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.

Actually, Ishaan is not an idiot. At least not as much as Omi. It is just that

both of them suck at studies, especially maths, and I am good at it. Hence, I have

this chip on my shoulder. It does sound a bit conceited, but it is the only chip on

my shoulder. For instance, I am easily the poorest of the three (though I will be

the richest one day), even though Ishaan and Omi aren't particularly wealthy.

Ishaan's dad works in the telephone exchange, and while they have lots of phones

in the house, the salary is modest. Omi's dad is the priest of the Swamibhakti

temple, which actually belongs to Omi's mom's family for generations. And that

does not pay well either. But still, they are a lot better off than me and my mom.

My mom runs a small Gujarati snacks business, and the little bit of money I

make from tuitions helps us get by, but that's about it.

'We won, we won the series 3-1,' Omi repeated what he read on the TV screen.

Of course, it would have been too much for him to express such original insight.

Some say Omi was born stupid, while some say he became stupid after a cork

ball hit him on the head in Class VI. I didn't know the reason, but I did know that

maybe the best idea for him would be to become a priest. He wouldn't have much

of a career otherwise, given that he barely scraped through Class XII, after

repeating the maths compartment exam twice. But he didn't want to be a priest,

so my plan was the best one.

I ate the khakra. My mother made it better than Ishaan's mom. We were

professionals after all.

'I'll go home to change and then we will go to Gopi, ok?' I said as Ishaan and

Omi were still dancing. Dancing after an Indian victory was a ritual we had

started when we were eleven, one that should have stopped by thirteen. However,

here we were at twenty-one, jigging like juveniles. Ok, so we won, someone had

to. In mathematical terms, there was a pretty good probability - did it really need

jumping around?



I walked back home.

The narrow lanes of the old city were bustling with the evening crowd. My

house and Ishaan's were only half a kilometre apart. Everything in my world fell

between this distance. I passed by the Nana Park, extra packed with kids playingcricket as India had won the match. I played here almost every day of my school

life.

We still come here sometimes, but now we prefer the abandoned bank branch

compound near my home.

A tennis ball landed at my feet. A sweaty twelve-year-old boy came running to

me. I picked up the ball for him. Nana Park is where I had first met Ishaan and

Omi, over fifteen years ago. There was no dramatic moment that marked the start

of our friendship. Maybe we sized each other up as the only six-year-olds in the

ground and started playing together.

Like most neighbourhood kids, we went to the Belrampur Municipal School,

hundred metres down Nana Park. Of course, only I studied while Ish and Omi ran

to the park at every opportunity.

Three bicycles tried to overtake each other in the narrow by lane. I had to step

inside Qazi restaurant to let them pass. A scent of fried coriander and garlic filled

the narrow room. The cook prepared dinner, a bigger feast than usual as India

had won the match. Ishaan and I came here sometimes (without telling Omi, of

course) for the cheap food and extraordinary mutton. The owner assured us

'small mutton', implying goat and not beef. I believed him, as he would not have

survived in the neighbourhood if he served beef. I wanted to eat here instead of

Gopi. But we had promised Gopi to Omi, and the food was fantastic there as well.

Food is a passion here, especially as Gujarat is a dry state. People here get drunk

on food.

Yes, Ahmedabad is my city. It is strange, but if you have had happy times in a

city for a long time, you consider it the best city in the world. I feel the same

about Ahmedabad. I know it is not one of those hip cities like Delhi, Bombay or

Bangalore. I know people in these cities think of Ahmedabad as a small town,

though that is not really the case. Ahmedabad is the sixth largest city in India,

with a population of over five million. But I guess if you have to emphasise the

importance of something, then it probably isn't as important in the first place. I

could tell you that Ahmedabad has better multiplexes than Delhi or nicer roads

than Bombay or better restaurants than Bangalore - but you will not believe me.

Or even if you do, you won't give a damn. I know Belrampur is not Bandra, but

why should I defend being called a small-town-person as if it is a bad thing? A

funny thing about small towns is that people say it is the real India. I guess they

do acknowledge that at one level the India of the big cities is fake. Yes, I am from

the old city of Amdavad and proud of it. We don't have as many fashion shows

and we still like our women to wear clothes. I don't see anything wrong with that.

I stepped out of Qazi and continued my way home, turning in the pol towards

Omi's temple. Of course, we called it Omi's temple because he lived there, but the

official name was the Swamibhakti temple. As I entered the by lane, two people

fought over garbage disposal around the crammed pol.

There are things about my small town neighbourhood that I want to change. In

some ways, it is way behind the rest of Ahmedabad. For one, the whole old city

could be a lot cleaner. The new city across the other side of the Sabarmati river

has gleaming glass and steel buildings, while the old city finds it difficult to get

rubbish cleared on time.

I want to change another thing. I want to stop the gossip theories people come

up with about other people. Like the theory about Omi becoming stupid because

a cricket ball hit him. There is no basis for it, but every pol in Belrampur talksabout it. Or the theory that Ish was thrown out of NDA and did not run away. I

know for a fact that it is not true. Ish cannot handle unquestioned authority, and

even though he was really excited about the army (which was his only option), he

could not stand some Major ordering him around for the next two decades of his

life. So he paid the penalty, cited personal reasons like ailing parents or

something and ran right back to Belrampur.

