Three Mistakes Of My Life Part 2

'And what do you think you are doing?' Ish's dad asked him.

'Teaching him a lesson,' Ish said and unhooked his bat stuck in the windscreen. 'Really, when will you learn your lessons?' Ish's dad said to him.

Ish turned away.

'You go now,' Ish's dad said to the beeping driver, who folded his hands. Seeing that no one cared about his apology, he trudged back to his car.

Ish's dad turned to his neighbours. 'For one whole year he's been sitting at home. Ran away from the army of his own country and then wants to teach lessons to others! He and his loafer friends hanging around the house all day long.'

One sidelong glance at his dad and Ish walked back home.

'Where the h.e.l.l are you going now?' Ish's dad said.

'Match. Why? You want to curse me some more?' Ish said.

'When you've wasted your entire life, what's another day?' Ish's father said and the neighbours half-nodded their heads in sympathy.

We missed the final five overs of the match. Luckily, India won and Ish didn't get that upset.

'Yes, yes, yes,' Ishaan jumped. 'Gopi on me tonight.' I love idiots.

Actually, Ishaan is not an idiot. At least not as much as Omi. It is just that both of them suck at studies, especially maths, and I am good at it. Hence, I have this chip on my shoulder. It does sound a bit conceited, but it is the only chip on my shoulder. For instance, I am easily the poorest of the three (though I will be the richest one day), even though Ishaan and Omi aren't particularly wealthy.

Ishaan's dad works in the telephone exchange, and while they have lots of phones in the house, the salary is modest. Omi's dad is the priest of the Swamibhakti temple, which actually belongs to Omi's mom's family for generations. And that does not pay well either. But still, they are a lot better off than me and my mom.

My mom runs a small Gujarati snacks business, and the little bit of money I make from tuitions helps us get by, but that's about it.

'We won, we won the series 3-1,' Omi repeated what he read on the TV screen.

Of course, it would have been too much for him to express such original insight.

Some say Omi was born stupid, while some say he became stupid after a cork ball hit him on the head in Cla.s.s VI. I didn't know the reason, but I did know that maybe the best idea for him would be to become a priest. He wouldn't have much of a career otherwise, given that he barely sc.r.a.ped through Cla.s.s XII, after repeating the maths compartment exam twice. But he didn't want to be a priest, so my plan was the best one.

I ate the khakra. My mother made it better than Ishaan's mom. We were professionals after all.

'I'll go home to change and then we will go to Gopi, ok?' I said as Ishaan and Omi were still dancing. Dancing after an Indian victory was a ritual we had started when we were eleven, one that should have stopped by thirteen. However, here we were at twenty-one, jigging like juveniles. Ok, so we won, someone had to. In mathematical terms, there was a pretty good probability - did it really need jumping around?

I walked back home.

The narrow lanes of the old city were bustling with the evening crowd. My house and Ishaan's were only half a kilometre apart. Everything in my world fell between this distance. I pa.s.sed by the Nana Park, extra packed with kids playing cricket as India had won the match. I played here almost every day of my school life.

We still come here sometimes, but now we prefer the abandoned bank branch compound near my home.

A tennis ball landed at my feet. A sweaty twelve-year-old boy came running to me. I picked up the ball for him. Nana Park is where I had first met Ishaan and Omi, over fifteen years ago. There was no dramatic moment that marked the start of our friendship. Maybe we sized each other up as the only six-year-olds in the ground and started playing together.

Like most neighbourhood kids, we went to the Belrampur Munic.i.p.al School, hundred metres down Nana Park. Of course, only I studied while Ish and Omi ran to the park at every opportunity.

