'Oh, you think Parekh-ji is some old, traditional man who will force you to read scriptures. Do you know where Parekh-ji went to college? Cambridge, and then Harvard. He had a big hotel business in America, which he sold and came back. He talks your language. Oh, and he used to play cricket too, for the Cambridge college team.'
'I will come if Govind comes,' said Ish the idiot.
Mama looked at me. In his eyes, I was the reason why Hindu culture had deteriorated lately.
'Well, I came to invite the three of you in the first place. He only said he doesn't believe in God.'
'I didn't say that,' I said. Oh, forget it, I thought.
'Then come.' Mama stood up. 'All three of you. I'll give Omi the address. It is the grandest house in Gandhinagar.'
?
People called me Mr Accounts; greedy, miser, anything. But the fact is, I did organise an all-expense-paid booze party to motivate my partners at the shop. It is bloody hard to get alcohol in Ahmedabad, let alone bulky bottles of beer. One of my contacts - Romy Bhai - agreed to supply a crate of extra strong beer for a thousand bucks.
At 7 p.m. on the day of the party, Romi Bhai left the beer -wrapped in rags - at the SBI compound entrance. I came to the gate and gave Romi Bhai the day's newspaper. On the third page of the newspaper, I had stapled ten hundred-rupee notes. He nodded and left.
I dragged the cloth package inside and placed the bottles in the three ice-filled buckets I had kept in the kitchen. I took out the bottle opener from the kitchen shelf, where we kept everything from Maggi noodles to boxes of crackers to burst when India won a match.
Another person may see the abandoned SBI branch as an eerie party venue. This used to be an old man's haveli. The owner could not repay and the bank foreclosed the property. Thereafter, the bank opened a branch in the haveli. The owner's family filed a lawsuit after he died. The dispute still unresolved, the family obtained a court injunction that the bank could not use the property for profit. Meanwhile, SBI realised that a tiny by lane in Belrampur was a terrible branch location. They vacated the premises and gave the keys to the court. The court official kept a key with Omi's dad, a trustworthy man in the area. This was done in case officials needed to view it and the court was closed. Of course, no one ever came and Omi had access to the keys.
The property was a six-hundred square yard plot, huge by Belrampur standards. The front entrance directly opened into the living room, now an abandoned bank customer service area. The three bedrooms on the first floor were the branch manager's office, the data room and the locker room. The branch
manager's office had a giant six-feet vault. We kept our cricket kit in the otherwise empty safe.
We hung out most in the haveli's backyard. In its prime, it was the lawn of a rich family. As part of the bank branch, it was an under-utilised parking lot and now, our practice pitch.
I rotated the beer bottles in the ice bucket to make them equally cold.
Ish walked into the bank.
'So late,' I said. 'It is 8.30.'
'Sorry, watching cricket highlights. Wow, strong beer,' Ish said as he picked up a bottle. We had parked ourselves on the sofas in the old customer waiting area downstairs. I reclined on the sofa. Ish went to the kitchen to get some bhujia.
'Omi here?' Ish said as he opened the packet.
'No, I am the only fool. I take delivery, clean up the place and wait for my lords to arrive.'
'Partners, man, partners,' Ish corrected. 'Should we open a bottle?'
'No, wait.'
Omi arrived in ten minutes. He made apologies about his dad holding him back to clean the temple. Omi then prayed for forgiveness before drinking alcohol.
'Cheers!' all of us said as we took a big sip. It was bitter, and tasted only slightly better than phenyl.
"What is this? Is this genuine stuff?' Ish asked.
We paused for a moment. Spurious alcohol is a real issue in Ahmedabad.
'Nah, nobody makes fake beer. It is just strong,' I said.
If you filled your mouth with bhujia, the beer did not taste half as bad. In fact, the taste improved considerably after half a bottle. As did everyone's mood.
'I want to see this Ali kid. Three customers have mentioned him,' Ish said.
'The Muslim boy?' Omi said.
