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

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Four

We reached Parekh-ji's residence at around eight in the evening. Two armed
guards manning the front gate let us in after checking our names. The entrance
of the house had an elaborate rangoli, dozens of lamps and fresh flowers.
'See, what a gathering,' Bittoo Mama met us at the door. 'Have dinner before
the talk begins.' From an aarti plate, he put big red tikkas on our foreheads. He
told us Parekh-ji would make a speech after dinner.
We moved to the massive food counter. A Gujarati feast consisted of every
vegetarian snack known to man. There was no alcohol, but there was juice of
every fruit imaginable. At parties like this, you regret you have only one stomach.
I took a jain pizza and looked around the massive living room. There were fifty
guests dressed in either white or saffron. Parekh-ji wore a saffron dhoti and white
shirt, sort of a perfect crowd blend. Ish looked oddly out of place with his skull
and crossbones, black Metallica T-shirt. Apart from us, everyone had either grey
hair or no hair It looked like a marriage party where only the priests were invited
Most of them carried some form of accessory like a trishul or a rudraksha or a
holy book.
Ish and 1 exchanged a what-are-we-doing-here glance.
Omi went to meet a group of two bald-whites, one grey-saffron and one bald-
saffron. He touched their feet and everyone blessed him. Considering Omi met
these kind of people often, he had one Of the highest per-capita-blessings ratio in
India.
'The food is excellent, no?' Omi returned. Food in Gujarat was always good. But
still people keep saying it. Ish passed his Jain-dimsum to Omi.
'Who are these people?' I asked idly.
'It is quite simple,' Omi said. 'The people in saffron are priests or other holy
men from around the city. The people in white are the political party people. Why
aren't you eating any dimsums?'
'I don't like Chinese,' Ish said. 'And who is Parekh-ji?'
'Well, he is a guide,' Omi said. 'Or that is what he says to be humble. But
actually, he is the chairperson of the main temple 1 rust. He knows the
politicians really well, too.'
'So he is a hybrid, a poli-priest,' I deduced.
'Can you be more respectful? And what is this T-shirt, Ish?'
Everyone shushed as Parekh-ji came to the centre of the living room. He
carried a red velvet cushion with him, which looked quite comfortable. He
signalled everyone to sit down on the carpet. Like a shoal of fishes, the saffrons
separated from the whites and sat down in two neat sections.
'Where the hell do we sit?' Ish said as he turned to me. I had worn a blue T-
shirt and couldn't find my colour zone. Bittoo Mama tugged at Omi's elbow and
asked us to join the saffron set. We sat there, looking like the protagonists of
those ugly duckling stories in our mismatched clothes. Bittoo Mama came with
three saffron scarves and handed them to us.
'What? I am not...,' I protested to Omi.
'Shh ... just wear it,' Omi said and showed us how to wrap it around our neck.Parekh-ji sat on his wonderful magic cushion. There was pin-drop silence. Ish
cracked his knuckle once. Omi gave him a dirty look. Everyone closed their eyes,
apart from me. I looked around while everyone chanted in Sanskrit. They ended
their chants after a minute and Parekh-ji began his speech.
'Welcome devotees, welcome to my humble home. I want to especially welcome
the team on the right from the Sindhipur temple. They have returned from kar
seva in Ayodhya for over a month. Let us bow to them and seek blessings.'
Everyone bowed to a group of six saffrons holding trishuls.
Parekh-ji continued, 'We also have some young people today. We need them
badly. Thanks to Bittoo Mama, who brought them. Bittoo is working hard for the
party. He will support our candidate Hasmukh-ji for the election next year.'
Everyone looked at us and gave smiling nods. We nodded back.
'Devotees, the Hindu religion teaches us to bear a lot. And we do bear a lot. So,
today's discussion is "How much bearing is enough? Until when does a Hindu
keep bearing pain?'"
Everyone nodded. My knees were stiff with pain from sitting cross-legged. I
wondered if I should stop bearing pain right then and stretch my legs.
'Our scriptures tell us not to harm others,' Parekh-ji said. 'They teach us
acceptance of all faiths, even if those faiths do not accept us. They teach us
patience. Thousands of years ago, our wise men thought of such wonderful
values, valid even today. And today you great men pass on these values to
society,' Parekh-ji said, gesturing at the priests. The priests nodded.