Three bicycles tried to overtake each other in the narrow by lane. I had to step inside Qazi restaurant to let them pa.s.s. A scent of fried coriander and garlic filled the narrow room. The cook prepared dinner, a bigger feast than usual as India had won the match. Ishaan and I came here sometimes (without telling Omi, of course) for the cheap food and extraordinary mutton. The owner a.s.sured us 'small mutton', implying goat and not beef. I believed him, as he would not have survived in the neighbourhood if he served beef. I wanted to eat here instead of Gopi. But we had promised Gopi to Omi, and the food was fantastic there as well.

Food is a pa.s.sion here, especially as Gujarat is a dry state. People here get drunk on food.

Yes, Ahmedabad is my city. It is strange, but if you have had happy times in a city for a long time, you consider it the best city in the world. I feel the same about Ahmedabad. I know it is not one of those hip cities like Delhi, Bombay or Bangalore. I know people in these cities think of Ahmedabad as a small town, though that is not really the case. Ahmedabad is the sixth largest city in India, with a population of over five million. But I guess if you have to emphasise the importance of something, then it probably isn't as important in the first place. I could tell you that Ahmedabad has better multiplexes than Delhi or nicer roads than Bombay or better restaurants than Bangalore - but you will not believe me.

Or even if you do, you won't give a d.a.m.n. I know Belrampur is not Bandra, but why should I defend being called a small-town-person as if it is a bad thing? A funny thing about small towns is that people say it is the real India. I guess they do acknowledge that at one level the India of the big cities is fake. Yes, I am from the old city of Amdavad and proud of it. We don't have as many fashion shows and we still like our women to wear clothes. I don't see anything wrong with that.

I stepped out of Qazi and continued my way home, turning in the pol towards Omi's temple. Of course, we called it Omi's temple because he lived there, but the official name was the Swamibhakti temple. As I entered the by lane, two people fought over garbage disposal around the crammed pol.

There are things about my small town neighbourhood that I want to change. In some ways, it is way behind the rest of Ahmedabad. For one, the whole old city could be a lot cleaner. The new city across the other side of the Sabarmati river has gleaming gla.s.s and steel buildings, while the old city finds it difficult to get rubbish cleared on time.

I want to change another thing. I want to stop the gossip theories people come up with about other people. Like the theory about Omi becoming stupid because a cricket ball hit him. There is no basis for it, but every pol in Belrampur talks about it. Or the theory that Ish was thrown out of NDA and did not run away. I know for a fact that it is not true. Ish cannot handle unquestioned authority, and even though he was really excited about the army (which was his only option), he could not stand some Major ordering him around for the next two decades of his life. So he paid the penalty, cited personal reasons like ailing parents or something and ran right back to Belrampur.

And of course, what I want to stop the most - the weirdest theory that I became emotionless the day dad left us. Dad left mom and me over ten years ago, for we found out he had a second wife across town. As far as I can remember, I was never good with emotional stuff. I love maths, I love logic and those subjects have no place for emotion. I think human beings waste too much time on emotions.

The prime example is my mother. Dad's departure was followed by months of crying with every lady in every pol coming down to sympathise with her. She spent another year consulting astrologers as to which planet caused dad to move out, and when would that position change. Thereafter, a string of grandaunts came to live with her as she could not bring herself to stay alone. It wasn't until I turned fifteen and understood how the world worked that I could coax her into opening the snacks business. Of course, my coaxing was part of it, the rest of it was that all her jewellery was officially sold by then.

Her snacks were great, but she was no businessman. Emotional people make terrible businessmen. She would sell on credit and buy on cash - the first mistake a small business can make. Next, she would keep no accounts. The home spending money was often mixed with the business money, and we frequently had months where the choice was to buy either rice for our consumption or black pepper for the papads.

Meanwhile, I studied as much as I could. Our school was not Oxford, and emphasis on studies was low with more teachers bunking cla.s.ses than students.

