The 3 Mistakes of My Life

by Chetan Bhagat

  Ish turned silent. It was a sensitive topic and if it was not for the beer, I would not have said it.

  ‘Succeeding Ish is hard,’ Omi said. ‘Remember the hundred against Mahip Municipal School, in sixty-three balls? No one forgets that innings.’ Omi stood up and patted Ish’s back again, as if the ten-year-old match had ended minutes ago.

  ‘No one forgets the two ducks in the state selection trials either,’ Ish said and paused again.

  ‘Screw that, you were out of form, man,’ Omi said.

  ‘But those are the matches that fucking mattered, right? Now can we flip the topic?’

  Omi backed off and I gladly changed the subject. ‘I think we should thank our sponsors for tonight – The Team India Cricket Shop. In seven months of operation, our profit is 42,600 rupees. Of which, we have distributed 18,000 to the partners and 22,000 is for the Navrangpura shop deposit. And the remaining 2,600 is for entertainment like tonight. So, thank you, dear shareholders and partners, and let’s say cheers to the second bottle.’

  I took out the second bottle for each of us from the ice bucket.

  ‘Stud-boy,’ Ish slurred, standing up, ‘This business and its profit is all owed to Stud-boy, Mr Govind Patel. Thank you, buddy. Because of you this dropout military cadet has a future. And so does this fool who’d be otherwise jingling bells in the temple all his life. Give me a hug, Stud-boy.’

  He came forward to give me a hug. It was drunk affection, but genuine enough.

  ‘Will you do me one more favour buddy?’ Ish said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There is someone who wants maths tuitions,’ Ish said.

  ‘No, I am full, Ish. Seven students already…,’ I said as Ish interrupted me.

  ‘It is Vidya.’

  ‘Your sister?’

  ‘She finished Class XII. She is dropping a year now to prepare for the medical entrance.’

  ‘You don’t need maths to become a doctor.’

  ‘No, but the entrance exams do. And she is awful at it. You are the best man, who else can I trust?’

  ‘If it is your sister, then I mean…,’ I took a breath. ‘Wow, Vidya to join medical college? Is she that old now?’

  ‘Almost eighteen, dude.’

  ‘I teach younger kids though, class five to eight. Her course is more advanced. I am not in touch.’

  ‘But you got a fucking century in that subject, dude. Just try, she needs any help she can get.’

  I said nothing for a while, trying to remember what I knew of Vidya, which was little.

  ‘What are you thinking. Oh, I know, Mr Accounts. Don’t worry, we will pay you,’ Ish said and took a big sip.

  ‘Shut up, man. It is for your sister. Ok, I’ll do it. When do we start?’

  ‘Can you start Monday … no Monday is Parekh-ji’s feast. Damn, Omi what the fuck are we going to do there?’

  ‘The things we do to keep your Mama happy.’ I couldn’t wait to move to Navrangpura.

  ‘Parekh-ji is supposed to be a great man,’ Omi said. ‘And I always listen to you guys. Come for me this time.’

  ‘Anyway, Tuesday then,’ I said to Ish. ‘So is she going to come to the bank?’

  ‘Dad will never send her out alone. You come home.’

  ‘What?’ I said. Maybe I should have accepted a fee. ‘Ok, I’ll move some classes. Say seven in the evening?’

  ‘Sure, now can you answer one maths question, Mr Accounts,’ Ish said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You ordered a crate with ten bottles. We drank three each. Where is the tenth one?’ Ish stood up swaying.

  I stood as well. ‘The question is not where the tenth one is, but who does it belong to.’ I lunged for the ice bucket. Ish dived in as well. Cold water splashed on the floor as we tugged at the bottle. After a ten-second tiff, he released it.

  ‘Take it, dude. What would I do without you?’

  Four

  We reached Parekh-ji’s residence at around eight in the evening. Two armed guards manning the front gate let us in after checking our names. The entrance of the house had an elaborate rangoli, dozens of lamps and fresh flowers.

  ‘See, what a gathering,’ Bittoo Mama met us at the door. ‘Have dinner before the talk begins.’ From an aarti plate, he put big red tikkas on our foreheads. He told us Parekh-ji would make a speech after dinner.