'At the same time, the scriptures also tell us not to bear injustice. The Gita
tells Arjun to fight a virtuous war. So at some point we are meant to fight back.
When is that point is something to think about.'
Vigorous nods shook the crowd. Even though I found the whole gathering and
the magic red cushion a bit over the top, Parekh-ji's logic was flawless.
'And right now, I see that injustice again. Hindus being asked to compromise,
to accept, to bear. Hindus asked for the resurrection of one temple. Not any
temple, a temple where one of our most revered gods was born. But they won't
give it to us. We said we will move the mosque respectfully, round the corner. But
no, that was considered unreasonable. We tried to submit proof; but that was
suppressed. Is this justice? Should we keep bearing it? I am just an old man, I
don't have the answers.'
Ish whispered in my ear, 'It is politics, man. Just pure simple politics.'
Parekh-ji continued: 'I don't even want to go into who this country belongs to.
Because the poor Hindu is accustomed to being ruled by someone else - 700
years by Muslims, 250 years by the British. We are independent now, but the
Hindu does not assert himself. But what makes me sad is that we are not even
treated as equals. They call themselves secular, but they give preference to the
Muslims? We fight for equal treatment and are called communal? The most
brutal terrorists are Muslim, but they say we are hardliners. More Hindu kids
sleep hungry every night than Muslim, but they say Muslims are downtrodden.'
Parekh-ji stopped to have a glass of water. 'They say to me, Parekh-ji, why do
you know so many politicians? I say, I am a servant of God. I didn't want to join
politics. But if I as a Hindu want justice, I need to get involved in how the country
is rum. And what other way is there to get involved than join politics? So, here I
am half saffron, half white - at your service.'The audience gave a mini applause, including Omi. Ish and I were too overfed
to react.
'But there is hope. You know where this hope comes from - Gujarat. We are a
state of businessmen. And you might say a hundred bad things about a
businessman, but you cannot deny that a businessman sees reality. He knows
how the parts add up, how the world works. We won't stand for hypocrisy or
unfairness. That is why, we don't elect the pseudo-secular parties. We are not
communal, we are honest. And if we react, it is because we have been bearing
pain for a long time.'
The audience broke into full applause. I used the break to step out into the
front garden of Parekh-ji's house and sit on an intricately carved swing. Parekh-ji
spoke inside for ten more minutes, inaudible to me. I looked at the stars above
and thought of the man on the velvet cushion. It was strange, I was both
attracted to and repelled by him. He had charisma and lunacy at the same time.
After his speech there were a few more closing mantras, followed by two
bhajans by a couple of priests from Bhuj. Ish came out. 'You here?'
'Can we go home?' I said.
I reached Ishaan's house at 7 p.m. on Tuesday. She sat at her study table. Her
room had the typical girlie look - extra clean, extra cute and extra pink. Stuffed
toys and posters with cheesy messages like 'I am the boss' adorned the walls of
the room. I sat on the chair. Her brown eyes looked at me with full attention. I
couldn't help but notice that her childlike face was in the process of turning into
a beautiful woman's.
'So which areas of maths are you strong in?'
'None really,' she said.
'Algebra?'
'Nope.'
'Trigonometry?'
'Whatever.'
'Calculus?'
She raised her eyebrows as if I had mentioned a horror movie.
'Really?' I said, disturbed at such indifference to my favourite subject.
'Actually, I don't like maths much.'
'Hmmm,' I said and tried to be like a thoughtful professor. 'You don't like it
much or you don't understand a few things and so you don't like it yet? Maths
can be fun you know.'
'Fun?' she said with a disgusted expression.
'Yes.'
She sat up straight and shook her head. 'Let me make myself clear. I positively
hate maths. For me it occupies a place right up there with cockroaches and
lizards. I get disgusted, nauseated, and depressed by it. Between an electric shock
or a maths test, I will choose the former. I heard some people have to walk two
miles to get water in Rajasthan. I would trade my maths problems for that walk,
everyday. Maths is the worst thing ever invented by man. What were they
thinking? Language is too easy, so let's make up some creepy symbols and
manipulate them to haunt every generation of kids. Who cares if sin theta is
different from cos theta? Who wants to know the expansion of the sum of cubes?''Wow, that's some reaction,' 1 said, my mouth still open.