Still, I topped maths every single year. People thought I was gifted when I hit a hundred in maths in cla.s.s X. For me, it was no big deal. For once, the gossip vine helped. The news of my score spread across pols, and we had a new source of income - tuitions. I was the only maths tutor in Belrampur, and bad maths scores had reached epidemic proportions. Along with khaman and khakra, trigonometry and algebra became sources of income in the Patel household. Of course, it was a poor neighbourhood, so people could not pay much. Still, another thousand bucks a month was a lifestyle changing event for us. From fan, we graduated to cooler. From chairs, we went to a secondhand sofa. Life became good.

I reached Omi's temple. The loud rhythmic chime of the bell interrupted my thoughts. I checked my watch, it was 6 p.m., the daily aarti time. I saw Omi's dad from a distance, his eyes closed as he chanted the mantras. Even though I was an agnostic, there was something amazing about his face - it had genuine feeling for the G.o.d he prayed to. No wonder he was among the most liked people in the community. Omi's mother was beside him, her maroon saree draped along her head and hands folded. Next to her was Bittoo Mama, Omi's maternal uncle. He was dressed in a white dhoti and saffron scarf. His huge biceps seemed even larger with his folded hands. His eyes, too, were transfixed in genuine admiration for the idols of Krishna and Radha.

Omi would get into trouble for reaching the aarti late. It would not be the first time though, as matches in Nana Park were at a crucial stage around 6 p.m. ?

'How was the match?' mom said as I reached home. She stood outside the house.

She had just finished loading a hired auto with fresh dhokla for a marriage party. Finally, my mother could delegate routine tasks like delivery and focus on her core competence - cooking. She took out a dhokla piece from the auto for me.

Bad business - snucking out something from a customer order.

'Great match. Nail-biting finish, we won,' I said, walking in.

I switched on the tubelight inside. The homes in our pol required light even during daytime.

'If I have a good Diwali season, I will get you a colour TV,' mom vowed.

'No need,' I said. I removed my shoes to get ready for a shower, 'you need a bigger grinder urgently, the small one is all wobbly'

'I will buy the TV if only the business makes extra money,' she said.

'No. If you make extra money, put it back in the business. Don't buy useless things. I can always see the match in colour in Ishaan's house.'

She left the room. My mother knew it was futile arguing with me. Without dad around, it was amazing how much say I had in the house. And I only hoped Ish and Omi would listen to my proposition as well.

My love for business began when I first started tuitions. It was amazing to see money build up. With money came not only things like coolers and sofas but also the most important stuff - respect. Shopkeepers no longer avoided us, relatives re- invited us to weddings and our landlord's visit did not throw us into turmoil. And then there was the thrill - I was making money, not earning it under some boss or getting a handout. I could decide my fate, how many students to teach, how many hours per cla.s.s - it was my decision.

There is something about Gujaratis, we love business. And Ambadadis love it more than anything else. Gujarat is the only state in India where people tend to respect you more if you have a business than if you are in service. The rest of the country dreams about a cushy job that gives a steady salary and provides stability. In Ahmedabad, service is for the weak. That was why I dreamt my biggest dream - to be a big businessman one day. The only hitch was my lack of capital. But I would build it slowly and make my dream come true. Sure, Ish could not make his dream of being in the Indian cricket team real, but that was a stupid dream to begin with. To be in the top eleven of a country of a billion people was in many ways an impossible dream, and even though Ish was top cla.s.s in Belrampur, he was no Tendulkar. My dream was more realistic, I would start slow and then grow my business. From a turnover of thousands, to lakhs, to crores and then to hundreds of crores.

I came out of the shower and dressed again.

"Want to eat anything?' my mother voiced her most quoted line from the kitchen.

'No, I am going out with Ish and Omi to Gopi.'

'Gopi? Why? I make the same things. What do you get at Gopi that I can't give you at home?'

Peace and quiet, I wanted to say.

'It's Ish's treat. And I want to talk to them about my new business.' 'So you are not repeating the engineering entrance,' my mother came out of the kitchen. She raised dough-covered hands, 'You can take a year to prepare. Stop taking tuitions for a while, we have money now.'