'Stop talking like your Mama?' Ish scolded. 'Is that relevant? They say he has excellent timing.'
'Where does he play?' I enquired through a mouthful of bhujia.
'In our school. Kids say his most common shot is a six.' 'Let's go check him out. Looks like the school has your worthy successor,' 1 said.
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, everyone 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 1 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 1 rust. 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 from 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 rum. 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,' 1 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.
'Probability,' 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 a11 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 put 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 ma 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) So, probability = 5/20 = 0.25
'There you go. The probability is 0.25, or twenty-five per cent.' I said and placed the pen back on the table. She reread what I wrote for a few moments.
'That is simple. But the exam problems are harder,' she said at last.
'We will get there. But the basic concept needs to be understood first. And you didn't vomit.'
I was interrupted by two beeps on her cellphone. She rushed to her bedside table to pick up the phone. She sat on the bed and read her message. 'My school friend. She's stupid,' she smiled fondly at the phone.
I kept silent and waited for her to come back. 'Ok, let's do another one,' I said. 'Let us say we have a jar with four red and six blue marbles.'
I finished three more problems in the next half an hour. 'See, it's not that hard when you focus. Good job!' I praised her as she solved a problem.
'You want tea?' she said, ignoring my compliment.
'No thanks, I don't like to have too much tea.'
'Oh me neither. I like coffee. You like coffee?'
'I like probability and you should too. Can we do the next problem?'
Her cellphone beeped again. She dropped her pen and leaped to her phone.
'Leave it. No SMS-ing in my class,' I said.
'It's just...,' she said as she stopped her hand midway.
'I will go if you don't concentrate. I have turned down many students for this class.'
She was zapped at my firmness. But I am no Mr Nice, and I hate people who are not focused. Especially those who hate maths.
'Sorry,' she said.
'We only have an hour. Do your fun activities later.' 'I said sorry' She picked up her pen again and opened the cap in disgust.
Five
You. Must. Come. Now.' The kid sucked in air after every word. 'Ali. Is...' 'Relax Paras,' lsh told the panting boy. He had come running from the Belrampur Municipal School and was insisting we go with him.
'Now? It is only four, how can I close business?' I said.
'He doesn't play cricket that often. He always plays marbles. I'lease come today, lsh bhaiya.'
'Let's go. It is a slow day anyway,' lsh said as he slipped on his chappals.
Omi had already stepped out. I locked the cashbox and told the owner of the flower shop next to ours to keep watch.
We reached our school's familiar grounds. Twenty boys circled Ali.
'I don't want to play now,' a voice said from the centre of the crowd.
A thin, almost malnourished boy sat on the ground, his face covered with his hands.
The crowd backed off. Some kids volunteered to be fielders. Omi became the wicket keeper. I stood near the bowler's end, at the umpire's slot. Ali took the crease. He strained hard to look at the bowler. The crowd clapped as Ish took a short run-up. I couldn't understand the fuss in seeing this delicate, doe-eyed boy play. The bat reached almost two-thirds his height.
Ish's run-up was fake, as he stopped near me. A grown man bowling pace to a twelve-year-old is silly. Ish looked at the boy and bowled a simple lollipop delivery.
The slow ball pitched midway and took its time to reach the crease. Thwack, Ali moved his bat in a smooth movement and connected. The ball surged high as Ish and I looked at it for its three seconds of flight - six!
Ish looked at Ali and nodded in appreciation. Ali took a stance again and scrunched his face, partially due to the sun but also in irritation for not receiving a real delivery.
For the next ball, Ish took an eight step run-up. The boy could play, girlie features be damned! The medium pace ball rose high on the bounce and smash! Another six.
Ish gave a half smile. Ali's bat had not hit the ball, but his pride. The crowd clapped.
Ish took an eleven-step run-up for the next ball. He grunted when the ball left his hand. The ball bounced to Ali's shoulder. Ali spun on one leg as if in a dance and connected - six!
Three balls, three sixes - Ish looked molested. Omi's mouth was open but he focused on wicket-keeping. I think he was trying to control his reaction for Ish's sake.