'And fun? If maths is fun, then getting a tooth extraction is fun. A viral
infection is fun. Rabies shots are fun.'
'I think you are approaching it the wrong way.'
'Oh ho ho, don't go there. I am not just approaching it. I have lived,
compromised, struggled with it. It is a troubled relationship we have shared for
years. From classes one to twelve, this subject does not go away. People have
nightmares about monsters. I have nightmares about surprise maths tests. I
know you scored a hundred and you are in love with it. But remember, in most
parts of the world maths means only one thing to students.'
She stopped to breathe. I had the urge to get up and run away. How can I tame
a wild beast?
'What?'
'Goosebumps. See I already have them,' she said, pulling her kameez sleeve up
to her elbow. I thought the little pink dots on her skin were more from her
emotional outburst than maths.
I also noticed her thin arm. It was so fair you could see three veins running
across. Her hand had deep lines, with an exceptionally long lifeline. Her fingers
seemed long as they were so thin. She had applied a glittery silver-white
nailpolish only on the outer edge of the nails. How do women come up with these
ideas?
'What?' she said as I checked out her arm for a moment too long.
I immediately opened a textbook. 'Nothing. My job is to teach you maths, not to
make you like it. You want to be a doctor I heard.'
'I want to go to a college in Mumbai.' 'Excuse me?'
'I want to get out of Ahmedabad. But mom and dad won't let me. Unless, of
course, it is for a prestigious course like medicine or engineering. Engineering has
maths, maths means vomit so that is ruled out. Medicine is the other choice and
my exit pass. But they have this medical entrance exam and...'
I realised that Vidya did not have an internal pause button. And since I had
only an hour and the tutorial equivalent of climbing Everest barefoot, I wanted to
come to the point.
'So, which topic would you like to start with?'
'Anything without equations.'
'I saw your medical entrance exam course. Looks like there are a few scoring
areas that are relatively easier.'
I opened the medical exam entrance guide and turned it towards her.
'See this, probability,' I said. 'This and permutations will be twenty-five per cent
of the maths exam. Statistics is another ten per cent. No equations here, so can
we start with this?'
'Sure,' she said and took out a brand new exercise book. She kept two pens
parallel to the notebook. She opened the first page of the probability chapter like
she was the most diligent student in India. Most clueless, probably.
'Probability,' I said, 'is easily the most fun. I say this because you can actually
use the concepts in probability to solve everyday problems.'
'Like what?'
'Like what what?'
'What everyday problems can you solve?' she quizzed, brushing aside a strand
of hair.'Well, you are going ahead, but let's see.' I looked around for a11 easy example.
I noticed her impeccably done-up room, tucked in pink bedsheets. On the
opposite wall were posters of Westlife, Backstreet Boys, Hrithik Roshan. Next to
them was a wall of greeting cards. 'See those cards?'
'They are birthday cards from my school friends. I had my birthday two months
ago.'
I ignored the information overload. 'Say there are twenty of them. Most are
white, though. Some are coloured. How many?'
'Five coloured ones,' she said, scanning the cards, her eyes asking 'so?'
'Cool, five. Now let's say I take all the cards and put them in a sack. Then I pull
out one card, what is the probability the card is coloured?'
'Why would you put them in a sack?' she said.
'Hypothetical. What is the chance?'
'I don't know.'
'Ok, so let's use this example to start the basic premise of probability.
Probability can be defined as,' I said as I wrote the lines:
Probability = No of times something you want happens / No of times something
can happen
'How come there are no symbols?' she said.
'See, I told you probability is interesting. Let's look at the denominator. How
many different cards can come out if I put out one card from the stack of twenty?'
'Er ... twenty?'
'Yes, of course. Good.'
'Duh!' she said.
I controlled my irritation. I dumbed down the problem for her and she duh-ed
me. Some attitude, 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 class,' 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
class.'
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.

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