My mother felt guilty about a million things. One of them was me not making it to a good engineering college. Tuitions and supporting my mom's business meant I could study less for the entrance exams. I didn't make it to IIT or any of the top inst.i.tutes.

I did make it to a far-flung college in Kutch, but it wasn't worth it to leave my tuition income, friends, cricket at Nana Park and mom for that.

Not that I felt any emotion, it just did not seem like the right trade. I could do maths honours right here in Amdavad University, continue tuitions and think about business. The Kutch college did not even guarantee a job.

'I don't want to be an engineer, mom. My heart is in business. Plus, I have already done two years of college. One more and I will be a graduate.'

'Yes, but who gives a job to a maths graduate?'

It was true. Maths honours was a stupid course to take from an economic point of view.

'It is ok. I needed a degree and I can get it without studying much,' I said. 'I am a businessman, mom. I can't change that.'

My mother pulled my cheeks. Chunks of dough stuck to my face.

'Be whatever. You are always my son first.' She hugged me. I hated it. I hate a display of emotion more than emotion itself. 'I better go.'

That is your tenth chapatti,' Ish told Omi.

'Ninth. Who cares? It is a buffet. Can you pa.s.s the ghee please?'

'All that food. It has to be bad for you,' Ish said.

'Two hundred push-ups.' Omi said. 'Ten rounds of Nana Park. One hour at Bittoo Mama's home gym. You do this everyday like me and you can hog without worry.'

People like Omi are no-profit customers. There is no way Gopi could make money off him.

'Aamras, and ras malai. Thanks,' Omi said to the waiter. Ish and I nodded for the same.

'So, what's up? I'm listening,' Ish said as he scooped up the last spoon of aamras.

'Eat your food first. We'll talk over tea,' I said. People argued less on a full stomach.

'I am not paying for tea. My treat is limited to a thali,' Ishaan protested.

'I'll pay for the tea,' I said.

'Relax, man. I was only joking. Mr Accounts can't even take a joke. Right, Omi?'

Omi laughed.

'Whatever. Guys, you really need to listen today. And stop calling me Mr Accounts.'

I ordered tea while the waiter cleared our plates.

I am serious, Ish. What do you plan to do with your life? We are not kids anymore,' I said. 'Unfortunately,' Ish said and sighed. 'Ok, then. I will apply for jobs, maybe do an NIIT computer course first. Or should I take an insurance job? What do you think?'

I saw Ish's face. He tried to smile, but I saw the pain. The champion batsman of Belrampur would become an insurance salesman. Belrampur kids had grown up applauding his boundaries at Nana Park. But now, when he had no life ahead, he wanted to insure other people's lives.

Omi looked at me, hoping I'd come up with a great option from Santa's goodie bag. I was sick of parenting them.

'I want to start a business,' I began.

'Not again,' Ish said. 'I can't do that man. What was it the last time? A fruit dealership? Ugh! I can't be weighing watermelons all day. And the crazy one after that, Omi?'

'Car accessories. He said there is big money in that,' Omi said as he slurped his dessert.

'What? Put seat covers all day. No thanks. And the other one - stock broker.

What is that anyway?' Ish shrugged.

'So what the f.u.c.k do you want to do? Beg people to buy insurance? Or sell credit cards at street corners? You, Ish, are a military school dropout,' I said and paused for breath. 'And you got a compartment in Cla.s.s XII, twice. You can be a priest, Omi, but what about us?'

I don't want to be a priest,' Omi said listlessly.

'Then, why do you oppose me even before I start? This time I have something that will interest you.'

'What?' Ish said.

'Cricket,' I said.

'What?' both of them said in unison.

'There you go, nice to get your attention. Now can I talk?'

'Sure,' Ish waved a hand.

'We are going to open a cricket shop,' I said.

I deliberately left for the rest room.

'But how?' Omi interrogated when I returned. 'What is a cricket shop?'