The 3 Mistakes Of My Life (15 page)

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.

'It's ok. I like the tag. Makes it clear that studies are first,

right?'

I nodded.

'How are you doing?'

I overcame my urge to turn to the wall. 'Life goes on. It has to. Maybe an air-

conditioned mall is not for me.'

'Of course, it is. It isn't your fault. I am sure you will get 1 here one day. Think

about this, aren't you lucky you weren't in the shop already when it happened?

Imagine the lives lost if the mall was open?'

She had a point. I had to get over this. I had to re-accept liittoo Mama's smug

face.

I returned her M.L. Khanna and kept the card under my pillow.

'Ish said you haven't come to the shop.'

'The shop is open?' I said. Ish and Omi met me every evening but never

mentioned it.

'Yeah, you should see bhaiya struggle with the accounts at home. Take tuitions

for him, too,' she giggled. 'I'll leave now. About my classes, no rush really.'

'I'll be there next Wednesday,' I called out.

'Nice girl,' my mother said carefully. 'You like her?'

'No. Horrible student.'

Ish and Omi came at night when I had finished my unappetising dinner of

boiled vegetables.

'How are you running the shop?' my energetic voice surprised them.

'You sound better,' Ish said.

'Who is doing the accounts?' I said and sat up.

Omi pointed at Ish.

'And? What is it? A two for one sale?'

'We haven't given any discounts all week,' Ish said and sat next to me on the

bed.

Ish pulled at my pillow to be more comfortable. 'Wait,' I said, jamming the

pillow with my elbow.

'What's that?' Ish said and smiled as he saw an inch of pink paper under my

pillow.

'Nothing. None of your business,' I said. Of course it was his business, it was

his sister.

'Card?' Omi said.

'Yes, from my cousin,' I said.

'Are you sure?' Ish came to tickle me, to release my death grip on the pillow.

'.Stop it', I said, trying to appear light hearted. My heart beat fast as I pinned

the pillow down hard.

'Pandit's daughter, isn't it?' Omi chuckled.

'Whatever,' I said, sitting on the pillow as a desperate measure.

'Mixing business with pleasure?' Ish said and laughed. I joined in the laughter

to encourage the deception. 'Come back,' Ish said.

'The loans ... It's all my fault,' I told the wall. 'Mama said we can continue to

use the shop,' Omi said. 'No conditions?' I said, surprised. 'Not really,' Omi said.

'And that means?' 'It is understood we need to help him in his campaign,' Ish

said. 'Don't worry, you don't have to do anything. Omi and I will help.'

'We have to pay his loan back fast. We have to,' I said.

'We'll get over this,' Ish looked me in the eye. Brave words, but for the first time

believable.

'I am sorry I invested...,' I felt I had to apologise, but Omi interrupted me.

'We did it together as business partners. And you are the smartest of us.'

I was not sure if his last line was correct anymore. I was a disaster as a

businessman. 'See you tomorrow,' I said.

After they left, I pulled out the card again and smoothed the ceases. I read the

card eight times before falling asleep.

My break from work brought out hidden skills in my friends. Save a few

calculation errors, they managed the accounts just fine. They tabulated daily

sales, had their prices right and had offered no discounts. The shop was clean

and things were easy to find. Maybe one day I could create businesses and be

hands-off. I checked myself from dreaming again. India is not a place for dreams.

Especially when you have failed once. I finally saw the sense inherent in the

Hindu philosophy of being satisfied with what one had, rather than yearn for

more. It wasn't some cool philosophy that ancient sages invented, but a survival

mantra in a country where desires are routinely crushed. This shop in the temple

was my destiny, and earning that meagre income from it my karma. More was not

meant to be. I breathed out, felt better and opened the cash drawer.

'Pretty low for two weeks. But first the earthquake, and now the India-Australia

series,' Ish said from his corner.

'People really don't have a reason to play anymore,' Omi said.

'No, no. It's fine. What's happening in the series?' I said. I had lost track of the

cricket schedule.

'India lost the first test. Two more to go. The next one is in Calcutta,' Ish said.

'Damn. One-days?'

'Five of them, yet to start,' Omi said. 'I wouldn't get my hopes high. These

Australians are made of something else.'

'I'd love to know how the Australians do it,' Ish said.

Mama's arrival broke up our chat. 'Samosas, hot, careful,' he said, placing a

brown bag on the counter.

In my earlier avatar, this was my cue to frown, to comment about the grease

spoiling the counter. However, the new post-quake Govind no longer saw Mama

as hostile. We sat in the sunny courtyard having tea and samosas. They tasted

delicious, I think samosas are the best snack known to man.

'Try to forget what happened,' Mama sighed. 'I have never seen such

devastation.'

'How was your trip?' Omi said. Mama had just returned from Bhuj. 'Misery

everywhere. We need camps all over Gujarat. But how much can Parekh-ji do?'

Mama had stayed up nights to set up the makeshift relief camp at the

Belrampur school. Parekh-ji had sent truckloads of grain, pulses and other

supplies. People had finally begun to move out and regain their lives.

'We'll close the camp in three weeks,' Mama said to Omi, 'and I can go back to

my main cause, Ayodhya.'

The camp had won Mama many fans in the neighbourhood, Technically,

anyone could seek refuge. However, a Muslim family would rarely go there for

help. Even if they did, camp managers handed out rations but emphasised that

everyone in the camp was a Hindu. Despite this soft discrimination, the new-me

found it a noble exercise.

'Mama, about your loan,' I turned to him, but he did not hear me.

'My son is coming with me to Ayodhya. You guys should join,' he said. He saw

our reluctant faces and added, 'I mean after you restore the business.'

'We can help here, Mama,' Omi said. 'Is there any project after 1 he camp?'

'Oh yes, the spoonful of mud campaign,' Mama said. We looked puzzled.

'We are going to Ayodhya for a reason. We will get gunnybags full of soil from

there. We will go to every Hindu house in Belrampur and ask them if they want a

spoon of mud from Rama's birthplace in their house. They can put it in their

backyard, mix it with plants or whatever. A great idea from Parekh-ji.'

I saw Parekh-ji's twisted but impeccable logic. No one would say no to a

spoonful of soil from Ayodhya. But with that, they were inadvertently buying into

the cause. Sympathy for people fighting for Ayodhya would be automatic. And

sympathy converted well into votes.

Mama noted the cynicism in my expression.

'Only a marketing strategy for a small campaign. The other party does it at a

far bigger scale.'

I picked up another samosa.

'It's ok, Mama. Politics confuses me,' I said. 'I can't comment. We will help you.

You have saved our livelihood, we are forever indebted.'

'You are my kids. How can you be indebted to your father?' 'Business is down,

but on the revised loan instalments...,' but Mama cut me again.