The 3 Mistakes of My Life

by Chetan Bhagat

  ‘Yeah, and not as a tutor. As a friend. As a very good friend.’

  A ‘very good friend’ is a dangerous category with Indian girls. From here you can either make fast progress. Or, if you play it wrong, you go down to the lowest category invented by Indian women ever – rakhi brother. Rakhi brother really means ‘you can talk to me, but don’t even freaking think about anything else you bore’. A little voice in my mind shouted at me, ‘tell her you miss her stupid, or you’ll be getting rakhis for the rest of your life.’

  ‘I do. If you were here, Sydney would be more fun.’

  ‘Wow, that’s the nicest thing you ever said to me.’

  I kept quiet. When you have said something nice, don’t be in a hurry to speak again and ruin the good line.

  ‘Can I get you anything from here?’ I said.

  ‘Tight budget, isn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, but a little something won’t hurt…,’ I said.

  ‘I have an idea. Get me some sand from the beach you are on right now. That way I will have a piece of Sydney with me.’

  Sand? Now that was a weird request. At least it was cheap. Free, rather.

  ‘Really?’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, bring me a matchbox full of sand. And put some feelings in it if there is space,’ she said.

  The phone display blinked. It threatened me to feed it with more money or my first romantic conversation would be murdered. I had no coins left.

  ‘Listen, I have to go now. No more change,’ I said.

  ‘Sure, come back soon. Someone’s missing you.’

  ‘Back in three days. I miss you too,’ I said and cleared my throat. Wow, I could actually say what I felt after all.

  ‘And I want to tell you something…,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  Beep. Beep. Beep. A stupid Australian company called Telstra ruined my first romantic moment.

  I walked back. I thought about the girl who only wanted sand. I also thought how much money telecom companies must make given a tiny call cost me as much as a meal.

  I passed a trendy outdoor restaurant called Blue Orange Café. Australians give the word laid-back new meaning. People sit with a glass of beer for hours. Beautiful waitresses scampered around getting people burgers and toasted sandwiches.

  I took a match box from the bar and emptied the sticks in a dustbin. I walked back to the shore until the surfy water touched my toes. I looked around and bent over. I stuffed some sand in the matchbox and put it in my pocket.

  ‘Hey, what are you doing?’ Omi said as he emerged from the waves like the world’s ugliest mermaid.

  ‘Nothing, what are you doing this side? The waves are better at the other end,’ I said.

  ‘I came to meet you. Can I borrow a few coins for a Coke. I feel thirsty.’

  ‘Coins are finished. Have some cash left for today, but let’s use it to eat lunch.’

  ‘Finished?’ Omi said.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, irritated. I don’t like it when people less sensible than me question me.

  ‘Who did you call?’ Omi said.

  ‘Supplier.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Fuck off Omi, let’s go get lunch. Will you get dry first.’

  ‘Vidya?’

  I looked at him dumbstruck. What a random guess. And what the hell is his business anyway.

  ‘What?’ I said, surprised.

  ‘Don’t lie to me.’

  ‘C’mon Omi why would I call Vidya?’

  ‘I’m not that stupid.’

  ‘You are,’ I said.

  We walked towards the restaurant with me three steps ahead of him.

  ‘I’ve seen the way you guys look at each other,’ he said as he tried to catch up with me.

  ‘Get lost,’ I said and walked faster. We came to Campbell Parade, a strip of bars and cafés near the beach.

  ‘And I’ve noticed. You never talk about her since you started teaching her,’ he said.

  I went inside ‘Hog’s Breath Café’. After five days in this country, the name didn’t seem weird anymore.

  We sat facing each other. I lifted the menu to cover my face and avoid conversation.

  ‘You can hide if you want. But I know.’

  I slid the menu down.

  ‘It’s nothing, ok maybe something. But nothing to worry about,’ I said.

  I hid behind the menu again.

  ‘There is an unspoken rule among Indian men, and you broke it.’

  ‘What rule?’ I said and slammed the menu on the table.

  ‘You don’t hit upon your best friend’s sister. You just don’t. It is against the protocol.’

  ‘Protocol? What is this, the army? And I didn’t hit on her. She hit upon me,’ I said.

  ‘But you let her hit upon you. You let her.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t exactly like being hit. It didn’t hurt. It felt good,’ I said.

  I played with the toothpicks on the table to avoid eye contact.

  ‘Fuck man, how far are you guys?’

  ‘What? Hey Omi, go call Ish for lunch. We are here and he has no idea.’

  ‘Yes, he really has no idea,’ Omi said and left.

  A noisy gang played on the pool table near us. I had five minutes until Ish came back. Thoughts came to me. Will Omi say something stupid to him? No, Omi was not that stupid.

  Omi and Ish walked in laughing. Ok, all is good.

  ‘Hog’s Breath? Can you think of a worse name for a restaurant?’ Ish said and laughed.

  ‘I can,’ Omi said.

  ‘Don’t say it. Anyway, where’s the toilet? I have to go siphon the…,’ Ish said.

  ‘Over there,’ I interrupted him and pointed to the corner. I had enough of Aussies for a lifetime.

  ‘Are you intimate with her?’ Omi continued.

  ‘Did you say anything to him?’ I said.

  ‘You think I’m stupid?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I didn’t. Now tell me, what stage are you in the relationship?’ Omi said.

