The 3 Mistakes Of My Life (9 page)

'Let us check your eyes,' Dr Verma said and stood up to go" to the testing

room.

'Eyesight is fantastic,' Dr Verma said, returning. 'I recommend you meet my

friend Dr Multani from the city hospital. He is an eye specialist and used to be a

team doctor for a baseball team in USA. In fact, I haven't met him for a year. I can

take you tomorrow if you want.'

We nodded. I reached for my wallet. Dr Verma gave me a stern glance to stop.

'Fascinating,' Dr Multani said only one word as he held up Mi's MRI scan. He

had spent two hours with Ali. He did every test imaginable - a fitness check, a

blood test, retinal scans, a computerised hand-eye coordination exam. The Matrix

style MRI, where Ali had to lie down head first inside a chamber, proved most

useful.

'I miss my sports-doctor days, Verma. This love for Amdavad made me give up

a lot,' Dr Multani said. He ordered tea and khakra for all of us.

Are we done?' Ali said and yawned.

'Almost. Play marbles in the garden outside if you want,' I )r Multani said. He

kept quiet until Ali left.

'That was some work, Multani, for a little headache,' Dr Verma s.iid.

'It is not just a headache,' Dr Multani said and munched a kliakra. 'Ish is right,

the boy is exceptionally gifted.'

'How?' I blurted. What was in those tests that said Ali could smash any bowler

to bits.

'The boy has hyper-reflex. It is an aberration in medical terms, but proving to

be a gift for cricket.'

'Hyper what?' Omi echoed.

'Hyper reflex,' Dr Multani lifted a round glass paper weight from I lis table and

pretended to hurl it at Omi. Omi ducked. 'When I ihrow this at you, what do you

do? You reflexively try to prevent 1 he attack. I didn't give you an advance

warning and everything happened in a split second. Thus, you didn't do a

conscious
think
to duck away, it just happened.'

Dr Multani paused for a sip of water and continued, 'It matters little in

everyday life, except if we touch something too hot or too cold. However, in sports

it is crucial.' Dr Multani paused to open .1 few reports and picked up another

khakra.

I looked at Ali outside from the window. He was using a catapult to shoot one

marble to hit another one.

'So Ali has good reflexes. That's it?' Ish said.

'His reflexes are at least ten times better than ours. But there is more. Apart

from reflex action, the human brain makes decisions in two other ways. One is

the long, analysed mode - the problem goes through a rigorous analysis in our

brain and we decide the course of action. And then there is a separate, second

way that's faster but less accurate. Normally, the long way is used and we are

aware of it. But sometimes, in urgent situations, the brain chooses the shortcut

way. Call it a quick-think mode.'

We nodded as Dr Multani continued:

'In reflex action, the brain short-circuits the thinking process and acts. He can

just about duck, forget try to catch it. However, the response time is superfast.

Sports has moments that requires you to think in every possible way - analysed,

quick-think or reflex.'

And Ali?' Ish said.

Dr Multani picked up the MRI scan again. 'Ali's brain is fascinating. His first,

second and even the third reflex way of thinking is fused. His response time is as

fast as that of a reflex action, yet his decision making is as accurate as the

analysed mode. You may think he hit that superfast delivery of yours by luck, but

his brain saw its path easily. Like it was a soft throw.'

'But I bowled fast.'

'Yes, but his brain can register it and act accordingly. If it is hard to visualise ...

imagine that Ali sees the ball in slow motion A normal player will use the second

or third way of thinking to hit a fast ball. Ali uses the first. A normal player needs

years of practice to ensure his second way gets as accurate to play well. Ali

doesn't need to. That is his gift.'

It look us a minute to digest Dr Multani's words. We definitely had to use the

first way of thinking to understand it.

'To him a pace delivery is slow motion?' Ish tried again.

'Only to his brain, as it analyses fast. Of course, if you hit him with a fast ball

he will get hurt.'

'But how can he hit so far?' Ish said.

'He doesn't hit much. He changes direction of the already fast ball. The energy

in that ball is mostly yours.'

'Have you seen other gifted players like him?' I wanted to know.

'Not to this degree, this boy's brain is wired differently. Some may call it a

defect, so I suggest you don't make a big noise about it'

'He is Indian team material,' Ish said. 'Dr Multani, you know he is.'

Dr Multani sighed. 'Well, not at the moment. His headaches are a problem, for

instance. While his brain can analyse fast, it .ilso 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 iloctor 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 I hem why I can't.'

'Because he's a Muslim. Multani, remember Naseer from the Muslim

University? Ali is his son.'

'Oh, that Naseer? 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, lsh 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?' lsh 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 twelve years,' I said.

'Omi, you didn't eat anything. At least have some fruit,' Ali's dad said, offering

him some bananas. Omi took one, examined it, and gobbled it in three bites.

'Why are you so keen to teach Ali cricket?' Ali's dad said.

The question was enough to light up Ish's face. He spoke animatedly. 'Ali has a

gift. You see how he blossoms with my training.'

'You play cricket?' Ali's father said.

'In school and now I have a sports store. I've seen players, but none like Ali,'