supposed to do? Jump and grab his