The 3 Mistakes of My Life

by Chetan Bhagat

  ‘Meet the Australians?’ Omi said as he dusted the counter. Ish and I sat on the floor in front of the TV.

  ‘They are in India,’ Ish said. He pointed to the Australian team batting on the screen. ‘When are we ever going to get a chance like this?’

  ‘Is he mad?’ Omi asked me.

  ‘Of course, he is. What will you do by meeting them? Really?’ I joined in.

  ‘I want to get their opinion on Ali.’

  ‘How?’ Omi said as he sat down with us.

  ‘We will go see a match. Maybe a one-day,’ Ish said.

  ‘There is no money for trips,’ I said.

  ‘The one-day series will continue for the next two months. If business picks up, then we could,’ Ish said.

  ‘They are raping us again. Fuck, business is never going to pick up,’ I said as I saw the score. On the first day at tea, Australia’s score was 193/1.

  ‘If it does. I said if,’ Ish said, upset at the score more than me.

  ‘So we go see a match. Then what? Knock on Hayden’s door and say, ‘‘Hey, check this kid out.’’ How do you intend to meet them?’ I mocked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Ish turned to the screen, scowling. ‘Bowl better, guys.’

  ‘Excuse me, are you watching the India-Australia match?’ a lady’s voice interrupted us.

  An elderly woman stood at the counter with a puja thali in her hand.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can my grandson watch it with you for a while?’ she said.

  I stood up from the floor. A small boy accompanied the lady. I was never keen on random people coming into our shop to spend their time. She sensed my hesitation. ‘We’ll buy something. I want to attend the bhajans inside and Babloo wants to see the match.’

  ‘Of course, he can come in.’ Ish opened the door wider. The boy came in and sat before the TV. Ish and I exchanged a round of dirty looks.

  ‘Don’t watch from so close Babloo. Hello, I am Mrs Ganguly by the way. I also need advice on buying cricket equipment for my school, if you can visit me sometime.’

  ‘School?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, I am the principal of the Kendriya Vidyalaya on Ellisbridge. We never had good suppliers for sports. Everybody thinks we are government so they try and rip us off. You supply to schools, no?’

  The answer was no. We did not supply to schools.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘In fact, we have our inhouse advisor Ishaan. He is an ex-district level player.’

  ‘Great. I will see you then,’ Mrs Ganguly said and left us to ponder over her business proposition.

  ‘You want candy, Babloo?’ Omi said as we tried our best to impress anyone related to Mrs Ganguly.

  ‘But we are not suppliers,’ Ish said later.

  ‘So what? You have to swing this for me, Ish. This is a regular income business.’

  ‘If I get you this, will you come to Goa?’

  ‘Goa?’ I raised my eyebrows.

  ‘It’s the last one-day. I am stretching it out as far as I can. If we save enough, let’s go with Ali.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Say yes.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. After the mall fiasco, I wanted to make Ish happy. I stood up to check the day’s accounts.

  ‘Cool. Hey, see the match?’ Ish said. ‘It has totally turned.’

  I looked at the TV. Perhaps God listened to Mrs Ganguly’s prayers inside. A little known Surd called Harbhajan Singh had bowled after tea. Wickets crumbled and from 193/1, Australia ended the day at 291/8.

  ‘Bhajji, you are great,’ Ish bent forward to kiss the TV.

  ‘Don’t watch the TV from so close,’ Babloo said.

  ‘Don’t listen to grown-ups all the time. Nobody went blind watching TV from close. Don’t people work on computers?’ Ish was jumping up and down in excitement.

  Mrs Ganguly came in two hours later to pick up Babloo. She bought him two tennis balls. I was tempted to throw them in for free, but she might take it the wrong way.

  ‘Here,’ she said, giving me her card. ‘We have a board meeting every Monday. Why don’t you come and tell us how you can help?’

  We had four days to prepare. The board would be in a better mood if India won this match.

  ‘Sure, we will see you then,’ I said and slipped a candy to Babloo.

  Day 2

  The only way to describe the second day of the match was ‘depressing’. From 291/8, Australia dragged on their first innings to end at a healthy 445 all out. The Indians came out to bat and opener Ramesh got out for no score.

