The 3 Mistakes Of My Life (3 page)

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 Class 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 scraped through Class 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 passed 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 Municipal 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 pass. 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 assured 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 passion 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 damn. 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 glass 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 classes than students.

Still, I topped maths every single year. People thought I was gifted when I hit a

hundred in maths in class 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 God 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 class - 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 class 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.'