'That was a good shot,' Paresh said.
'Shut up. Hey Ali, I know you can do that. Learn the other aspects of the game.'
Ali froze, very near tears.
'Ok, listen. I am sorry. I did not mean to...,' Ish said. 'That is all I know. I can't do anything else,' Ali's voice cracked.
'We will teach you. Now why don't you bowl?'
Ali didn't bat anymore that day. Ish kept the practice simple for the next half an hour and tried not to scream. The latter was tough, especially because he was an animal when it came to cricket.
'Get your books from upstairs. We will study in the backyard,' I told a sweaty 'Ali.
He brought his books down and opened the first chapter of his maths book. It was on fractions and decimals.
Omi brought two polypacks of milk. 'Here,' he gave one to
Ish.
'Thanks,' Ish said, and tore it open with his mouth.
'And here, one more,' Omi said.
'For what?' Ish said, after taking a big sip.
'Give it to your stick insect,' Omi said. 'Have you seen his arms? They are thinner than the wicket. You want to make him a player or not?'
'You give him yourself,' Ish smiled.
Omi shoved the milk packet near Ali and left.
'You have done some fractions before?' I said.
He nodded.
I told him to simplify 24/64 and he started dividing the numerator and denominator by two again and again. Of course, he lacked the intuition he had in hitting sixes in mathematics. However, his father had tried his best.
'See you at the shop,' Ish told me and turned to Ali, 'Any questions on cricket, champ?'
'Why do people run between the wickets to score runs?' Ali said, nibbling the end of his pen.
'That's how you score. It's the rule,' Ish said.
'No, not that way. I mean why run across and risk getting out for one or two runs when you can hit six with one shot?'
Ish scratched his head. 'Keep your questions to maths,' he said and left.
?
'I have figured it out. The young generation from the Sixties to the Eighties is the worst India ever had. These thirty years are an embarrassment for India,' Ish said as we lay down in the shop.
We had spread a mat on the shop's floor. A nap was a great way to kill time during slow afternoons. It was exam time and business was modest. Omi snoozed while Ish and 1 had our usual philosophical discussion.
'Not all that bad,' I said. 'We won the World Cup in 1983.'
'Yeah, we played good cricket, but that's about it. We remained poor, kept fighting wars, electing the same control freaks who did nothing for the country. People's dream job was a government job, yuck. Nobody took risks or stuck their neck out. Just one corrupt banana republic marketed by the leaders as this new socialist, intellectual nation. Tanks and thinktanks, nothing else,' Ish said.
'And guess who was at the top? Which party? Secular nonsense again,' Omi joined in, opening one eye.
'Well, your right-wing types didn't exactly get their act together cither,' Ish said.
'We will, man. We are so ready. You wait and see, elections next year and Gujarat is ours,' Omi said.
'Anyway, screw politics. My point is, that the clueless Sixties to Eighties generation is now old, and running the country. But the Nineties and the, what do they say...'
'Zeroes.'
'Yeah, whatever. The Zeroes think different. But we are being run by old fogeys who never did anything worthwhile in their primetime. The Doordarshan generation is running the Star TV generation,' Ish said.
I clapped. 'Wow, wisdom is free at the Team India Cricket Shop.'
'Fuck off. Can't have a discussion around here. You think only you are the intellectual type. I am just a cricket coach,' Ish grumbled.
'No, you are the intellectual, bro. I am the sleepy type. Now can we rest until the next pesky kid comes,' I said, closing my eyes. Our nap was soon interrupted.
'Lying down, well done. When rent is cheap, shopkeepers Will sleep,' Bittoo Mama's voice made us all sit up. Now what the hell was he doing here?
'It is slow this time of the day, Mama,' Omi said as he pulled out a stool. He signalled me to get tea. I opened the cash box and took some coins.
'Get something to eat as well,' Mama said. I nodded. Now who the fuck pays for Mama's snacks? The rent is not that cheap, I thought as I left the shop with a fake smile. I returned with tea for everyone.
Mama was telling Omi, 'You come help me if it is slow in the afternoons. Your friends can come too. Winning a seat is not that easy. These secular guys are good.'
'What do you want me to do, Mama?' Omi said as he took the tea glasses off the crate and passed them around.
'We have to mobilise young people. Tell them our philosophy, warn them against the hypocrites. During campaign time, we need people to help us in publicity, organising rallies. There is work to be done.'
'I'll come next time, Mama,' Omi said.
'Tell others, too. If you see young people at the temple, tell them about our party. Tell them about me.'
I stood up, disgusted. Yes, I could see the point in targeting temple visitors, given the philosophy of the party. But when someone comes to pray, should they be pitched to join politics? I opened the accounts register to distract myself.
'You will come?' Mama turned to Ish.
'Someone has to man the shop. At least one person, even if it is slow,' Ish said. Smartass, that was supposed to be my excuse. 'And you, Govind?' Mama said.
'I am not into that sort of stuff. I am agnostic, remember?' I said, still reading the register.
'But this isn't about religion. It is about justice. And considering we gave you this shop at such a low rent, you owe US something.'
'It is not your shop. Omi's mother gave it to us. And given the location, the rent we pay is fair,' I said.
I alone am enough, Mama. Dhiraj will come as well, right?' Omi said, to break the ever escalating tension between Mama and me. Dhiraj was Mama's fourteen-year-old son and Omi's cousin.
'Look at his pride! This two-bit shop and a giant ego,' Mama said. 'If Omi wasn't there, I'd get you kicked out.'
'There will be no need. We are leaving soon anyway,' I said without thinking. I couldn't help it. I wanted to tell him only at l lie last minute, just before we moved to the Navrangpura mall. Hut I was sick of his patronising tone.
'Oh, really? Where, you will pull a hand-cart with these bats and balls?' Mama said.
'We are moving to Navrangpura mall. You can take your shop back then.'
'What?' Mama exclaimed.
'We will make the deposit next month. Possession when it opens in three months. This two-bit shop is about to move to a prime location sports store,' I said.
Mama's mouth remained open. I had dreamt of this expression lor months.
'Really?' Mama turned to Omi.
Omi nodded.
'How much is the deposit?' Mama said.
'Forty thousand. We saved it,' I said.
'You pay one thousand a month for this shop. If you were paying the market rent of two, you wouldn't be able to save this much,' Mama said.
I kept quiet.
'What? Now you are quiet, eh?' Mama stood up.