  ‘Who the fuck is this Ramesh? Connection quota,’ Ish said.

  But it wasn’t only Ramesh who sucked. Tendulkar scored ten, others even less. Dravid scored the highest at twenty-five. The second day ended with India at 128/8.

  Ish tore his chapattis with anger over dinner. ‘These Australians must be thinking – why even bother to come and play with India.’

  ‘Pray for a draw. With a draw there is hope of sales. Else we should change our business. Sports is the wrong choice in our country.’ I passed the daal to Omi.

  ‘They have twenty million people. We have one billion, growing at two per cent a year. Heck, we create an Australia every year. Still, they cream us. Something is wrong about this.’

  ‘Should we open another flower shop? There will always be a demand for that in a temple,’ I said.

  Ish ignored me. He mumbled something about avoiding a follow-on, which looked pretty difficult.

  Day 3

  The next morning I don’t know why we even bothered to switch on the TV. India struggled to stretch their first innings, but packed up before lunch at 171 all out. ‘And the Australians have asked India to follow on,’ the commentator said and I slapped my forehead. A defeat in a test match was one thing, but an innings defeat meant empty parks for weeks. Kids would rather read textbooks than play cricket and be reminded of India’s humiliation. Why on earth had I started this business? What an idiot I am? Why couldn’t I open a sweet shop instead? Indians would always eat sweets. Why sports? Why cricket?

  ‘That’s fucking-follow-on-fantastic,’ Ish said, inventing his own phrases for the moment. He clenched his fist and came dangerously close to the TV. ‘We had them by their balls at 291/8, and now they ask us to follow on?’

  ‘Should we turn off the TV?’ I said. Should we close the shop for good? I thought.

  ‘Wait, I want to see this. I want to see how our team makes eye contact when they lose so badly,’ Ish said.

  ‘They are not making eye contact. You are just watching them on TV,’ Omi said.

  ‘If this match is a draw, I will treat you all to dinner. Ok, two dinners,’ Ish said.

  For its second innings, India made one change. It replaced the opener Ramesh with another new guy called Laxman.

  ‘The team is full of people with contacts. Everyone is getting their turn today,’ Ish said as the Indian openers took the crease for the second follow-on innings.

  But Laxman connected with the ball and bat. He slammed four after four. At the end of the third day, India stood at a respectable 254/4. Adding that to the first innings score of 171, India needed only 20 runs to match Australia’s first innings of 445. An innings defeat looked unlikely, and, yes, we could even draw now.

  ‘See, that’s what the Indian team does. Right when you give up hope, they get you involved again,’ Ish said at dinner.

  ‘You were going to see all days anyway. Please think about our Monday meeting,’ I said.

  ‘Laxman’s job is not done. He needs to be around if we want a draw,’ Ish said.

  I sighed. I would have to prepare for the school meeting by myself.

  Day 4

  If there was a day that India dominated world cricket, it was on the fourth day of the match. Yes, India won the World Cup on 25 June 1983 and so that counted, too. But the day I’m talking about was when two Indian batsmen made eleven Australian cricketers dance to their tune. They did it in public and they did it the whole day.
That’s right. On the fourth day of the Test, Ish didn’t leave the TV even to pee.

  Here is what happened. Laxman and Dravid continued to play and added 357 runs for the fifth wicket. Day 4 started at 274/4 and ended at 589/4. Nine of the eleven members of the Australian team took turns bowling, but none of them succeeded in getting a wicket. The crowd at Eden Gardens became possessed. They chanted Laxman’s name enough times to make Steve Waugh visibly grumpy. The team that had given us a follow-on could not bowl one batsman out.

  Laxman ended the day at 275 not out, scoring more than what the entire Indian team did in their first innings. Dravid made 155 not out. We had lots of wickets left, had 337 runs more than Australia and only one day left in the match.

  ‘I can finally sleep in peace. I’ll buy the draw dinners,’ Ish said as we downed the shutters of the shop.

  ‘Hope we have some kids back in the park again,’ I said.

