The 3 Mistakes Of My Life (2 page)

Anusha, too, was relieved that the boy was safe. She then announced the plan for

the day – the dining chair hunt. It would begin at Ikea on Alexandra Road.

We reached Ikea at around three o'clock and browsed through the space-saving

dining sets. One dining table could fold four times over and become a coffee table –

pretty neat.

'I want to know what happened to the twenty-five-year-old businessman,' I

muttered.

'You will find out eventually. Let him recover. Must be one of those crazy reasons of

youth – rejection in love, low marks or drugs.' I stayed silent.

'C'mon, he just emailed you. Your ID is on your book cover. You really don't need

to get involved. Should we take six or eight?' She moved towards an oak-wood set.

I protested that we rarely had so many guests at home. Six chairs would be

enough.

'The marginal capacity utilisation of the two chairs would be less than ten

per cent,' I said.

'You men are least helpful,' she tossed back and then selected six chairs.

My mind strayed back to the businessman.

Yes, everyone was right. I shouldn't get involved. But yet, of all the people

in the world, this boy had sent me his last words. I couldn't help but get involved.

We ate lunch in the food court next to Ikea.

'I have to go,' I told my wife as I played with my lemon rice. 'Where? To

the office. Ok, you are a free man now. I did my shopping,' my wife said.

'No. I want to go to Ahmedabad. I want to meet Govind Patel.' I did not

meet her eye. Maybe I was sounding crazy.

‘Are you nuts?’

I think it is only in my generation that Indian women started slamming

their husbands.

'My mind keeps going back,' I said.

'What about your presentation? Michel will kill you.'

'I know. He won't get promoted unless he impresses his boss.' My wife

looked at me. My face was argument enough. She knew I would not talk sense until I

had met the boy.

'Well, there is only one direct flight at 6 p.m. today. You can check the

tickets.' She dialled the Singapore Airlines number and handed me the phone.

I entered the room the nurses had led me to. The eerie silence and the

darkness made my footsteps sound loud. Ten different instruments beeped and LED

lights flickered at regular intervals. Cables from the instruments disappeared into

the man I had travelled thousands of miles to see – Govind Patel.

I noticed the curly hair first. He had a wheatish complexion and bushy

eyebrows. His thin lips had turned dry because of the medicines.

`Hi, Chetan Bhagat ... the writer you wrote to,' I said, unsure if he could

place me.

Ò ... How did ... you find me?' he said, finding it difficult to speak.

`Destined to, I guess,' I said.

I shook hands and sat down. His mother came into the room. She looked so

sleep-deprived, she could use a sleeping pill herself. I greeted her as she went out to

get tea.

I looked at the boy again. I had two instant urges – one, to ask him what

happened and two, to slap him.

`Don't look at me like that,' he said, shifting in his bed, 'you must be angry.

Sorry, I should not have written that mail.'

‘Forget the mail. You should not have done what you did.'

He sighed. He took a hard look at me and then turned his gaze sideways.

Ì have no regrets,' he said.

`Shut up. There is nothing heroic in this. Cowards pop pills.' `You would

have done the same, if you were in my place.' `Why? What happened to you?'

Ìt doesn't matter!

We fell silent as his mother returned with tea. A nurse came in and told his

mother to go home, but she refused to budge. Finally, the doctor had to intervene.

She left at 11.30 p.m. I stayed in the room, promising the doctor I would

leave soon.

`So, tell me your story,' I said, once we were alone.

`Why? What can you do about it? You can't change what happened,' he

said tiredly.

`You don't just listen to stories to change the past. Sometimes, it is

important to know what happened.'

Ì am a businessman. To me, people only do things out of self-interest.

What's in it for you? And why should I waste my time telling you anything?'

I stared at the soft-skinned face that hid such hardness inside. `Because I will

want to tell others,' I said. There, that was my incentive.

And why would anyone care? My story is not trendy or sexy like the IITs

and call centres.'

He removed the quilt covering his chest. The heater and our conversation

kept the room warm.

Ì think they will care,' I said, 'a young person tried to kill himself. That does not

seem right.'

`No one gives a fuck about me.'

I tried, but found it difficult to be patient. I considered slapping him again.

`Listen,' I said, pitching my voice to the maximum allowed in a hospital.

'You chose to send your last mail to me. That means at a certain level you

trusted me. I located you and flew out within hours of your mail. You still

question if I care? And now this cocky attitude, this arrogance is part of your

business? Can't you talk to me like a friend? Do you even know what a friend is?'

A nurse came peeking into the room on hearing my loud voice. We became

quiet. The clock showed midnight.

He sat there stunned. Everyone had behaved nicely with him today. I stood

up and turned away from him.

‘I know what a friend is,' he said at last.

I sat down next to him.

‘I do know what a friend is. Because I had two, the best ones in the world.'

One

India vs South Africa

4th ODI, Vadodra

17 March 2000

Over 45

`Why the fuck did you have to move?' Ishaan's scream drowned out the

stadium din on the TV. I had shifted up to a sofa from the floor.

`Huh?' I said. We were in Ishaan's house — Ishaan, Omi and I. Ishaan's mom

had brought in tea and khakra for us. 'It is more comfortable to snack on the

sofa. That is why I moved.'

`Tendulkar's gone. Fuck, now at
this
stage. Omi, don't you dare move now.

Nobody moves for the next five overs.'