What was I supposed to do? Jump and grab his feet? I was also giving his nephew employment and an equal share in my business. Sure, Omi was a friend, but given his qualifications, nobody would give him that stature. A cheaper rent was the least he could do.
'Let me know when you want me, Mama,' Omi said.
'Good, I'll see you,' he said, 'continue your rest.'
Ish raised his middle finger as Mama left. Then we lay down and went back to sleep.
Seven
'Have you done the sums I gave you?'
Vidya nodded. I couldn't see her face as we sat side by side, but I knew she'd just cried when she lifted a hand to wipe an eye.
I opened her tuition notebook. I am a tutor, not a consoler. 'You did them all?' She shook her head. 'How many did you do?'
She showed me seven fingers. Ok, seven out of ten weren't bad. But why wasn't she saying anything.
'What's up?' I said, more to improve communication than the sight of her smudged eyes.
'Nothing,' she said in a broken voice.
A girl's 'nothing' usually means 'a lot'. Actually, it meant 'a lot and don't get me started'. I thought of a suitable response to a fake 'nothing'.
'You want to go wash your face?' I said.
'I am fine. Let's get started.'
I looked at her eyes. Her eyelashes were wet. She had the same eyes as her brother. However, the brown was more prominent on her fair face.
'Your second problem is correct too,' I said, and ticked her notebook. I almost wrote 'good' out of habit. I normally taught young kids, and they loved it if I made comments like 'good', 'well done' or made a 'star' against their answers. But Vidya was no kid.
'You did quite well,' I said as I finished reviewing her work.
'Excuse me,' she said and ran to the bathroom. She probably had an outburst of tears. She came back, this time her eyeliner gone and the whole face wet.
'Listen, we can't have a productive class if you are disturbed. We have to do more complex problems today and....’
'But I am not disturbed. It's Garima and her, well, forget it.'
'Garima?'
'Yes, my cousin and best friend in Bombay. I told you last time.'
'I don't remember,' I said.
'She told me last night she would SMS me in the morning. It is afternoon already, and she hasn't. She always does that.' 'Why don't you SMS her instead?'
'I am not doing that. She said she would. And so she should, right?'
I looked at her blankly, unable to respond.
'She is in this hi-fi PR job, so she is too busy to type a line?'
I wished that woman would SMS her so we could start class.
'Next time I will tell her I have something really important to I talk about and not call her for two days,' she said.
Some, I repeat only some girls, measure the strength of their friendship by the power of the emotionally manipulative games they could play with each other.
'Should we start?'
'Yeah, I am feeling better. Thanks for listening.'
'No problem. So what happened in problem eight?' I said.
We immersed ourselves into probability for the next half an hour. When she applied her mind, she wasn't dumb at maths as she came across on first impression. But she rarely applied it for more than five minutes. Once, she had to
change her pen. Then she had to reopen and fasten her hairclip. In fifteen minutes, she needed a cushion behind her back. After that her mother sent in tea and biscuits and she had to sip it every thirty seconds. Still, we plowed along. Forty minutes into the class, she pulled her chair back.
'My head is throbbing now. I have never done so much maths continuously in my life. Can we take a break?'
'Vidya, we only have twenty minutes more,' I said.
She stood up straight and blinked her eyes. 'Can we agree to a five-minute break during class? One shouldn't study maths that long. It has to be bad for you.'
She kept her pen aside and opened her hair. A strand fell on my arm. I pulled my hand away.
'How is your preparation for other subjects? You don't hate science, do you?' I said. I wanted to keep the break productive.
I like science. But the way they teach it, it sucks,' Vidya said.
'Like what?'
'Like the medical entrance guides, they have thousands of multiple choice questions. You figure them out and then you are good enough to be a doctor. That's not how I look at science.'
'Well, we have no choice. There are very few good colleges and competition is tough.'
I know. But the people who set these exam papers, I wonder if they ever are curious about chemistry anymore. Do they just cram up reactions? Or do they ever get fascinated by it? Do they ever see a marble statue and wonder, it all appears static, but inside this statue there are protons buzzing and electrons madly spinning.'
I looked into her bright eyes. I wished they would be as lit up when I taught her probability.
'That's quite amazing, isn't it?' I said.
'Or let's talk of biology. Think about this,' she said and touched my arm. 'What is this?'
'What?' I said, taken aback by her contact.
'This is your skin. Do you know there are communities of bacteria living here? There are millions of individual life forms -eating, reproducing and dying right on us. Yet, we never wonder. Why? We only care about cramming up an epidermal layer diagram, because that comes in the exam every single year.'
I didn't know what to say to this girl. Maybe I should have stuck to teaching seven-year-olds.
'There are some good reference books outside your textbooks for science,' I told her.
'Are there?'
'Yes, you get them in the Law Garden book market. They go into concepts. I can get them for you if you want. Ask your parents if they will pay for them.'
*Of course, they will pay. If it is for studies, they spend like crazy. But can I come along with you?'
'No, you don't have to. I'll get the bill.'
'What?'
'In case you are thinking how much I will spend.' 'You silly or what? It will be a nice break. We'll go together.' 'Fine. Let's do the rest of the sums. We have taken a fifteen-minute break.'
I finished a set of exercises and gave her ten problems as homework. Her phone beeped as I stood up to leave. She rushed to grab it. 'Garima,' she said and I shut the door behind me.
I was walking out when Ish came home.
'Hey, good class? She is a duffer, must be tough,' said Ish, his body covered in sweat after practice.
'Not bad, she is a quick learner,' I said. I didn't know why, but looking at Ish right then made my heart beat fast. I wondered if I should tell him about my plan to go to Law Garden with Vidya to buy books. But that would be stupid, I thought. I didn't have to explain everything to him.
'I figured out a way to rein in Ali,' Ish said.
'How?'
'I let him hit his four sixes first. Then he is like any of us.' I nodded.
'The other boys get pissed though. They think I have a special place for this student.' Ish added.
'They are kids. Don't worry,' I said and wondered how much longer I had to be with him and why the hell did I feel so
guilty?
'Yeah. Some students are special, right?' Ish chuckled. For a nanosecond I felt he was making a dig at me. No, this was about Ali. I didn't have a special student.
'You bet. Listen, have to go. Mom needs help with a big wedding order.'
With that, I took rapid strides and was out of his sight. My head buzzed like those electrons inside the marble statue in Omi's temple.
