Three Mistakes Of My Life Part 7

'Yes, of course. Good.'

'Duh!' she said.

I controlled my irritation. I dumbed down the problem for her and she duh-ed me. Some att.i.tude, there.

'And now the numerator. I want a coloured card. How ma different coloured cards can come out if I pull one?'

'Five?'

'Yep. And so let's apply our wordy formula,' I said and wrote down.

Probability = No of times something you want happens (5) / No of times something can happen (20) So, probability = 5/20 = 0.25 'There you go. The probability is 0.25, or twenty-five per cent.' I said and placed the pen back on the table. She reread what I wrote for a few moments.

'That is simple. But the exam problems are harder,' she said at last.

'We will get there. But the basic concept needs to be understood first. And you didn't vomit.'

I was interrupted by two beeps on her cellphone. She rushed to her bedside table to pick up the phone. She sat on the bed and read her message. 'My school friend. She's stupid,' she smiled fondly at the phone.

I kept silent and waited for her to come back. 'Ok, let's do another one,' I said.

'Let us say we have a jar with four red and six blue marbles.'

I finished three more problems in the next half an hour. 'See, it's not that hard when you focus. Good job!' I praised her as she solved a problem.

'You want tea?' she said, ignoring my compliment.

'No thanks, I don't like to have too much tea.'

'Oh me neither. I like coffee. You like coffee?'

'I like probability and you should too. Can we do the next problem?'

Her cellphone beeped again. She dropped her pen and leaped to her phone. 'Leave it. No SMS-ing in my cla.s.s,' I said.

'It's just...,' she said as she stopped her hand midway.

'I will go if you don't concentrate. I have turned down many students for this cla.s.s.'

She was zapped at my firmness. But I am no Mr Nice, and I hate people who are not focused. Especially those who hate maths.

'Sorry,' she said.

'We only have an hour. Do your fun activities later.' 'I said sorry' She picked up her pen again and opened the cap in disgust.

CHAPTER Five

You. Must. Come. Now.' The kid sucked in air after every word. 'Ali. Is...' 'Relax Paras,' lsh told the panting boy. He had come running from the Belrampur Munic.i.p.al School and was insisting we go with him.

'Now? It is only four, how can I close business?' I said.

'He doesn't play cricket that often. He always plays marbles. I'lease come today, lsh bhaiya.'

'Let's go. It is a slow day anyway,' lsh said as he slipped on his chappals.

Omi had already stepped out. I locked the cashbox and told the owner of the flower shop next to ours to keep watch.

We reached our school's familiar grounds. Twenty boys circled Ali.

'I don't want to play now,' a voice said from the centre of the crowd.

A thin, almost malnourished boy sat on the ground, his face covered with his hands.

The crowd backed off. Some kids volunteered to be fielders. Omi became the wicket keeper. I stood near the bowler's end, at the umpire's slot. Ali took the crease. He strained hard to look at the bowler. The crowd clapped as Ish took a short run-up. I couldn't understand the fuss in seeing this delicate, doe-eyed boy play. The bat reached almost two-thirds his height.

Ish's run-up was fake, as he stopped near me. A grown man bowling pace to a twelve-year-old is silly. Ish looked at the boy and bowled a simple lollipop delivery.

The slow ball pitched midway and took its time to reach the crease. Thwack, Ali moved his bat in a smooth movement and connected. The ball surged high as Ish and I looked at it for its three seconds of flight - six!

Ish looked at Ali and nodded in appreciation. Ali took a stance again and scrunched his face, partially due to the sun but also in irritation for not receiving a real delivery.

For the next ball, Ish took an eight step run-up. The boy could play, girlie features be d.a.m.ned! The medium pace ball rose high on the bounce and smas.h.!.+

Another six.

Ish gave a half smile. Ali's bat had not hit the ball, but his pride. The crowd clapped.

Ish took an eleven-step run-up for the next ball. He grunted when the ball left his hand. The ball bounced to Ali's shoulder. Ali spun on one leg as if in a dance and connected - six!

Three b.a.l.l.s, three sixes - Ish looked molested. Omi's mouth was open but he focused on wicket-keeping. I think he was trying to control his reaction for Ish's sake.

'He is a freak. Ali the freak, Ali the freak,' a kid fielding at mid-on shouted and distracted Ali.

'Just play,' Ish said to Ali and gave the fielder a glare.

Ish rubbed the ball on his pants thrice. He changed his grip and did some upper body twists. He took his longest run-up yet and ran forward with full force.

The ball went fast, but was a full toss. Ish's frustration showed in this delivery. It deserved punishment. Ali took two steps forward and smas.h.!.+ The ball went high and reached past the ground, almost hitting a cla.s.sroom window. I laughed. I knew I shouldn't have, but I did. To see the school cricket champion of my batch raped so in public by a mere boy of twelve was too funny.

At least to me. Actually, only to me.