And of course, what I want to stop the most - the weirdest theory that I became

emotionless the day dad left us. Dad left mom and me over ten years ago, for we

found out he had a second wife across town. As far as I can remember, I was

never good with emotional stuff. I love maths, I love logic and those subjects have

no place for emotion. I think human beings waste too much time on emotions.

The prime example is my mother. Dad's departure was followed by months of

crying with every lady in every pol coming down to sympathise with her. She

spent another year consulting astrologers as to which planet caused dad to move

out, and when would that position change. Thereafter, a string of grandaunts

came to live with her as she could not bring herself to stay alone. It wasn't until I

turned fifteen and understood how the world worked that I could coax her into

opening the snacks business. Of course, my coaxing was part of it, the rest of it

was that all her jewellery was officially sold by then.

Her snacks were great, but she was no businessman. Emotional people make

terrible businessmen. She would sell on credit and buy on cash - the first

mistake a small business can make. Next, she would keep no accounts. The

home spending money was often mixed with the business money, and we

frequently had months where the choice was to buy either rice for our

consumption or black pepper for the papads.

Meanwhile, I studied as much as I could. Our school was not Oxford, and

emphasis on studies was low with more teachers bunking classes than students.

Still, I topped maths every single year. People thought I was gifted when I hit a

hundred in maths in class X. For me, it was no big deal. For once, the gossip vine

helped. The news of my score spread across pols, and we had a new source of

income - tuitions. I was the only maths tutor in Belrampur, and bad maths

scores had reached epidemic proportions. Along with khaman and khakra,

trigonometry and algebra became sources of income in the Patel household. Of

course, it was a poor neighbourhood, so people could not pay much. Still, another

thousand bucks a month was a lifestyle changing event for us. From fan, we

graduated to cooler. From chairs, we went to a secondhand sofa. Life became

good.

I reached Omi's temple. The loud rhythmic chime of the bell interrupted my

thoughts. I checked my watch, it was 6 p.m., the daily aarti time. I saw Omi's dad

from a distance, his eyes closed as he chanted the mantras. Even though I was

an agnostic, there was something amazing about his face - it had genuine feeling

for the God he prayed to. No wonder he was among the most liked people in the

community. Omi's mother was beside him, her maroon saree draped along her

head and hands folded. Next to her was Bittoo Mama, Omi's maternal uncle. He

was dressed in a white dhoti and saffron scarf. His huge biceps seemed even

larger with his folded hands. His eyes, too, were transfixed in genuine admiration

for the idols of Krishna and Radha.

Omi would get into trouble for reaching the aarti late. It would not be the first

time though, as matches in Nana Park were at a crucial stage around 6 p.m.'How was the match?' mom said as I reached home. She stood outside the

house.

She had just finished loading a hired auto with fresh dhokla for a marriage

party. Finally, my mother could delegate routine tasks like delivery and focus on

her core competence - cooking. She took out a dhokla piece from the auto for me.

Bad business - snucking out something from a customer order.

'Great match. Nail-biting finish, we won,' I said, walking in.

I switched on the tubelight inside. The homes in our pol required light even

during daytime.

'If I have a good Diwali season, I will get you a colour TV,' mom vowed.

'No need,' I said. I removed my shoes to get ready for a shower, 'you need a

bigger grinder urgently, the small one is all wobbly'

'I will buy the TV if only the business makes extra money,' she said.

'No. If you make extra money, put it back in the business. Don't buy useless

things. I can always see the match in colour in Ishaan's house.'

She left the room. My mother knew it was futile arguing with me. Without dad

around, it was amazing how much say I had in the house. And I only hoped Ish

and Omi would listen to my proposition as well.

My love for business began when I first started tuitions. It was amazing to see

money build up. With money came not only things like coolers and sofas but also

the most important stuff - respect. Shopkeepers no longer avoided us, relatives re-

invited us to weddings and our landlord's visit did not throw us into turmoil. And

then there was the thrill - I was making money, not earning it under some boss or

getting a handout. I could decide my fate, how many students to teach, how many

hours per class - it was my decision.

There is something about Gujaratis, we love business. And Ambadadis love it

more than anything else. Gujarat is the only state in India where people tend to

respect you more if you have a business than if you are in service. The rest of the

country dreams about a cushy job that gives a steady salary and provides

stability. In Ahmedabad, service is for the weak. That was why I dreamt my

biggest dream - to be a big businessman one day. The only hitch was my lack of

capital. But I would build it slowly and make my dream come true. Sure, Ish

could not make his dream of being in the Indian cricket team real, but that was a

stupid dream to begin with. To be in the top eleven of a country of a billion people

was in many ways an impossible dream, and even though Ish was top class in

Belrampur, he was no Tendulkar. My dream was more realistic, I would start

slow and then grow my business. From a turnover of thousands, to lakhs, to

crores and then to hundreds of crores.

I came out of the shower and dressed again.

"Want to eat anything?' my mother voiced her most quoted line from the

kitchen.