I looked at the TV. We were chasing 283 to win. India's score a ball ago was

256-2 after forty-five overs. Twenty-seven runs in five overs, with eight wickets to

spare and Tendulkar on the crease. A cakewalk. The odds were still in India's

favour, but Tendulkar was out. And that explained the frowns on Ishaan's

forehead.

'The khakra's crispy,' Omi said. Ishaan glared at Omi, chiding him for his

shallow sensory pleasure in a moment of national grief. Omi and I kept our tea

cups aside and looked suitably mournful.

The crowd clapped as Tendulkar made his exit. Jadeja came to the crease and

added six more runs. End of forty-six overs, India 262/3. Twenty-one more runs

to win in four overs, with seven wickets in hand.

Over 46

'He made 122. The guy did his job. Just a few final closing shots left. Why are

you getting so worked up?' I asked during a commercial break. I reached for my

tea cup, but Ishaan signalled me to leave it alone. We were not going to indulge

until the fate of the match was decided. Ishaan was pissed with us anyway. The

match was in Vadodra, just two hours away from Ahmedabad. But we could not

go - one, because we didn't have money, and two, because I had my

correspondence exams in two days. Of course, I had wasted the whole day

watching the match on TV instead, so reason number two did not really hold

much weight.

'It is 5.25 runs required per over,' I said, not able to resist doing a

mathematical calculation. That is one reason I like cricket, there is so much

maths in it.

'You don't know this team. Tendulkar goes, they panic. It isn't about the

average. It is like the queen bee is dead, and the hive loses order,' Ishaan said.

Omi nodded, as he normally does to whatever Ishaan has to say about cricket.

'Anyway, I hope you realise, we didn't meet today to see this match. We have to

decide what Mr Ishaan is doing about his future, right?' I said.

Ishaan had always avoided this topic ever since he ran away from NDA a year

ago. His dad had already sarcastically commented, 'Cut a
cake today to celebrate

one year of your uselessness.'

However, today I had a plan. I needed to sit them down to talk about our lives.

Of course, against cricket, life is second priority.

'Later,' Ishaan said, staring avidly at a pimple cream commercial.

'Later when Ishaan? I have an idea that works for all of us. We don't have a lot

of choice, do we?'

'All of us? Me, too?' Omi quizzed, already excited. Idiots like him love to be part

of something, anything. However, this time we needed Omi.

'Yes, you play a critical role Omi. But later when Ish? When?'

'Oh, stop it! Look, the match is starting. Ok, over dinner. Let's go to Gopi,' Ish

said.

'Gopi? Who's paying?' I was interrupted as the match began.

Beep, beep, beep. The horn of a car broke our conversation. A car zoomed

outside the pol.

'What the hell! I am going to teach this bastard a lesson,' Ish said, looking out

the window.

'What's up?'

'Bloody son of a rich dad. Comes and circles around our house everyday'

'Why?' I said.

'For Vidya. He used to be in coaching classes with her. She complained about

him there too,' Ish said.

Beep, beep, beep, the car came near the house again.

'Damn, I don't want to miss this match,' Ish said as he saw India hit a four. Ish

picked up his bat. We ran out the house. The silver Esteem circled the pol and

came back for another round of serenading. Ish stood in front of the car and

asked the boy to stop. The Esteem halted in front of Ish. Ish went to the driver,

an adolescent.

'Excuse me, your headlight is hanging out.'

'Really?' the boy said and shut off the ignition. He stepped outside and came to

the front.

Ish grabbed the boy's head from behind and smashed his face into the bonnet.

He proceeded to strike the headlight with his bat. The glass broke and the bulb

hung out.

'What's your problem,' the boy said, blood spurting out of his nose.

'You tell me what's up? You like pressing horns?' Ish said.

Ish grabbed his collar and gave six non-stop slaps across his face. Omi picked

up the bat and smashed the windscreen. The glass broke into a million pieces.

People on the street gathered around as there is nothing quite as entertaining as

a street fight.

The boy shivered in pain and fear. What would he tell his daddy about his

broken car and face?

Ish's dad heard the commotion and came out of the house. Ish held the boy in

an elbow lock. The boy was struggling to breathe.

'Leave him,' Ish's dad said.

Ish gripped him tighter.

'I said leave him,' Ish's dad shouted, 'what's going on here?'

'He has been troubling Vidya since last week,' Ish said. He kicked the boy's face

with his knee and released him. The boy kneeled on the floor and sucked in air.

The last kick from Ish had smeared the blood from his nose across his face.

'And what do you think you are doing?' Ish's dad asked him.

'Teaching him a lesson,' Ish said and unhooked his bat stuck in the

windscreen.

'Really, when will you learn your lessons?' Ish's dad said to him.

Ish turned away.

'You go now,' Ish's dad said to the beeping driver, who folded his hands. Seeing

that no one cared about his apology, he trudged back to his car.

Ish's dad turned to his neighbours. 'For one whole year he's been sitting at

home. Ran away from the army of his own country and then wants to teach

lessons to others! He and his loafer friends hanging around the house all day

long.'

One sidelong glance at his dad and Ish walked back home.

'Where the hell are you going now?' Ish's dad said.

'Match. Why? You want to curse me some more?' Ish said.

'When you've wasted your entire life, what's another day?' Ish's father said and

the neighbours half-nodded their heads in sympathy.

We missed the final five overs of the match. Luckily, India won and Ish didn't

get that upset.

'Yes, yes, yes,' Ishaan jumped. 'Gopi on me tonight.' I love idiots.