'What?' Ish demanded in disgust.

'Nothing,' I said.

'Where is the f.u.c.king ball?'

'They are trying to find it. You want to buy one from my shop, coach?' I jeered lightly.

'Shut up,' Ish hissed as the ball came rolling back to him.

Ish was about to take a run-up when Ali sat down at his crease.

'What happened?' Omi was the first to reach him. 'I told you. I get a headache.

Can I go back now?' Ali said, his childish voice almost in tears.

Omi looked at Ish and me. I shrugged. 'I told you, no? Freak!' Paras ran up to us. Ali stood. 'Can I go?'

We nodded. From his pocket, Ali took out some marbles that resembled his eyes. Rolling them in his hand, he left the ground.

'I cannot believe it,' Ish declared as he finished his fifty morning pushups. He came and sat next to me on the bank's backyard floor. Omi continued to complete his hundred.

'Tea,' I announced and handed Ish his cup. My best friend had laced serious mental trauma yesterday. I couldn't do much apart from making my best cup of ginger tea in the bank kitchen.

'It can't be just luck, right? No way,' Ish answered his own qestions.

I nodded my head towards a plate of biscuits, which he ignored. I wondered if the Ali episode would cause permanent damage to Ish's appet.i.te. Ish continued to talk to himself as I tuned myself out. Omi moved on to sit-ups. He also belted out Hanuman-ji's forty verses along with the exercise. I loved this little morning break - between the students' leaving and the shop's opening. It gave me time to think.

And these days I only thought about the new shop. 'Twenty-five thousand rupees saved already, and fifteen thousand more by December,' 1 mumbled, 'If the builder accepts forty as deposit, I can secure the Navrangpura lease by year end.'

I poured myself another cup of tea. 'Here are your shop's keys, Mama. We are moving to our shop in Navrangpura, in the air-conditioned mall,' I repeated my dream dialogue inside my head for the hundredth time. Three more months, I a.s.sured myself.

'You guys ate all the biscuits?' Omi came to us as he finished his exercise.

'Sorry, tea?' I offered.

Omi shook his head. He opened a polypack of milk and put it to his mouth.

Like me, he didn't have much tea. Caffeine ran in Ish's family veins though. I remembered Vidya offering me tea. Stupid girl, duh-ing me.

'Still thinking of Ali?' Omi said to Ish, wiping his milk moustache.

'He is amazing, man. I didn't bowl my best, but not so bad either. But he just, just...,' Words failed Ish.

'Four sixes. Incredible!' Omi said, 'No wonder they call him a freak.'

'Don't know if he is a freak. But he is good,' Ish said.

'These Muslim kids man. You never know what...,' Omi said and gulped the remainder of his milk.

'Shut up. He is just f.u.c.king good. I have never seen anyone play like that. I want to coach him.' 'Sure, as long as he pays. He can't play beyond four b.a.l.l.s. You could help him,'

I told Ish.

'What? You will teach that mullah kid?' Omi's face turned worrisome.

'I will teach the best player in Belrampur. That kid has serious potential. You know like...' 'Team India?' I suggested.

'Shh, don't tempt fate, but yes. I want to teach him. They'll ruin him in that school. They can barely teach the course there, forget sports.'

'We are not teaching a Muslim kid,' Omi vetoed. 'Bittoo Mama will kill me.'

'Don't overreact. He won't know. We just teach him at the bank,' Ish said. For the rest of the argument, Ish and Omi just exchanged stares. Ultimately, like always, Omi gave in to Ish.

'Your choice. Make sure he never comes near the temple. If! Bittoo Mama finds out, he will kick us out of the shop.'

'Omi is right. We need the shop for a few more months,' I said.

'We also need to go to the doctor,' Ish said. 'Doctor?' I said.

'His head was hurting after four b.a.l.l.s. I want a doctor to see him before we begin practicing.'

'You'll have to talk to his parents if you want him to pay,' I said.

'I'll teach him for free,' Ish said. 'But still, for Indian parents cricket equals time waste.' 'Then we'll go to his house,' Ish said. 'I am not going to any Muslim house,' Omi said almost hysterically. 'I am not going.'

'Let's go open the shop first. It's business time,' I said.

No cricket, I like marbles,' Ali protested for the fifth time. Ish took four chocolates (at the shop's expense, idiot) for him, a reward for every sixer. Ali accepted the chocolates but said no to cricket coaching, and a foot-stomping no to meeting the doctor.

'Our shop has marbles,' I cajoled. 'Special blue ones from Jaipur. One dozen for you if you come to the doctor. He is just across the street.'

Ali looked at me with his two green marbles.

'Two dozen if you come for one cricket coaching cla.s.s in the morning,' I said.

'Doctor is fine. For coaching cla.s.s, ask abba.'

'Give me abba's name and address,' I said.

'Naseer Alam, seventh pol, third house on the ground floor.'

'What name did you say?' Omi said.