'No, I am going out with Ish and Omi to Gopi.'

'Gopi? Why? I make the same things. What do you get at Gopi that I can't give

you at home?'

Peace and quiet, I wanted to say.

'It's Ish's treat. And I want to talk to them about my new business.''So you are not repeating the engineering entrance,' my mother came out of the

kitchen. She raised dough-covered hands, 'You can take a year to prepare. Stop

taking tuitions for a while, we have money now.'

My mother felt guilty about a million things. One of them was me not making it

to a good engineering college. Tuitions and supporting my mom's business meant

I could study less for the entrance exams. I didn't make it to IIT or any of the top

institutes.

I did make it to a far-flung college in Kutch, but it wasn't worth

it to leave my tuition income, friends, cricket at Nana Park and mom for that.

Not that I felt any emotion, it just did not seem like the right trade. I could do

maths honours right here in Amdavad University, continue tuitions and think

about business. The Kutch college did not even guarantee a job.

'I don't want to be an engineer, mom. My heart is in business. Plus, I have

already done two years of college. One more and I will be a graduate.'

'Yes, but who gives a job to a maths graduate?'

It was true. Maths honours was a stupid course to take from an economic

point of view.

'It is ok. I needed a degree and I can get it without studying much,' I said. 'I am

a businessman, mom. I can't change that.'

My mother pulled my cheeks. Chunks of dough stuck to my face.

'Be whatever. You are always my son first.' She hugged me. I hated it. I hate a

display of emotion more than emotion itself. 'I better go.'



That is your tenth chapatti,' Ish told Omi.

'Ninth. Who cares? It is a buffet. Can you pass the ghee please?'

'All that food. It has to be bad for you,' Ish said.

'Two hundred push-ups.' Omi said. 'Ten rounds of Nana Park. One hour at

Bittoo Mama's home gym. You do this everyday like me and you can hog without

worry.'

People like Omi are no-profit customers. There is no way Gopi could make

money off him.

'Aamras, and ras malai. Thanks,' Omi said to the waiter. Ish and I nodded for

the same.

'So, what's up? I'm listening,' Ish said as he scooped up the last spoon of

aamras.

'Eat your food first. We'll talk over tea,' I said. People argued less on a full

stomach.'Unfortunately,' Ish said and sighed. 'Ok, then. I will apply for jobs, maybe do

an NIIT computer course first. Or should I take an insurance job? What do you

think?'

I saw Ish's face. He tried to smile, but I saw the pain. The champion batsman

of Belrampur would become an insurance salesman. Belrampur kids had grown

up applauding his boundaries at Nana Park. But now, when he had no life ahead,

he wanted to insure other people's lives.

Omi looked at me, hoping I'd come up with a great option from Santa's goodie

bag. I was sick of parenting them.

'I want to start a business,' I began.

'Not again,' Ish said. 'I can't do that man. What was it the last time? A fruit

dealership? Ugh! I can't be weighing watermelons all day. And the crazy one after

that, Omi?'

'Car accessories. He said there is big money in that,' Omi said as he slurped

his dessert.

'What? Put seat covers all day. No thanks. And the other one - stock broker.

What is that anyway?' Ish shrugged.

'So what the fuck do you want to do? Beg people to buy insurance? Or sell

credit cards at street corners? You, Ish, are a military school dropout,' I said and

paused for breath. 'And you got a compartment in Class XII, twice. You can be a

priest, Omi, but what about us?'

I don't want to be a priest,' Omi said listlessly.

'Then, why do you oppose me even before I start? This time I have something

that will interest you.'

'What?' Ish said.

'Cricket,' I said.

'What?' both of them said in unison.

'There you go, nice to get your attention. Now can I talk?'

'Sure,' Ish waved a hand.

'We are going to open a cricket shop,' I said.

I deliberately left for the rest room.

'But how?' Omi interrogated when I returned. 'What is a cricket shop?'

'A sports store really. But since cricket is the most popular game in Belrampur,

we will focus on that.'

Ish's silence meant he was listening to me.

'It will be a small retail store. Money for a shop deposit is a problem, so I need

Omi's help.'

'Mine?' Omi said.

'Yes, we will open the shop right inside the Swami temple complex. Next to the

flower and puja shops. 1 noticed an empty shop there. And it is part of the temple

land.'

'A cricket shop in a temple complex?' Ish questioned.

'Wait. Omi, do you think you can arrange that? Without that our plan is«a non-

starter.'

'You mean the Kuber sweet shop that just closed? The temple trust will rent it

out soon. And normally they let it out to something related to temple activities,'

Omi said.

'I know. But you have to convince your dad. After all he runs the temple trust.'

'He does, but Mama looks after the shops. Will we pay rent?''I am not paying for tea. My treat is limited to a thali,' Ishaan protested.

'I'll pay for the tea,' I said.

'Relax, man. I was only joking. Mr Accounts can't even take a joke. Right, Omi?'

Omi laughed.

'Whatever. Guys, you really need to listen today. And stop calling me Mr

Accounts.'

I ordered tea while the waiter cleared our plates.

I am serious, Ish. What do you plan to do with your life? We are not kids

anymore,' I said.