'He is a freak. Ali the freak, Ali the freak,' a kid fielding at mid-on shouted and distracted Ali.
'Just play,' Ish said to Ali and gave the fielder a glare.
Ish rubbed the ball on his pants thrice. He changed his grip and did some upper body twists. He took his longest run-up yet and ran forward with full force. The ball went fast, but was a full toss. Ish's frustration showed in this delivery. It deserved punishment. Ali took two steps forward and smash! The ball went high and reached past the ground, almost hitting a classroom window.
I laughed. I knew I shouldn't have, but I did. To see the school cricket champion of my batch raped so in public by a mere boy of twelve was too funny. At least to me. Actually, only to me.
'What?' Ish demanded in disgust.
'Nothing,' I said.
'Where is the fucking ball?'
'They are trying to find it. You want to buy one from my shop, coach?' I jeered lightly.
'Shut up,' Ish hissed as the ball came rolling back to him.
Ish was about to take a run-up when Ali sat down at his crease.
'What happened?' Omi was the first to reach him. 'I told you. I get a headache. Can I go back now?' Ali said, his childish voice almost in tears.
Omi looked at Ish and me. I shrugged. 'I told you, no? Freak!' Paras ran up to us. Ali stood. 'Can I go?'
We nodded. From his pocket, Ali took out some marbles that resembled his eyes. Rolling them in his hand, he left the ground.
'I cannot believe it,' Ish declared as he finished his fifty morning pushups. He came and sat next to me on the bank's backyard floor. Omi continued to complete his hundred.
'Tea,' I announced and handed Ish his cup. My best friend had laced serious mental trauma yesterday. I couldn't do much apart from making my best cup of ginger tea in the bank kitchen.
'It can't be just luck, right? No way,' Ish answered his own qestions.
I nodded my head towards a plate of biscuits, which he ignored. I wondered if the Ali episode would cause permanent damage to Ish's appetite. Ish continued to talk to himself as I tuned myself out. Omi moved on to sit-ups. He also belted out Hanuman-ji's forty verses along with the exercise. I loved this little morning break - between the students' leaving and the shop's opening. It gave me time to think. And these days I only thought about the new shop. 'Twenty-five thousand rupees saved already, and fifteen thousand more by December,' 1 mumbled, 'If the builder accepts forty as deposit, I can secure the Navrangpura lease by year end.'
I poured myself another cup of tea. 'Here are your shop's keys, Mama. We are moving to our shop in Navrangpura, in the air-conditioned mall,' I repeated my dream dialogue inside my head for the hundredth time. Three more months, I assured myself.
'You guys ate all the biscuits?' Omi came to us as he finished his exercise.
'Sorry, tea?' I offered.
Omi shook his head. He opened a polypack of milk and put it to his mouth. Like me, he didn't have much tea. Caffeine ran in Ish's family veins though. I remembered Vidya offering me tea. Stupid girl, duh-ing me.
'Still thinking of Ali?' Omi said to Ish, wiping his milk moustache.
'He is amazing, man. I didn't bowl my best, but not so bad either. But he just, just...,' Words failed Ish.
'Four sixes. Incredible!' Omi said, 'No wonder they call him a freak.'
'Don't know if he is a freak. But he is good,' Ish said.
'These Muslim kids man. You never know what...,' Omi said and gulped the remainder of his milk.
'Shut up. He is just fucking good. I have never seen anyone play like that. I want to coach him.'
'Sure, as long as he pays. He can't play beyond four balls. You could help him,' I told Ish.
'What? You will teach that mullah kid?' Omi's face turned worrisome.
'I will teach the best player in Belrampur. That kid has serious potential. You know like...' 'Team India?' I suggested.
'Shh, don't tempt fate, but yes. I want to teach him. They'll ruin him in that school. They can barely teach the course there, forget sports.'
'We are not teaching a Muslim kid,' Omi vetoed. 'Bittoo Mama will kill me.'