  We moved to the massive food counter. A Gujarati feast, consisted of every vegetarian snack known to man. There was no alcohol, but there was juice of every fruit imaginable. At parties like this, you regret you have only one stomach. I took a Jain pizza and looked around the massive living room. There were fifty guests dressed in either white or saffron. Parekh-ji wore a saffron dhoti and white shirt, sort of a perfect crowd blend. Ish looked oddly out of place with his skull and crossbones, black Metallica T-shirt. Apart from us, every one had either grey hair or no hair. It looked like a marriage party where only the priests were invited. Most of them carried some form of accessory like a trishul or a rudraksha or a holy book.

  Ish and I exchanged a what-are-we-doing-here glance.

  Omi went to meet a group of two bald-whites, one grey-saffron and one bald-saffron. He touched their feet and everyone blessed him. Considering Omi met these kind of people often, he had one of the highest per-capita-blessings ratio in India.

  ‘The food is excellent, no?’ Omi returned. Food in Gujarat was always good. But still people keep saying it. Ish passed his Jain-dimsum to Omi.

  ‘Who are these people?’ I asked idly.

  ‘It is quite simple,’ Omi said. ‘The people in saffron are priests or other holy men from around the city. The people in white are the political party people. Why aren’t you eating any dimsums?’

  ‘I don’t like Chinese,’ Ish said. ‘And who is Parekh-ji?’

  ‘Well, he is a guide,’ Omi said. ‘Or that is what he says to be humble. But actually, he is the chairperson of the main temple trust. He knows the politicians really well, too.’

  ‘So he is a hybrid, a poli-priest,’ I deduced.

  ‘Can you be more respectful? And what is this T-shirt, Ish?’

  Everyone shushed as Parekh-ji came to the centre of the living room. He carried a red velvet cushion with him, which looked quite comfortable. He signalled everyone to sit down on the carpet. Like a shoal of fishes, the saffrons separated from the whites and sat down in two neat sections.

  ‘Where the hell do we sit?’ Ish said as he turned to me. I had worn a blue T-shirt and couldn’t find my colour zone. Bittoo Mama tugged at Omi’s elbow and asked us to join the saffron set. We sat there, looking like the protagonists of those ugly duckling stories in our mismatched clothes. Bittoo Mama came with three saffron scarves and handed them to us.

  ‘What? I am not…,’ I protested to Omi.

  ‘Shh … just wear it,’ Omi said and showed us how to wrap it around our neck.

  Parekh-ji sat on his wonderful magic cushion. There was pin-drop silence. Ish cracked his knuckle once. Omi gave him a dirty look. Everyone closed their eyes, apart from me. I looked around while everyone chanted in Sanskrit. They ended their chants after a minute and Parekh-ji began his speech.

  ‘Welcome devotees, welcome to my humble home. I want to especially welcome the team on the right from the Sindhipur temple. They have returned from kar seva in Ayodhya for over a month. Let us bow to them and seek blessings.’

  Everyone bowed to a group of six saffrons holding trishuls.

  Parekh-ji continued, ‘We also have some young people today. We need them badly. Thanks to Bittoo Mama, who brought them. Bittoo is working hard for the party. He will support our candidate Hasmukh-ji for the election next year.’

  Everyone looked at us and gave smiling nods. We nodded back.

  ‘Devotees, the Hindu religion teaches us to bear a lot. And we do bear a lot. So, today’s discussion is “How much bearing is enough? Until when does a Hindu keep bearing pain?’’’

  Everyone nodded. My knees were stiff with pain fr
om sitting cross-legged. I wondered if I should stop bearing pain right then and stretch my legs.

  ‘Our scriptures tell us not to harm others,’ Parekh-ji said. ‘They teach us acceptance of all faiths, even if those faiths do not accept us. They teach us patience. Thousands of years ago, our wise men thought of such wonderful values, valid even today. And today you great men pass on these values to society,’ Parekh-ji said, gesturing at the priests. The priests nodded.

  ‘At the same time, the scriptures also tell us not to bear injustice. The Gita tells Arjun to fight a virtuous war. So at some point we are meant to fight back. When is that point is something to think about.’