?
She was dressed in a white chikan salwar kameez on the day of our Law Garden trip. Her bandhini orange and red dupatta had tiny brass bells at the end. They made a sound everytime she moved her hand. There was a hint of extra make-up. Her lips shone and I couldn't help staring at them.
'It's lip gloss. Is it too much?' she said self-consciously, rubbing her lips with her fingers. Her upper lip had a near invisible mole on the right. I pulled my gaze away and looked for autos on the street. Never, ever look at her face, I scolded myself.
'That's the bookshop,' I said as we reached the store.
The University Bookstore in Navrangpura was a temple for all muggers in the city. Nearly all customers were sleep deprived, overzealous students who'd never have enough of quantum physics or calculus. They don't provide statistics, but I am sure anyone who clears the engineering and medical entrance exams in the city has visited the bookstore.
The middle-aged shopkeeper looked at Vidya through his glasses. She was probably the best looking customer to visit that month. Students who prepared for medical entrance don't exactly wear coloured lip gloss.
'Ahem, excuse me,' I said as the shopkeeper scanned Vidya up and down.
'Govind beta, so nice to see you,' he said. One good way old people get away with leching is by branding you their son or daughter. He knew my name ever since I scored a hundred in the board exam. In the newspaper interview I had
recommended his shop. He displayed the cutting for two years after that. I still get a twenty-five per cent discount on every purchase.
'You have organic chemistry by L.G.Wade?' I said. I would have done more small talk, but I wanted to avoid talking about Vidya. In fact, I didn't even want him to look at Vidya.
'Well, yes,' the shopkeeper said, taken aback by my abruptness.
'Chemistry book, red and white balls on the cover,' he screamed .it one of his five assistants.
'This is a good book,' I said as I tapped the cover and gave it to Vidya. 'Other organic chemistry books have too much to memorise. This one explains the principles.'
Vidya took the book in her hand. Her red nail polish was the same colour as the atoms on the cover.
'Flip through it, see if you like it,' I said.
She turned a few pages. The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow. He was asking me about the girl. See this is the reason why people think Ahmedabad is a small town despite the multiplexes. It is the mentality of the people.
'Student, I take tuitions,' I whispered to satisfy his curiosity lest he gave up sleeping for the rest of his life. He nodded his head in approval. Why do these old people poke their nose in our affairs so much? Like, would we care if he hung out with three grandmas?
'If you say it is good, I am fine,' she said, finishing her scan. 'Good, and in physics, have you ever read Resnick and Halliday?'
'Oh, I saw that book at my friend's place once. Just the table of contents depressed me. It's too hi-fi for me.'
'What is this "hi-fi"? It is in your course, you have to study it,' I said, my voice stern.
'Don't they have some guides or something?' she said, totally ignoring my comment.
'Guides are a short cut. They solve a certain number of problems. You need to understand the concepts.'
The shopkeeper brought out the orange and black cover Resnick and Halliday. Yes, the cover was scary and dull at the same time, something possible only in physics books.
'I won't understand it. But if you want to, let's buy it,' Vidya agreed.
'Of course, you will understand it. And uncle, for maths do you have M.L. Khanna?'
I could see his displeasure in me calling him uncle, but someone needed to remind him.
'Maths Khanna,' the shopkeeper shouted. His assistants pulled out the yellow and black tome. Now if Resnick and Halliday is scary, M.L. Khanna is the Exorcist. I haven't seen a thicker book and every page is filled with the hardest maths problems in the world. It was amusing that a person with a friendly name like M.L Khanna could do this to the students of our country.
'What is this?' Vidya said and tried to lift the book with her left hand. She couldn't. She used both hands and finally took it six inches off the ground. 'No, seriously, what is this? An assault weapon?'
'It covers every topic,' I said and measured the thickness with the fingers of my right hand, the four fingers fell short.
She held her hand sideways over mine to assist.
'Six, it is six fingers thick,' she said softly.
I pulled my hand out, lest uncle raise his eyebrows again, or worst case join his hand to ours to check the thickness.
'Don't worry, for the medical entrance you only have to study a few topics,' I reassured her.
We paid for the books and came out of the shop.
We walked on the Navrangpura main road. My new shop was two hundred metres away. I had the urge to go see it.
'Now what?' she said.
'Nothing, let's go home,' I said and looked for an auto. 'You are a big bore, aren't you?' she said. 'Excuse me?' I said.
'Dairy Den is round the corner. I'm hungry,' she said.
'I am starving. Seriously, I am famished.' She kept a hand on her stomach. She wore three rings, each with different designs and tiny, multi-coloured stones.
I took the least visible seat in Dairy Den. Sure, no one from our gossip-loving pol came to this hip teen joint, but one could never be too careful. If a supplier saw me at Dairy Den, I would be like any other trendy young boy in Ahmedabad. I would never get a good price for cricket balls.
I felt hungry too. But I couldn't match the drama-queen in histrionics. She ordered a Den's special pizza, which had every topping available in Dairy Den's kitchen. All dishes were vegetarian, as preferred by Ambavadis.
'These books look really advanced,' she said, pointing to the plastic bag.
'They are MSc books,' I said.
She raised her eyebrows. 'Can someone explain to me why seventeen-year-olds are made to read MSc books in this country?'
I shrugged. I had no answers for lazy students.
The pizza arrived. We kept quiet and started eating it. I looked at her. She tied her hair, so that it would not fall on the pizza and touch the cheese. She kept her dupatta away from the table and on the chair. The great thing about girls is that even during pauses in the conversation you can look at them and not get bored.
She looked sideways as she became conscious of two boys on a faraway table staring at her. It wasn't surprising, considering she was the best looking girl in Dairy Den by a huge margin. Why are there so few pretty girls? Why hadn't evolution figured it out that men liked pretty women and turned them all out that way?
She checked her phone for any new SMSs. She didn't need to as her phone beeped louder than a fire alarm everytime there was one. She pulled back her sleeve and lifted a slice of pizza. She used her fingers to lift the strands of cheese that had fallen out and placed them back on the slice. Finally she took a bite.
'So, what's up?' she broke the silence. 'Are we allowed to talk about anything apart from science subjects?'
'Of course,' I said. I glared at the boys at the other table. They didn't notice me.
'We are not that far apart in age. We could be friends, you know,' she said.
'Well,' I said, 'tough, isn't it?'
