sonu kumar
Posted On: 09-04-2019
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Three mistakes of my life

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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 theearthquake. 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.
'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 templewas 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.
'Forget it, sons. You faced a calamity. Pay when you can. And now you are
members of our party, right?'
Mama stood up to hug us. I half-heartedly hugged him back, I felt sick owing
people money. 'Mama, I am sorry. 1 was arrogant, rude and disrespectful. I
realise my destiny is this shop. Maybe God intended it this way and I accept it,' 1
said.
'We are all like that when young. But you have started believing in God?' Mama
said and beamed.
'I'm just less agnostic now.'
'Son, this is the best news I've heard today,' Mama said. 'Something good has
come out of all this loss.'
A man dragged a heavy wooden trunk into our shop. 'Who's that? Oh, Pandit-
ji?' I said.
Pandit-ji panted, his white face a rosy red. He arranged the trunk on the floor.
'A sports shop closed down. The guy could not pay. He paid me with trunks full of
goods. I need cash, so I thought I will bring this to you.'
'I have no cash either,' I said as I offered him a samosa. 'Pandit-ji, business is
terrible.'
'Who's asking you for cash now? Just keep it in your shop. I'll send one more
trunk. Whatever sells, you keep half and give me half. Just this one trunk is
worth ten thousand. I have six more at home. What say?'
I took in the trunks as I had no risk. We needed a miracle to move that many
goods. Of course, I wasn't aware that the second test match of the India Australia
series would be one.
Mama introduced himself to Pandit-ji. They started talking like grown-ups do,
exchanging hometowns, castes and sub-castes.
'We are late,' Ish whispered, but loud enough for Mama and Pandit-ji to hear.
'You have to go somewhere?' Mama said.
'Yes, to a cricket match. One of the students we coach is playing,' Ish said,
avoiding Ali's name.
Omi downed the shutters of the shop. Omi signalled and all of us bent to touch
Mama's feet.
'My sons,' Mama said as he held a palm over our heads and blessed us.
Don't worry about that idiot from that stupid team. You creamed them,' Ish
said to Ali.
We returned from a neighbourhood match. Ali's side had won with him scoring
the highest. Ali lasted eight overs. Ish looked pleased that the training was finally
showing results. However, our celebratory mood dampened as the opposing
team's captain kicked Ali in the knee before running away.
'Will they hurt me again?' Ali said.
'No, because I will hurt them before anyone touches you,' Ish said, kissing Ali's
forehead, Ish would make a good father. Not like his own father who never said
one pleasant sentence.
Omi picked up a limping Ali. 'I'll take him to the shop,' Omi said. 'And ask ma
to make him some turmeric milk. You guys get dinner, whatever he wants.''I want kebabs,' Ali said promptly.
'Kebabs? In the shop?' I hesitated.
'Fine, just don't tell anyone,' Omi said.
'He's ready,' Ish said. His face glowed behind the smoke of roasting kebabs at
Qazi dhaba. 'Did you see him play? He can wait, run and support others. He plays
along until time comes for the big hits. Fielding sucks, but other than that, he is
perfect. He is ready, man.' The smell of chicken tikka filled my nostrils. Omi was
really missing a lot in life. 'For what?' I asked.
'Australia is touring India at present, right?' Ish said as the waiter packed our
order of rumali rotis, lamb skewers and chicken tikka with onions and green
chutney. 'So?' I said.
'He is ready to meet the Australians.'

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