  Vigorous nods shook the crowd. Even though I found the whole gathering and the magic red cushion a bit over the top, Parekh-ji’s logic was flawless.

  ‘And right now, I see that injustice again. Hindus being asked to compromise, to accept, to bear. Hindus asked for the resurrection of one temple. Not any temple, a temple where one of our most revered gods was born. But they won’t give it to us. We said we will move the mosque respectfully, round the corner. But no, that was considered unreasonable. We tried to submit proof, but that was suppressed. Is this justice? Should we keep bearing it? I am just an old man, I don’t have the answers.’

  Ish whispered in my ear, ‘It is politics, man. Just pure simple politics.’

  Parekh-ji continued: ‘I don’t even want to go into who this country belongs to. Because the poor Hindu is accustomed to being ruled by someone else – 700 years by Muslims, 250 years by the British. We are independent now, but the Hindu does not assert himself. But what makes me sad is that we are not even treated as equals. They call themselves secular, but they give preference to the Muslims? We fight for equal treatment and are called communal? The most brutal terrorists are Muslim, but they say we are hardliners. More Hindu kids sleep hungry every night than Muslim, but they say Muslims are downtrodden.’

  Parekh-ji stopped to have a glass of water. ‘They say to me, Parekh-ji, why do you know so many politicians? I say, I am a servant of God. I didn’t want to join politics. But if I as a Hindu want justice, I need to get involved in how the country is run. And what other way is there to get involved than join politics? So, here I am half saffron, half white – at your service.’

  The audience gave a mini applause, including Omi. Ish and I were too overfed to react.

  ‘But there is hope. You know where this hope comes from – Gujarat. We are a state of businessmen. And you might say a hundred bad things about a businessman, but you cannot deny that a businessman sees reality. He knows how the parts add up, how the world works. We won’t stand for hypocrisy or unfairness. That is why, we don’t elect the pseudo-secular parties. We are not communal, we are honest. And if we react, it is because we have been bearing pain for a long time.’

  The audience broke into full applause. I used the break to step out into the front garden of Parekh-ji’s house and sit on an intricately carved swing. Parekh-ji spoke inside for ten more minutes, inaudible to me. I looked at the stars above and thought of the man on the velvet cushion. It was strange, I was both attracted to and repelled by him. He had charisma and lunacy at the same time.

  After his speech there were a few more closing mantras, followed by two bhajans by a couple of priests from Bhuj. Ish came out. ‘You here?’

  ‘Can we go home?’ I said.

  I reached Ishaan’s house at 7 p.m. on Tuesday. She sat at her study table. Her room had the typical girlie look – extra clean, extra cute and extra pink. Stuffed toys and posters with cheesy messages like ‘I am the boss’ adorned the walls of the room. I sat on the chair. Her brown eyes looked at me with full attention. I couldn’t help but notice that her childlike face was in the process of turning into a beautiful woman’s.

  ‘So which areas of maths are you strong in?’

  ‘None really,’ she said.

  ‘Algebra?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Trigonometry?’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Calculus?’

  She raised her eyebrows as if I had mentioned a horror movie.

  ‘Really?’ I said, disturbed at such indifference to my favourite subject.

  ‘Actually, I don’t like maths much.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ I said and tried to be like a thoughtful professor. ‘You don’t like it much or you don’t understand a few things and so you don’t like it yet? Maths can be fun you know.’

  ‘Fun?’ she said with a disgusted expression.

  ‘Yes.’

  She sat up straight and shook her head. ‘Let me make myself clear. I positively hate maths. For me it occupies a place right up there with cockroaches and lizards. I get disgusted, nauseated, and depressed by it. Between an electric shock or a maths test, I will choose the former. I heard some people have to walk two miles to get water in Rajasthan. I would trade my maths problems for that walk, everyday. Maths is the worst thing ever invented by man. What were they thinking? Language is too easy, so let’s make up some creepy symbols and manipulate them to haunt every generation of kids. Who cares if sin theta is different from cos theta? Who wants to know the expansion of the sum of cubes?’

  ‘Wow, that’s some reaction,’ I said, my mouth still open.