'Don't overreact. He won't know. We just teach him at the bank,' Ish said. For the rest of the argument, Ish and Omi just exchanged stares. Ultimately, like always, Omi gave in to Ish.
'Your choice. Make sure he never comes near the temple. If! Bittoo Mama finds out, he will kick us out of the shop.'
'Omi is right. We need the shop for a few more months,' I said.
'We also need to go to the doctor,' Ish said. 'Doctor?' I said.
'His head was hurting after four balls. I want a doctor to see him before we begin practicing.'
'You'll have to talk to his parents if you want him to pay,' I said.
'I'll teach him for free,' Ish said. 'But still, for Indian parents cricket equals time waste.' 'Then we'll go to his house,' Ish said. 'I am not going to any Muslim house,' Omi said almost hysterically. 'I am not going.'
'Let's go open the shop first. It's business time,' I said.
?
No cricket, I like marbles,' Ali protested for the fifth time. Ish took four chocolates (at the shop's expense, idiot) for him, a reward for every sixer. Ali accepted the chocolates but said no to cricket coaching, and a foot-stomping no to meeting the doctor.
'Our shop has marbles,' I cajoled. 'Special blue ones from Jaipur. One dozen for you if you come to the doctor. He is just across the street.'
Ali looked at me with his two green marbles.
'Two dozen if you come for one cricket coaching class in the morning,' I said.
'Doctor is fine. For coaching class, ask abba.'
'Give me abba's name and address,' I said.
'Naseer Alam, seventh pol, third house on the ground floor.'
'What name did you say?' Omi said.
'Naseer Alam,' Ali repeated.
'I have heard the name somewhere. But I can't recall...' Omi murmured, but Ish ignored him.
'Dr Verma's clinic is in the next pol. Let's go,' Ish said.
?
'Welcome, nice to have someone young in my clinic for a change.' Dr Verma removed his spectacles. He rubbed his fifty-year-old eyes.
His wrinkles had multiplied since I last met him three years ago. His once black hair had turned white. Old age sucks.
'And who is this little tiger? Open your mouth, baba,' Dr Verma said and switched on his torch out of habit. 'What happened?'
'Nothing's wrong. We have some questions,' Ish said.
The doctor put his torch down. 'Questions?'
'This boy is gifted in cricket. I want to know how he does it,' Ish said.
'Does what?' Dr Verma said. 'Some people are just talented.' 'I bowled four balls to him. He slammed sixes on all of them,' lsh said.
'What?' Dr Verma said. He knew lsh was one of the best players in the neighbourhood.
'Unbelievable but true,' I chimed in. 'Also, he sat down after four balls. He said his head hurt'
Dr Verma turned to Ali. 'You like cricket, baba?'
'No,' Ali said.
'This is more complicated than the usual viral fever. What happened after the four balls, baba?'
'Whenever I play with concentration, my head starts hurting, Ali said. He slid his hands into his pocket. I heard the rustle of marbles.
'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,' Ish said passionately.
'But it's just a game. One guy hits a ball with a stick, the rest run around to stop it.'
'It's more than that,' lsh said, offended. 'But if you have never played it, you will never understand.'
Ali's dad said, 'You know I am a member of the secular party?'
'We saw the sign,' I said.
'Would you like to come and visit our party sometime?'
Omi suddenly stood up. 'Do you know who you are talking to? I am Pandit Shastri's son. You have seen the Swami temple in Belrampur or not?' His voice was loud.
Ish pulled Omi's elbow to make him sit down.
'How does that matter, son?' Ali's dad said.
'You are telling me to come visit your party? I am a Hindu.'
'We won't hold that against you,' Ali's father grinned. 'Ours is a secular party.'
'It is not secular. It is suck-ular party. Suck-up politics, that is all you know. No wonder Muslims like you flock there. Now Ish, we are leaving or not?'
'Omi, behave yourself, we came for Ali.'
I don't care. Let him play marbles and fail maths. If Bittoo Mama finds out I am here...'