  Day 5

  Human expectations have no limit. While we were praying only for a draw two days ago, the start of the fifth day raised new hopes. Laxman left at 281 and everyone in the stadium stood up to applaud for his eleven-hour innings.

  The Indian captain Ganguly made a surprise decision. After an hour’s play for the day, he declared the Indian innings at 657/7. It meant Australia would have to come back and bat. And that they had to make 384 runs in the rest of the day to win the match.

  ‘Is Ganguly mad? It’s too risky. We should have continued to play. Get the draw done and over with,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe he has something else in mind,’ Ish said.

  ‘What?’ Omi scratched his head.

  I wasn’t sure of Ganguly’s intentions either. Ok, so we lucked out and made a big total to take the game to a draw. But why did the captain declare when he could have played on until there was no time left? Unless, of course, he wanted a decision. That was, an Indian victory.

  ‘He can’t be serious. We had a follow-on. We could have had an innings defeat. Now, Ganguly really thinks he has a chance to bowl these Australians out?’ I said.

  Ish nodded as the Australian batsman reverted to the crease. Ganguly had kept the winning score of 384 required by the Australians at a tantalising level – difficult yet possible. Australians could have played safe and taken the game to a draw, but that is not how Australians play.

  ‘Hey Mr Mathematician, has it happened? Has it ever happened that the side facing a follow-on actually won the match?’ Ish said. He signalled Omi to start urgent, special prayers.

  I pulled out the cricket data book from the top shelf. We hardly sold any of these, but the publisher insisted we keep a few copies. ‘Ok, so it has happened earlier,’ I said after a ten-minute search.

  ‘How many times?’ Ish said, eyes glued to screen.

  ‘Twice,’ I said and noticed Omi close his eyes and chant silently.

  ‘See, it happens. Twice in how long?’ Ish said.

  ‘Twice in the last hundred and ten years.’

  Ish turned to me. ‘Only twice?’

  ‘Once in 1894 and then in 1981,’ I read out loud from the page. ‘Both times, England won against, guess who, Australia. Sorry buddy, but statistically speaking, this match is so over.’

  Ish nodded.

  ‘Like the probability is so low that I’d say if India wins, I will sponsor the Goa trip,’ I joked.

  ‘Or like if India wins, you will start believing in God?’ Omi played along.

  ‘Yep,’ I said.

  I told Omi to stop praying too much. A draw would be fine. Ganguly probably did not know the odds. The worst would be if Australia did score the runs.

  ‘161/3,’ Omi read Australia’s score at tea, which coincided with our own break.

  ‘Let’s clean up the shop, guys. The match gets over in a few hours. We may have some customers,’ I said.

  ‘A draw is fine. We will take the Australians another time.’ Ish reluctantly picked up the mop.

  Day 5 – Post-tea

  The Indian team must have mixed something special in their tea. Australia came back and continued to cruise at 166/3. Then came five deadly overs that included a hattrick from Harbhajan Singh. Next stop, Australia 174/8. In eight runs, half of the Australian team was gone.

  ‘Ish, don’t fucking stand in front of the TV,’ I said. But Ish wasn’t standing, only jumping.

  ‘Fuck your statistics man, fuck the probability,’ Ish shouted in jubilation. I don’t like it when people insult mathematics, but I gave Ish the benefit of doubt. You are allowed a few celebratory curses when you witness history.

  Pretty soon, the last two batsmen were scalped as well. Harbhajan, the Surd that Ish kissed on screen (and left saliva marks all over), took six wickets, and India won the match in the most spectacular way ever.

  In Eden Gardens, every placard, every poster and anything combustible besides people was on fire. It was impossible to hear the TV commentary, as the crowds roared everytime an Indian team member’s name was announced.

  Ish stood tall, his hands on his hips and looked at the screen. I could see genuine love in his eyes. Every now and then, I had seen Ish watch the men in blue as if he wished he was one of them. But today, he didn’t have any of his own regrets. I think more than wanting to be them, he wanted them to win. He saw Harbhajan jump and jumped along. He clapped when Ganguly came to accept the trophy.