  ‘And fun? If maths is fun, then getting a tooth extraction is fun. A viral infection is fun. Rabies shots are fun.’

  ‘I think you are approaching it the wrong way.’

  ‘Oh ho ho, don’t go there. I am not just approaching it. I have lived, compromised, struggled with it. It is a troubled relationship we have shared for years. From classes one to twelve, this subject does not go away. People have nightmares about monsters. I have nightmares about surprise maths tests. I know you scored a hundred and you are in love with it. But remember, in most parts of the world maths means only one thing to students.’

  She stopped to breathe. I had the urge to get up and run away. How can I tame a wild beast?

  ‘What?’

  ‘Goosebumps. See I already have them,’ she said, pulling her kameez sleeve up to her elbow. I thought the little pink dots on her skin were more from her emotional outburst than maths.

  I also noticed her thin arm. It was so fair you could see three veins running across. Her hand had deep lines, with an exceptionally long lifeline. Her fingers seemed long as they were so thin. She had applied a glittery silver-white nailpolish only on the outer edge of the nails. How do women come up with these ideas?

  ‘What?’ she said as I checked out her arm for a moment too long.

  I immediately opened a textbook.

  ‘Nothing. My job is to teach you maths, not to make you like it. You want to be a doctor I heard.’

  ‘I want to go to a college in Mumbai.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I want to get out of Ahmedabad. But mom and dad won’t let me. Unless, of course, it is for a prestigious course like medicine or engineering. Engineering has maths, maths means vomit so that is ruled out. Medicine is the other choice and my exit pass. But they have this medical entrance exam and…’

  I realised that Vidya did not have an internal pause button. And since I had only an hour and the tutorial equivalent of climbing Everest barefoot, I wanted to come to the point.

  ‘So, which topic would you like to start with?’

  ‘Anything without equations.’

  ‘I saw your medical entrance exam course. Looks like there are a few scoring areas that are relatively easier.’

  I opened the medical exam entrance guide and turned it towards her.

  ‘See this, probability,’ I said. ‘This and permutations will be twenty-five per cent of the maths exam. Statistics is another ten per cent. No equations here, so can we start with this?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said and took out a brand new exercise book. She kept two pens parallel to the notebook. She opened the first page of the probability chapter like she was the most diligent student in India. Most clueless, probably.

  ‘P
robability,’ I said, ‘is easily the most fun. I say this because you can actually use the concepts in probability to solve everyday problems.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like what what?’

  ‘What everyday problems can you solve?’ she quizzed, brushing aside a strand of hair.

  ‘Well, you are going ahead, but let’s see.’ I looked around for an easy example. I noticed her impeccably done-up room, tucked in pink bedsheets. On the opposite wall were posters of Westlife, Backstreet Boys, Hrithik Roshan. Next to them was a wall of greeting cards. ‘See those cards?’

  ‘They are birthday cards from my school friends. I had my birthday two months ago.’

  I ignored the information overload. ‘Say there are twenty of them. Most are white, though. Some are coloured. How many?’

  ‘Five coloured ones,’ she said, scanning the cards, her eyes asking ‘so?’

  ‘Cool, five. Now let’s say I take all the cards and put them in a sack. Then I pull out one card, what is the probability the card is coloured?’

  ‘Why would you put them in a sack?’ she said.

  ‘Hypothetical. What is the chance?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Ok, so let’s use this example to start the basic premise of probability. Probability can be defined as,’ I said as I wrote the lines:

  Probability = No of times something you want happens/ No of times something can happen

  ‘How come there are no symbols?’ she said.

  ‘See, I told you probability is interesting. Let’s look at the denominator. How many different cards can come out if I pull out one card from the stack of twenty?’

  ‘Er … twenty?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Good.’

  ‘Duh!’ she said.

  I controlled my irritation. I dumbed down the problem for her and she duh-ed me. Some attitude, there.

  ‘And now the numerator. I want a coloured card. How many different coloured cards can come out if I pull one?’

  ‘Five?’

  ‘Yep. And so let’s apply our wordy formula,’ I said and wrote down.

  Probability = No of times something you want happens (5) / No of times something can happen (20)