'Tough? Give me one reason why?'
'I will give you four - (1) I am your teacher (2) you are my best friend's sister (3) you are younger than me, and (4) you are a girl.'
I felt stupid stating my reasons in bullet points. There is a reason why nerds can't impress girls. They don't know how to talk.
She laughed at me rather than with me.
'Sorry for the list. Can't get numbers out of my system,' I said.
She laughed. 'It tells me something. You have thought it out. That means, you have considered a potential friendship.'
I remained silent.
'I am kidding,' she said and tapped my hand. She had this habit of soothing people by touching them. With normal people it would've been ok, but with sick people like me, female touches excite more than soothe. I felt the urge to look at her face again. I turned determinedly to the pizza instead.
'But seriously, you should have a backup friend,' she said.
'Backup what?'
'You, Ish and Omi are really close. Like you have known each other since you were sperm.'
My mouth fell open at her last word. Vidya was supposed to be Ish's little sister who played with dolls. Where did she learn to talk like that?
'Sorry, I meant Ish and Omi are your best friends. But if you have to bitch ... oops, rant about them, who do you do it with?' 'I don't need to rant about my friends,' I said. 'C'mon, are they perfect?' 'No one is perfect.'
'Like Garima and I are really close. We talk twice a day. But sometimes she ignores me, or talks to me like I am some naive small town girl. I hate it, but she is still my best friend.'
'And?' I said. Girls talk in circles. Like an algebra problem, it takes a few steps to get them to the point.
'And, talking about it to you, venting, like this, makes me feel better. And I can forgive her. So, even though she is a much closer friend of mine, you became a backup friend.'
If she applied as much brain in maths, no one could stop her from becoming a surgeon. But Vidya who could micro-analyse relationships for hours, would not open M.L. Khanna to save her life.
'So, c'mon, what's the one rant you have about your best friends?'
'My friends are my business partners, too. So it's complicated,' I paused. 'Sometimes I don't think they understand business. Or may be they do, but they don't understand the passion I bring to it.'
She nodded. I loved that nod. For once, someone had nodded at something I felt so deeply about.
'How?' she egged me on.
Over the last few scraps of pizza, I told her everything. I told her about our shop, and how I managed everything. How I had expanded the business to offer tuitions and coaching. I told her about Ish's irritating habit of giving discounts to kids and Omi's dumbness in anything remotely connected to numbers. And finally, I told her about my dream - to get out of the old city and have a new shop in an air-conditioned mall, i
'Navrangpura,' she said, 'near here?'
'Yes,' I said, as my chest expanded four inches.
She saw the glitter in my eyes, as I could see it reflected in hers.
'Good you never did engineering. Though 1 am sure you would have got in,' she said.
'I can't see myself in an office. And leaving mom and her business alone was not an option.'
I had opened up more than I ever had to anyone in my life. This wasn't right, I chided myself. I mentally repeated the four reasons and poked the pile of books.
'More than me, you need to be friends with these books,' I said and asked for the bill.
?
'Coming,' a girl responded as Ishaan rang the bell of our supplier's home. We had come to purchase new bats and get old ones repaired.
Saira, supplier Pandit-ji's eighteen-year-old daughter, opened the door.
'Papa is getting dressed, you can wait in the garage,' she said, handing us the key to Pandit-ji's warehouse store. We went to the garage and sat on wooden stools. Ish dumped the bats for repair on the floor.
The Pandit Sports Goods Suppliers was located in Ellis Bridge. The owner, Giriraj Pandit, had his one-room house right next to it. Until five years ago, he owned a large bat factory in Kashmir. That was before he was kicked out of his hometown by militants who gave him the choice of saving his neck or his factory. Today be felt blessed being a small supplier in Ahmedabad with his family still alive.
'Kashmiris are so fair complexioned,' I said to make innocuous conversation.
'You like her,' Ish grinned.
Are you nuts?'
'Fair-complexioned, eh?' Ish began to laugh.
'Govind bhai, my best customer,' Pandit-ji said as he came into the warehouse, fresh after a bath. He offered us green almonds. It is nice to be a buyer in business. Everybody welcomes you.
'We need six bats, and these need repairs,' I said.
'Take a dozen Govind bhai,' he said and opened a wooden trunk, the India-Australia series is coming, demand will be good.'
'Not in the old city,' I said.
He opened the wooden trunk and took out a bat wrapped in plastic. He opened the bat. It smelled of fresh willow. Sometimes hat makers used artificial fragrance to make new bats smell good, hut Pandit-ji was the real deal.
Ish examined the bat. He went to the box and checked the other bats for cracks and chips.
'The best of the lot for you Govind bhai,' Pandit-ji smiled heartily.
'How much,' I said.
'Three hundred.'
'Joking?'
'Never,' he swore.
'Two hundred fifty,' I said, 'last and final.'
'Govind bhai, it is a bit tough right now. My cousin's family has arrived from Kashmir, they've lost everything. I have five more mouths to feed until he finds a job and place.'
'They are all living in that room?' Ish was curious.
'What to do? He had a bungalow in Srinagar and a fifty-year. old almond business. Now, see what times have come to, kicked out of our own homes,' Pandit-ji sighed and took out the bats for repair from the gunny bag.
I hated sympathy in business deals. We settled for two hundred and seventy after some more haggling. 'Done,' I said and took out the money. I dealt in thousands now, but imagined that transacting in lakhs and crores wouldn't be that different.
Pandit-ji took the money, brushed it against the mini-temple in his godown and put it in his pocket. His God had made him pay a big price in life, but he still felt grateful to him. I could never understand this absolute faith that believers possess. Maybe I missed something by being agnostic.
Eight
Ali reached practice twenty minutes late. Every delayed minute made Ish more pissed.
'You are wearing kurta pajama, where is your kit?' Ish screamed as Ali walked in at 7.20 a.m.
'Sorry, woke up late. I didn't get time and...'
'Do your rounds,' Ish said and stood in the centre of the bank's courtyard.
When Ali finished his rounds, Ish unwrapped a new bat for him.
'For you, brand new from Kashmir. Like it?'
Ali nodded without interest. 'Can I leave early today?'
'Why?' Ish snapped.
'There is a marble competition in my pol.' 'And what about cricket?' Ali shrugged.
'First you come late, then you want to go early. What is the point of marbles?' Ish said as he signalled him to take the crease. One of the three other boys became the bowler.