'Bittoo is your Mama?' Ali's dad said.
'He is your opposition. And a suck-up party will never win in Belrampur.'
'Calm down, son. Sit down,' Ali's dad said.
Omi sat down and Ish massaged his shoulder. Omi rarely flared up, but when he did, it took several pacifying tactics to get him back to normal.
'Here, have a banana. I know you are hungry,' Ish soothed.
Omi resisted, but took the banana.
'I am also new to secular politics, son. I was in a hardline party,' Ali's dad said and paused to reflect, 'yes, I made a few mistakes too.'
'Whatever. Don't even try to convert people from our party to yours,' Omi said fiercely.
I won't. But why are you so against us? The party has ruled the country for forty years, we must be doing something right.'
'You won't rule Gujarat anymore. Because we can see through your hypocrisy,' Omi said.
'Omi, stop,' Ish said.
'It's ok, Ish. I rarely get young people to talk to. Let him speak his mind,' Ali's dad said.
I don't have anything to say. Let's go,' Omi said.
'The communal parties aren't perfect either,' Ali's dad said.
I guess even Ali's dad loved to argue.
'There you go. Here is the bias, you call us communal. Your party gives preference to Muslims, but it is secular. Why?' Omi said. 'What preference have we given?' Ali's dad said. 'Why can't you let us make a temple in Ayodhya?' Omi said. 'Because there is a mosque there already'
'But there was a temple there before.' 'That is not proven.'
'It has. The government keeps hiding those reports.'
'Incorrect.'
'Whatever. It is not an ordinary place. We believe it is the birthplace of our lord. We said, "Give us that site, and we will move the mosque respectfully next door." But you can't even do that. And we, the majority, can't have that one little request fulfilled. Parekh-ji is right, what hope does a Hindu have in this country?'
'Oh, so it is Parekh-ji. He taught you all this?' Ali's dad almost smirked.
'He didn't teach us. Our cause is labelled communal, it is not Cool to talk about it. But because Hindus don't talk, you think they don't feel anything? Why do you think people listen to Parekh-ji? because somewhere deep down, he strikes a chord. A common chord of resentment is brewing Mr Naseer, even if it is not talked about'
A lot of Hindus vote for us, you should know,' Ali's father said.
'But slowly they will see the truth.'
'Son, India is a free country. You have a right to your views. My only advice is Hinduism is a great religion, but don't get extreme.'
'Hah, don't tell me about being extreme. We know which religion is extreme.'
I wasn't sure if Omi really believed in what he said, or if he was revising lessons given by Parekh-ji. He never spoke about this to Ish and me, but, somewhere deep down, did he also feel like Bittoo Mama? If Ish's passion was cricket and my passion was business, was Omi's passion religion? Or maybe, like most people, he was confused and trying to find his passion. And unlike us who never took him seriously, perhaps Parekh-ji gave him a sense of purpose and importance.
'Can we please make a pact to not discuss politics?' Ish pleaded as he signalled a timeout.
'You still fine with sending your son?' I asked Ali's dad, wondering if he had changed his mind after Omi's outbursts.
'Don't be silly. We are communicating our differences. That is what is missing in this country. It's ok, I trust you with my son.' |
We stood up to leave and reached the door, lsh confirmed the practice time - 7 a.m.
'Come, I will walk you boys to the main road. I like to take a walk after dinner,' Ali's dad said.
We walked out of Ali's house. Omi held his head down, probably feeling ashamed at having raised his voice. Ali's dad spoke again. 'I am not particularly fond of my own party'
'Really?' I said when no one said anything.
'Yes, because at one level, they too, like all political parties, spend more time playing politics than working for the country. Creating differences, taking sides, causing divides - they know this too well.'
All of us nodded to say goodnight. But Ali's dad was not finished. 'It is like two customers go to a restaurant and the manager gives them only one plate of food. And if you want to eat, you must fight the other guy. The two guys get busy fighting, and some people tell them to make amends and eat half plate each. In all this, they forget the real issue - why didn't the manager provide-two plates of food?'