  ‘Two balls quickly please, we have a match,’ a boy plonked a fifty-rupee note on the counter. The first customer of the great Indian Cricket Season had arrived.

  I folded my hands and looked at the sky. Thank you God, for the miracles you bestow on us.

  ‘We have come to offer solutions, not just sell some balls,’ I started.

  I had delivered my first line perfect. The preparations until two last night better be worth it, I told myself. We were in the principal’s office in the Kendriya Vidyalaya. The office was in a poor state, with rickety furniture and dusty trophies. Like most government offices and buildings old files piled up high on several cupboards. The lady principal and six teachers sat around a semicircular wooden table. It must be miserable to work here, I thought. It must be miserable to work for anyone else, I thought again.

  ‘Go on,’ the principal said, as my pause for effect became too long.

  ‘So we have a district-level champion player who can design a package based on your needs and budgets,’ I pointed at Ish and every teacher looked at him.

  I passed out sheets that estimated the school’s monthly needs based on eight hundred students. I had them laser printed at a computer shop for three rupees a page. A peon brought samosas and tea for everyone.

  ‘How much will this cost?’ the administrative head said.

  ‘We did some calculations. Your average cost will be ten thousand a month,’ I said.

  ‘That’s too much. This is a Kendriya Vidyalaya. Not a private school,’ the administrative head said. He shut the notebook and pushed it towards me.

  I took a deep breath. I had thought of an answer for this scenario. ‘Sir, we can scale down.’

  Ish interupped me, ‘It is twelve rupees per child a month. Don’t you think sport deserves as much as the cost of a fountain pen?’

  The teachers looked up from their notebooks and exchanged glances.

  ‘Frankly, no. We get judged on our results. The pass percentage and the first divisions. We have limited resources,’ the head said.

  ‘If everyone thinks that way, where will India’s sportsmen come from?’ Ish said.

  ‘From rich families.’ The head took out his glasses and wiped them calmly.

  ‘But talent is not distributed only among the rich. We have to expand the pool.’

  ‘Do you know half our classrooms leak in the rain,’ the head said. ‘Should we get shiny balls or fix the leaks?’ He stood up to leave.

  I mentally said the F-word a few times. C’mon Govind, save this. You need business, any business.

  ‘Sir, we can do a plan for five thousand a month,’ I sai
d.

  Ish raised a hand to keep me quiet. I could have killed him.

  Ish stood up, to match the admin head’s height. ‘What are you here to do?’

  ‘To give children an education,’ the head said with a straight face.

  ‘And all the education is in these books they read under the plastered roofs? What about the education that comes from sports?’

  ‘What?’ the admin head said.

  ‘Sit down Jitin sir,’ the principal said. ‘Let us hear what they have to say.’

  Jitin-sir, I mentally noted his name as he sat down again.

  ‘Are you teaching your kids a subject called teamwork? Are you teaching them how to chase a goal with passion? Are you teaching them discipline? Are you teaching them focus?’ Ish asked. I stamped his foot, signalling him to sit down. But he ignored me.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ This from one of the teachers.

  ‘Sports teaches them all this. And tell me, who will be more successful in life? The kid who knows all the chemical formulae or the one who knows teamwork, passion, discipline and focus?’

  ‘Sit down, son,’ the principal said. Ish took his seat but did not keep quiet.

  ‘I’m not settling for a scaled-down version. Eight hundred kids and they want to keep them locked in classes all day. We will chase useless first divisions but not spend two samosa plates worth of money on sports.’

  He pointed to the samosas on the plate. All the teachers stopped eating midway. The pause continued until the principal spoke again. ‘Fine, ten thousand is ok for a trial. Let’s see how it goes. You are on for six months.’

  We stood up to shake hands. Six educated, fifty-somethings stood up to shake hands with me. Yes, I had become a real businessman.

  ‘If this works, why don’t you come to a meeting at our Belapur school?’ the oldest gentleman in the group said.

  ‘Oh, yes. This is Mr Bhansali, headmaster of the Belapur school. He came for a visit, so I asked him to sit in this meeting,’ the principal introduced.

  I took his card. I mentally made a note to order business cards and wondered if I could do the fist pumping now or save it for later.