'We will start with catching practice. Ali, no shots, give them catches.'
Ali's self-control had become better after training for a few months. Ish had taught him to play defensive and avoid getting out. With better diet and exercise, Ali's stamina had improved. He gained the strength to hit the ball rather than rely on momentum. Once Ali faced five balls in a restrained manner, he could sharpen his focus to use his gift. The trick was to use his ability at a lever that scored yet sustained him at the crease. One ball an over worked well. Ish now wanted him to get to two balls an over.
'Switch. Paras to bat, Ali to field,' Ish shouted after three overs. Ali didn't hit any big shots. Disappointed, he threw the bat on| the crease.
'Hey, watch it. It is a new bat,' Ish said.
Paras batted a catch towards Ali, whose hands were busy tightening the cords of his pajama. The ball thunked down on the ground.
'You sleeping or what?' Ish said but Ali ignored him. Three balls later, Paras set up a catch for Ali again. 'Hey, Ali, catch,' Ish screamed from his position at the umpire.
Ali had one hand in his pocket. He noticed Ish staring at him and lifted up his hand in a cursory manner. Two steps and he could have caught the ball. He didn't, and the ball landed on the ground.
'Hey,' Ish shook Ali's shoulder hard. 'You dreaming?' 'I want to leave early,' Ali said, rubbing his shoulder. 'Finish practice first.'
'Here Ali, bat,' Paras said as he came close to Ali. 'No he has to field,' Ish said.
'It is ok, Ish bhaiya. I know he wants to bat,' Paras said and gave Ali the bat. And I want to practice more catches. I need to get good before my school match.'
Ali took the bat, walked to the crease without looking up. Disconcerted by this insolence, Ish rued spoiling the boy with gifts - sometimes kits, sometimes bats.
Ish allowed Ali to bat again upon Paras' insistence. 'Lift it for I'aras, gentle to the left.'
The ball arrived, Ali whacked it hard. Like his spirit, the ball Hew out of the bank. 'I want to go.' Ali stared at Ish with his green eyes.
'I don't care about your stupid marble tournament. No marble player ever became great,' Ish shouted.
'Well, you also never became great,' Ali said. Ouch, kids and their bitter truth.
Ish froze. His arm trembled. With perfect timing like Ali's bat, Ish's right hand swung and slapped Ali's face hard. The impact and shock made Ali fall on the ground.
Everyone stood erect as they heard the slap.
Ali sat up on the ground and sucked his breath to fight tears.
'Go play your fucking marbles,' Ish said and deposited a slap again. I ran behind to pull Ish's elbow. Ali broke into tears. I bent down to pick up Ali. I tried to hug him, as his less-strict maths tutor. He pushed me away.
'Go away,' Ali said, crying as he kicked me with his tiny legs, I don't want you.'
'Ali, quiet buddy. Come, let's go up, we will do some fun sums,' I said. Oops, wrong thing to say to a kid who had just been whacked.
'I don't want to do sums,' Ali glared back at me.
'Yeah, don't want to field. Don't want to do sums. Lazy freak show wants to play marbles all day,' Ish spat out.
I felt it was stupid of Ish to argue with a twelve-year-old.
'Everyone go home, we practice tomorrow,' I said.
'No, we have to...,' Ish to said.
'Ish, go inside the bank,' I said.
'I don't like him,' Ali said, still in tears.
'Ali behave. This is no way to speak to your coach. Now go home,' I said.
I exhaled a deep breath as everyone left. Maybe God sent me here to be everyone's parent.
?
'What the fuck is wrong with you? He is a kid,' I said to Ish after everyone left. I made lemonade in the kitchen to calm Ish down Ish stood next to me.
'Brat, thinks he has a gift,' Ish said.
'He does,' I said and passed him his drink, 'hey, can you order another LPG cylinder. This one is almost over,' I said. We did have a kerosene stove, but it was a pain to cook on that.
We came to the cashier's waiting area to sit on the sofas.
Ish kept quiet. He held back something. I wasn't sure if it was tears, as I had never seen Ish cry.
'I shouldn't have hit him,' he said after drinking half a glass.
I nodded.
'But did you see his attitude? "You never became great." Can
you imagine if I had said it to my coach?'
'He is just a twelve-year-old. Don't take him seriously,'
'He doesn't care man. He has it in him to make to the national
team. But all he wants to do is play his fucking marbles.'
'He enjoys marbles. He doesn't enjoy cricket, yet.'
Ish finished his drink and tossed the plastic glass in the kitchen sink. We locked the bank's main door and the gate and walked towards our shop.
'It is so fucking unfair,' Ish said, 'I slaved for years. I gave up my future for this game. Nothing came of it. And you have this kid who is born with this talent he doesn't even care about.'
'What do you mean nothing came of it? You were the best player in school for years.'
'Yeah, in Belrampur Municipal School, that's like saying Vidya is the Preity Zinta of our pol. Who cares?'
'What?' I said and couldn't control a smile.
'Nothing, our aunt once called her that, and I keep teasing her on it,' Ish said. His mood lightened up a little. We came close to our shop. The temple dome became visible.
'Why does God do this Govind?' Ish said.
'Do what?'
'Give so much talent to some people. And people like me have none.'
'You are talented.'
'Not enough. Not as much as Ali. I love this game, but have no gifts. I pushed myself - woke up at 4 a.m. everyday, training for hours, practice and more practice. I gave up studies, and now that I think of it, even my future. And then comes this marble player who has this freakish gift. I could never see the ball and whack it like Ali. Why Govind?'
Continuing my job as the parent of my friends, I had to try and answer every silly question of his. 'I don't know. God gives talent so that the ordinary person can become extraordinary. Talent is the only way the poor can become rich. Otherwise, in this world the rich would remain rich and the poor would remain poor. This unfair talent actually creates a balance, helps to make the world fair,' I said. I reflected on my own statement a little.
'So why doesn't he care? Marbles? Can you believe the boy is more interested in marbles?'
'He hasn't seen what he can get out of cricket. Right now he is the marble champ in his pol and loves that position. Once he experiences the same success in cricket, he will value his gift Until now, he was a four ball freak show. You will turn him into a player Ish,' I said.
We reached the shop. Omi had reached before us and swept the floor. He missed coming to coaching, but he had promised his Mama to attend the morning rallies at least twice a week. Today was one of those days.