I noticed Ali's dad's face. Behind the beard and the moustache, there was a wise man somewhere.
'Good point, the fight is created. That is why I am never big on religion or politics,' I said.
'Once a fight is created, it leads to another and so on. Youl can't really check it,' lsh said.
'You know I used to teach zoology in college,' Ali's dad said. 'And I once read about chimpanzee fights that may be relevant here.'
'Chimpanzee fights?'
'Yes, male chimpanzees of the same pack fight violently with each other - for food, females, whatever. However, after the fight, they go through a strange ritual. They kiss each other, on the lips.'
Even Omi had to laugh.
'So Hindus and Muslims should kiss?' I said.
'No, the point is this ritual was created by nature. To make sure the fight gets resolved and the pack stays together. In fact, any long-term relationship requires this.'
'Any?' Ish said.
'Yes, take any husband and wife. They will fight, and hurt each other emotionally. However, later they will make up, with hugs, presents or kind understanding words. These reconciliatory mechanisms are essential. The problem in Indian Hindu-Muslim rivalry is not that that one is right and the other is wrong. It is...
'That there are no reconciliatory mechanisms,' Ish said.
'Yes, so that means if politicians fuel a fire, there is no fire brigade to check it. It sounds harsh, but Omi is right. People feel inside. Just by not talking about it, the differences do not go away. The resentment brews and brews, and doesn't come out until it is too late.'
We had reached the main road and stopped next to a paan shop. I figured out why Ali's dad had come with us. He wanted I lis after-dinner paan.
'Tell Ali to be on time,' Ish said as we waved goodbye.
The image of kissing chimpanzees stayed with me all night.
Ali came on time in a white kurta pajama. He held his maths books in one hand and his cricket bat in the other.
‘Cricket first. Keep the books away,’ Ish said.
The boy looked startled by the sudden instruction. I took him upstairs and opened the vault. Ali chose an empty locker and put down his books. Paresh and Naveen, two other kids had also come for cricket practice. They were both Ali's age but looked stronger.
'Boys, run around the backyard twenty times,' Ish ordered in his drill sergeant voice. His decision on how many rounds the kids must run was arbitrary. I think he enjoyed this first dose of power everyday.
I went upstairs to the vault to look at Ali's books. The notebooks were blank. The maths textbook was for Class VII, but looked untouched.
I came out to the first floor balcony. The students were on their morning jog.
'What?' Ish said as Ali stopped after five rounds.
'I ... can't ... run,' Ali heaved.
Omi smirked. 'Buddy, people here do hundred rounds. How are you going to run between the wickets? How are you going to field?'
'That is why ... I don't ... like cricket,' Ali said, still trying to catch his breath. 'Can't we just play?' Ali said. 'You have to warm up, buddy,' Ish said. Ali had more than warmed up. His face was hot and red.
After exercises, Ish did catch and field practice. Ish stood in the middle with the bat as everyone bowled to him. He lobbed the ball high and expected everyone to catch. Ali never moved from his position. He could catch only when the ball came close to him.
'All right, let's play,' Ish clapped his hands.'Paresh, you are with me. We'll bowl first. Naveen you be in Ali's team and bat first.'
Naveen took the crease and Ali became the runner. Naveen struck on Paresh's fourth ball. Ish ran to get the ball. It was an easy two runs, but Ali's laziness meant they could score only one. I'aresh took a three-step run-up and bowled. Ali struck, the ball rose and hurled towards the first floor. I ducked in the first floor balcony. The ball went past me and hit the branch manager's office window.
Paresh had the same shocked expression as Ish, when Ali had hit a six off his first ball.
'Hey, what? You hero or something?' Ish ran to Ali. Ali looked puzzled at the reprimand.
'This is not a cricket ground. We are playing in a bank. If the ball goes out and hits someone, who will be responsible? What if things break? Who will pay?' Ish shouted.
Ali still looked surprised.
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