'Good practice?' Omi asked idly as he ordered tea.
Ish went inside. I put a finger on my lips to signal Omi to be quiet.
A ten-year-old came with thirty coins to buy a cricket ball.
'A leather ball is twenty-five bucks. You only have twenty-one,' I said as I finished the painful task of counting the coins.
'I broke the piggy bank. I don't have anymore,' the boy said very seriously.
'Then come later,' I said as Ish interrupted me.
'Take it,' Ish said and gave the boy the ball.
The boy grabbed it and ran away.
'Fuck you Ish,' I said.
'Fuck you businessman,' Ish said and continued to sulk about Ali in the corner.
?
It took Ish one box of chocolates, two dozen marbles and a new sports cap to woo Ali back. Ali missed us, too. His mother told us he cried for two hours that day and never attended the marble tournament. He hadn't come for practice the next two days either. Ish's guilt pangs had turned into an obsession. Ali had an
apology ready - probably stage-managed by his mother. He touched Ish's feet and said sorry for insulting his guru. Ish hugged him and Have the gifts. Ish said he'd cut off his hand rather than hit him again. All too melodramatic if you ask me. The point was Ali came back, this time more serious, and Ish mellowed somewhat. Ali's cricket improved, and other students suggested we take him to the district trials.
Ish vetoed the idea. 'No way, the selection people will destroy him. If they reject him, he is going to be disappointed forever. If they accept him, they will make him play useless matches for several years. He will go for selections, but only the big one - the national team.'
'Really? You confident he will make it,' Omi said, passing us lassi in steel glasses after practice.
'He will be a player like India never had,' Ish announced. It sounded a bit mad, but we had seen Ali demolish the best of bowlers, even if for a few balls. Two more years and Ish could well be right.
'Don't talk about Ali's gift at all. I don't trust anyone.' Ish wiped his lassi moustache.
?
'Excuses don't clear exams, Vidya. If you study this, it will help. Nothing else will.' I opened the chemistry book again.
'I tried,' she said and pushed back her open hair. She had not bathed. She had a track pant on that I think she had been wearing since she was thirteen and a pink T-shirt that said 'fairy queen' or something. How can a grown-up woman wear something that says 'fairy queen'? How can anyone wear something that says 'fairy queen'?
'I pray everyday. That should help,' she said.
I didn't know whether to laugh or flip my fuse again at her nonchalance. Maybe if she didn't look like a cute ragdoll in those clothes, I would have lost my temper again.
'Don't leave it to God, nothing like reading organic chemistry yourself,' I said.
She nodded and moved her chair, as a bottle fell over on the ground.
'Oops,' she said and bent down.
'What?' I stood up in reflex. It was a bottle of coconut oil, fortunately closed.
'Nothing, I thought I'll oil my hair,' she said and lifted the blue bottle.
I looked at her face. My gaze lasted a quarter second more than necessary. There is an optimal time for looking at women before it gets counted as a stare. I had crossed that threshold. Self-consciously she tugged at the T-shirt's neckline as she sat back up. The tug was totally due to me. I didn't look there at all, but she thought I did. I felt sick.
'Coconut oil,' I said, probably the dumbest thing to say but it changed the topic.
'Yes, a bit of organic chemistry for my head. Maybe this will help.'
I flipped the book's pages to see how benzene became oxidised.
'When is your birthday?' she said. '14 March,' I replied. 'Pi Day.' 'What day?'
'Pi Day. You see, Pi approximates to 3.14 so 14 March is the same date. It is Einstein's birthday, too. Cool, isn't it?'
'A day for Pi? How can you have a day for something so horrible?'
'Excuse me? It is an important day for maths lovers. We never make it public though. You can say you love literature, you can say you love music but you can't say you feel the same way for maths.'
'Why not?'
'People label you a geek.'
'That you are,' she giggled.
She pulled the oil bottle cap close.
'Can you help me oil my hair? I can't reach the back.'
My tongue slipped like it was coated in that oil as I tried to speak. 'Vidya, we should study now.'
'Yeah, yeah, almost done. Just above the back of my neck, please.'
She twisted on her chair so her back faced me. She held up the cap of the oil bottle.
What the hell, I thought. I dipped my index finger in the oil and brought it to her neck.
'Not here,' she giggled again. 'It tickles. Higher, yes at the roots.'
She told me to dip three fingers instead of one and press harder. I followed her instructions in a daze. The best maths tutor in town had become a champi man.
'How's the new shop coming?' she said.
'Great, I paid the deposit and three months advance rent,' I said. 'Fifty thousand bucks, cash. We will have the best location in the mall'
'I can't wait,' she said.
'Two more months,' I said. 'Ok, that's enough. You do it yourself now, I will hold the cap for you.'
She turned to look at me, dipped her fingers in the oil and applied it to her head.
'I wish I were a boy,' she said, rubbing oil vigorously.
'Why? Easier to oil hair?' I said, holding up the cap in my hand even though my wrist ached.
'So much easier for you to achieve your passions. I won't be allowed to open such a shop,' she said.
I kept quiet.
'There, hopefully my brain would have woken up now,' she said, tying back her hair and placing the chemistry book at the centre of the table.
'1 don't want to study this,' she said.
"Vidya, as your teacher my role is...'
'Yeah, what is your role as my teacher? Teach me how to reach my dreams or how to be a drone?'
I kept quiet. She placed her left foot on her lap. I noticed the tiny teddy bears all over her pajamas.
'Well, I am not your teacher. I am your tutor, your maths tutor. And as far as I know, there are no dream tutors.'
'Are you not my friend?'
'Well, sort of.'
'Ok, sort-of-friend, what do you think I should do? Crush my passion and surround myself with hydrocarbon molecules forever?'
I kept quiet.
'Say something. I should lump these lessons even if I have no interest in them whatsoever as that is what all good Indian students do?'
I kept quiet.
'What?' she prodded me again.
'The problem is you think I am this geek who solves probability problems for thrills. Well, maybe I do, but that is not all of me. I am a tutor, it is a job. But never fucking accuse me of crushing your passion.' Too late I realised I had used the F-word. 'Sorry for the language.'
'Cursing is an act of passion.'
I smiled and turned away from her.
'So there you go,' she said, 'my tutor-friend, I want to make an admission to you. I want to go to Mumbai, but not to cut cadavers. I want to study PR.'
I banged my fist on the table. 'Then do it. Don't give me this wish-I-was-a-boy and I'm-trapped-in-a-cage nonsense. Ok, so you are in a cage, but you have a nice, big, oiled brain that is not pea-sized like a bird's. So use it to find the key out.'
'Medical college is one key, but not for me,' she said.
'In that case, break the cage,' I said.
'How?'
'What makes the cage? Your parents, right? Do you have to listen to them all the time?'
'Of course not. I've been lying to them since I was five.'
'Really? Wow,' I said and collected myself. 'Passion versus parents is a tough call. But if you have to choose, passion should win. Humanity wouldn't have progressed if people listened to their parents all the time.'
'Exactly. Our parents are not innocent either. Weren't we all conceived in a moment of passion?' I looked at her innocent -looking face, shocked. This girl is out of control. Maybe it isn't such a good idea to get her out of her cage.
Nine
26 January is a happy day for all Indians. Whether or not you feel patriotic, it is a guaranteed holiday in the first month of the year. I remember thinking it would be the last holiday at our temple shop since we were scheduled to move to the new mall on Valentine's Day. Apart from the deposit, we had spent another sixty thousand to fit out the interiors. I borrowed ten thousand from my mother, purely as a loan. Ish's dad refused to give any money. Omi, even though I had said no, took the rest in loan from Bittoo Mama.
The night before Republic Day, I lay in bed with my thoughts. I had invested a hundred and ten thousand rupees. My business had already reached lakhs. Should we do a turf carpet throughout? Now that would be cool for a sports shop. I dreamed of my chain of stores the whole night.
'Stop shaking me mom, I want to sleep,' I screamed. Can't the world let a businessman sleep on a rare holiday.
But mom didn't shake me. I moved on my own. I opened my eyes. My bed went back and forth too. I looked at the wall clock. It had fallen on the floor. The room furniture, fan and windows vibrated violently.
I rubbed my eyes, what was this? Nightmares?
I stood up and went to the window. People on the street ran haphazardly in random directions.
'Govind,' my mother screamed from the other room, 'hide under the table. It is an earthquake.'
'What?' I said and ducked under the side table kept by the window in reflex. I could see the havoc outside. Three TV antennas horn the opposite building fell down. A telephone pole broke and collapsed on the ground.
The tremors lasted for forty-five seconds, the most destructive and longest forty-five seconds of my life. Of course, I did not know n then. A strange silence followed the earthquake.
'Mom,' I screamed.
'Govind, don't move,' she screamed back.
'It is gone,' I said after ten more minutes had passed, 'you
ok?'
I came out to the living room. Everything on the wall -I alendars, paintings and lampshades, lay on the floor.
'Govind,' my mother came and hugged me. Yes, I was fine. My mother was fine too.
'Let's get out,' she said.
'Why?'
'The building might collapse.'
'I don't think so,' I said as my mother dragged me out in my pajamas. The street was full of people.
'Is it a bomb?' a man spoke to the other in whispers.
'Earthquake. It's coming on TV. It started in Bhuj,' a man on the street said.
'Bad?' the other man said.
'We felt the tremors hundreds of kilometres away, imagine the situation in Bhuj,' another old man said.
We stood out for an hour. No, the foundation of our building, or for that matter any in our pol had not come loose. Meanwhile, rumours and gossip spread fast. Some said more earthquakes could come. Some said India had tested a nuclear bomb. A few parts of Ahmedabad reported property damage. Stories rippled through the street.
I re-entered my house after two hours and switched on the TV. Every channel covered the earthquake. It epicentred in Bhuj, though it affected many parts of Gujarat.
'Reports suggest that while most of Ahmedabad is safe, many new and upcoming buildings have suffered severe damage...,' the reporter said as tingles went down my spine.
'No, no, no...,' I mumbled to myself.
'What?' my mother said as she brought me tea and toast.
'I have to go out.'
'Where?'
'Navrangpura ... now,' I said and wore my slippers. Are you mad?' she said.
'My shop mom, my shop,' is all 1 said as I ran out of the house.
The whole city was shut. I couldn't find any autos or buses. I decided to run the seven-kilometre stretch. I had to see if my new store was ok. Yes, I just wanted that to be ok.
It took me an hour to get there. I saw the devastation en-route. The new city areas like Satellite suffered heavy damage. Almost every building had their windows broken. Those buildings that were under construction had crumbled to rubble. I entered Navrangpura. Signs of plush shops lay on the road. I reasoned that my new, ultra-modern building would have earthquake safety features. I gasped for breath as I ran the last hundred metres. Sweat covered my entire body.
Did I miss the building? I said as I reached my lane. The mayhem on the street and the broken signs made it hard to identify addresses.
I retreated, catching my breath.
'Where is the building?' I said to myself as I kept circling my lane.
I found it, finally. Only that the six storeys that were intact a day ago had now turned into a concrete heap. I could not concentrate. I felt intense thirst. I looked for water, but I only saw rubble, rubble and more rubble. My stomach hurt. I grabbed it with my left hand and sat on a broken bench to keep my consciousness.
The police pulled out a labourer, with bruises all over. Cement hags had fallen on him and crushed his legs. The sight of blood made me vomit. No one in the crowd noticed me. One lakh and ten thousand, the number spun in my head.
Unrelated images of the day my dad left us flashed in my head. Those images had not come for years. The look on his face as he shut the living room door on the way out. My mother's silent tears for the next few hours, which continued for the next few years. I don't know why that past scene came to me. I think the brain has a special box where it keeps crappy memories. It stays shut, but everytime a new entry has to be added, it opens and you can look at what is inside. I felt anger at my dad, totally misplaced as I should have felt anger at the
earthquake. Or at myself, for betting so much money. Anger for making the first big mistake of my life.
My body trembled with violent intensity.
'Don't worry, God will protect us,' someone tapped my shoulder.
'Oh really, then who the hell sent it in the first place?' I said and pushed the stranger away. I didn't need sympathy, I wanted my shop.
Two years of scrimping and saving, twenty years of dreams - all wiped away in twenty seconds. The 'Navrangpura Mall's' neon sign, once placed at the top of the six floor building, now licked the ground. Maybe this was God's way of saying something - that we shouldn't have these malls. We were destined to remain a small town and we shouldn't even try to be like the big cities. I don't know why I thought of God, I was agnostic. But who else do you blame earthquakes on?
Of course, I could blame the builder of the Navrangpura mall. For the hundred-year-old buildings in the old city pols remained standing. Omi's two-hundred-year-old temple stood intact. Then why did my fucking mall collapse? What did he make it with? Sand?
I needed someone to blame. I needed to hit someone, something. I lifted a brick, and threw it at an already smashed window. The remaining glass broke into little bits.
'What are you doing? Haven't we seen enough destruction?' said someone next to me.
I couldn't make out his face, or anyone's face. My heart beat at double the normal rate. Surely, we could sue the builder, my heart said. The builder would have run away, my head said. And no one would get their money back.
'Govind, Govind,' Ish said. He screamed in my ear when I finally noticed him.
'What the hell are you doing here man? It is dangerous to be out, let's go home' Ish said.
I kept looking at the rubble like I had for the last four hours.
'Govind,' Ish said, 'we can't do anything. Let's go.' 'We are finished Ish,' I said, feeling moist in my eyes for the first time in a decade.
'It's ok buddy. We have to go,' Ish said. 'We lost everything. Look, our business collapsed even before IT opened...'
I broke down. I never cried the day my father left us. I never cried when my hand had got burnt one Diwali and Dr Verma had TO give me sedatives to go to sleep. I never cried when India lost a match. I never cried when I couldn't join engineering college. I never cried when we barely made any money for the first three months of business. But that day, when God slapped my city for no reason, I cried and cried. Ish held me and let me use his shirt to absorb my tears.
'Govi, let's go home,' Ish said. He never shortened my name before. He'd never seen me like that too. Their CEO and parent had broken down.
'We are cursed man. I saved, and I saved and I fucking saved. And we took loans. But then, this? Ish, I don't want to see that smug look on Bittoo Mama's face. I will work on the roadside,' I said as Ish dragged me away to an auto.
People must have thought I had lost a child. But when a businessman loses his business, it is similar. It is one thing when you take a business risk and suffer a loss, but this was unfair. Someone out there needed to realise this was fucking unfair.
Ish bought a Frooti to calm me. It helped, especially since I didn't eat anything else for the next two days. I think the rest of the Ambavadis didn't either.
I found out later that over thirty thousand people lost their lives. That is a stadium full of people. In Bhuj, ninety per cent of homes were destroyed. Schools and hospitals flattened to the ground. Overall in Gujarat, the quake damaged a million structures. One of those million structures included my future shop. In the large scheme of things, my loss was statistically irrelevant. In the narrow, selfish scheme of things, I suffered the most. The old city fared better than the new city. Somehow our grandfathers believed in cement more than the new mall owners.
Compared to Gujarat, Ahmedabad had better luck, the Ty channels said. The new city lost only fifty multi-storey buildings, They said only a few hundred people died in Ahmedabad compared to tens of thousands elsewhere. It is funny when hundreds of people dying is tagged with 'only'. Each of those people would have had families, and hopes and aspirations all shattered in forty* five seconds. But that is how maths works - compared to thirty thousand, hundreds is a rounding error.
?
I had not left home for a week. For the first three days I had burning fever, and for the next four my body felt stone cold.
'Your fever is gone.' Dr Verma checked my pulse.
I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
'You haven't gone to the shop?'
I shook my head, still horizontal on bed.
'I didn't expect this from you. You have heard of Navaldharis Dr Verma said.
I kept quiet.
'You can talk. I haven't put a thermometer in your mouth.' 'No, who are they?'
'Navaldharis is a hardcore entrepreneur community in Gujarat Everyone there does business. And they say, a true Navaldhari businessman is one who can rise after being razed to the ground nine times.'
'I am in debt, Doctor. I lost more money in one stroke than my business ever earned.'
There is no businessman in this world who has never lost money. There is no one who has learnt to ride a bicycle without falling off. There is no one who has loved without getting hurt. It's all part of the game.' Dr Verma shrugged.
'I'm scared,' I said, turning my face to the wall. 'Stop talking like middle-class parents. So scared of losing money, they want their kids to serve others all their lives to get a safe salary.'
'I have lost a lot.'
'Yes, but age is on your side. You are young, you will earn It all back. You have no kids to feed, you have no household to maintain. And the other thing is, you have seen less money. You * an live without it.'
I don't feel like doing anything. This earthquake, why did this liappen? Do you know our school is now a refugee camp?'
'Yes, and what are the refugees doing? Lying in bed or trying to recover?'
I tuned out the doctor. Everyone around me was giving me advice, good advice actually. But I was in no mood to listen. I was in no mood for anything. The shop? It would remain closed for a week more. Who would buy sports stuff after an earthquake?
'Hope to see you out of bed tomorrow,' Dr Verma said and left. The clock showed three in the afternoon. I kept staring at it until four.
'May I come in, Govind sir,' Vidya's cheeky voice in my home sounded so strange that I sprang up on bed. And what was with
I he sir?
She had the thick MX. Khanna book and a notebook in her hand.
'What are you doing here?' I pulled up my quilt to hide my pajamas and vest attire.
She, of course, looked impeccable in her maroon and orange salwar kameez with matching mirror-work dupatta.
'I got stuck with some sums. Thought I'd come here and ask since you were not well,' she said, sitting down on a chair next to my bed.
My mother came in the room with two cups of tea. I mimed to her for a shirt.
'You want a shirt?' she said, making my entire signalling exercise futile.
'What sums?' I asked curtly after mom left.
'Maths is what I told my mom. Actually, I wanted to give you this.' She extended the voluminous M.L. Khanna tome to me.
What was that for? To solve problems while bedridden?
My mother returned with a shirt and left. I held my shirt ill one hand and the M.L. Khanna in another. Modesty vs Curiosity, I shoved the shirt aside and opened the book. A handmade, pink greeting card fell out.
The card had a hand-drawn cartoon of a boy lying in bed. She had labelled it Govind, in case it wasn't clear to me. Insidf it said: 'Get Well Soon' in the cheesiest kiddy font imaginable. A poem underneath said:
To my maths tutor/ passion guide/ sort-of-friend, 1 cannot fully understand ycrur loss, but 1 can try. Sometimes life throws curve balls and you question why. There may be no answers, but I assure time will heal the wound.
Here is wishing you a heartfelt 'get well soon'.
Your poorest performing student, Vidya
It's not very good,' she murmured.
'I like it. I am sorry about the sort-of friend. I am just...,' I
said.
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