  ‘Stage?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, there is a “we-just-look” stage, the most common stage in the old city. Then a “we-just-talk” stage. Then a “hold-hand” stage. Then a…’

  ‘It’s not like that. It’s different between us.’

  ‘Fuck, that’s an advanced stage. When you think your relationship is different from any other in this world. Don’t do anything stupid ok?’

  ‘Stupid?’

  Omi leaned forward to whisper.

  ‘You know stupid. Ish will kill you, or her dad will. Or any man who is related to her will. Remember that guy in the car? Trust me, you don’t want to be that boy, or that car.’

  ‘Well, it’s nothing really. Just good friends,’ I said and looked towards the toilet.

  ‘Just good friends should be a banned phrase. There is nothing more misleading. You are her teacher damn it. And how old is she? Seventeen?’

  ‘Turns eighteen in a few months.’

  ‘Oh great,’ Omi said.

  Ish came out of the toilet. He cracked a joke with the Aussie guys playing pool.

  I turned to Omi.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it. Don’t worry, I won’t do anything stupid. She sucks at maths. I don’t know why I agreed to teach her in the first place.’

  ‘Then stop teaching her no?’ Omi said.

  ‘Can we get lunch, I really want to get lunch,’ I said and flipped the menu.

  ‘I am just saying…’

  ‘Ish,’ I screamed across the bar, ‘What do you want? Garlic bread is the cheapest item on the menu.’

  ‘Whatever, I trust you,’ he screamed back as he continued to play pool with the Aussie guys.

  His last phrase bobbed up and down in my head like the surfboards on Bondi beach.

  ‘These houses are huge,’ I said as we drove past a rich neighbourhood called Double Bay.

  Fred had picked us up for breakfast on Sunday, our last day. Ish, Omi and Ali sat at the ba
ck in Fred’s Saab convertible while I rode in the front. Cool air blew through our hair as we drove past Sydney’s early morning streets.

  ‘But most people have modest places,’ Fred said. ‘In Australia, we don’t brag about how much money we make or what car you drive. Heck, people don’t even ask what job you do. Do you know what people ask the most?’

  ‘What?’ Ish said.

  ‘What do you play, that’s what they ask,’ Fred said.

  ‘I love Australia. I wish India approached sports with the same spirit.’ Ish leaned forward.

  ‘Here sports is a national obsession,’ Fred said. ‘What’s the obsession in your country then?’

  ‘There’s a lot of people. And there’s a lot of obsessions. That’s the problem,’ Ish said.

  ‘But religion and politics are pretty big. And them together, even bigger,’ I added.

  ‘I stay out of that stuff. Aussie politics are a joke anyway,’ Fred said, killing the engine.

  We parked in an area called Paramatta Park. Fred had brought us to Lachan’s Restaurant in the Old Colonial House. We went inside the restaurant to find two men waiting for us.

  ‘Good morning Mr Greener and Mr Cutler.’ Fred introduced us to the two older men.

  ‘And this is the talented boy?’ Mr Greener patted Ali’s back.

  ‘Yep, as talented as the man above sends them,’ Fred said as we settled at the table.

  ‘These are the gentlemen who helped me get your tickets. Not my ex-girlfriend,’ Fred said and winked at us.

  ‘What?’ Ish said as we understood the purpose of Fred inviting us. It wasn’t to just play for a week.

  ‘Remember my phone calls from Goa? To these gentlemen,’ Fred said.

  ‘Mr Greener is the chairman of the Australian Sports Academy and Mr Cutler is head of the AIS scholarship programme.’ Fred buttered some toast. ‘I told them about Ali. How he is good, really good, and how with proper training he has the potential to go really far.’

  I saw Ish’s face tighten in anticipation. Were they going to sponsor Ali?

  ‘If he is as good as Fred and his boys who played with you say you are,’ Mr Greener said, ‘we should do whatever we can to help.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you,’ Ish said as Fred shushed him. Overexcitement was a constant problem with Ish. His sister as well. Maybe it was hereditary.

  ‘You see,’ Mr Cutler cleared his throat, ‘the AIS selects from the nominations of the various state academies. I can get Ali selected. However, Ali doesn’t live in any Australian state.’

  ‘So?’ Ish said.

  ‘Under AIS rules, the scholarship holder must be an Australian resident, or at least a person in the process of becoming a resident.’

  ‘Can’t we make an exception?’ I said. Omi was too busy eating to talk. Omi and Ali had hardly spoken during the entire trip. The Aussie accent stumped them.

  ‘Well, the only way we can do it is this,’ Mr Cutler said and took out a file. He opened it and laid out some forms on the table.

  ‘Ol’ Cutler had to pull serious strings at the immigration department for this,’ Mr Greener laughed in a friendly manner.

  ‘Well, this is the Australian citizenship forms. As you may know, a lot of people in the world want it. But here, given the great talent, we are offering Ali an Australian citizenship.’

  Ali and Omi stopped eating as they saw the forms on the table.

  ‘He’ll become Australian?’ Omi said.

  ‘He’ll become a champion,’ Fred said.

  ‘His parents will have residency rights, too. And Ish, you can … your friends here, too, can apply. We will assist you in every way. Chances are good,’ Mr Cutler said.

  ‘You love Australia.’ Fred winked at Ish.

  ‘Think about the child’s future. From what I hear, his means are rather, er, limited,’ Mr Cutler said.

  They meant poor. I nodded. Ali’s life would transform. ‘They have a point,’ I told Ish, who still looked shell-shocked.

  ‘Why don’t you ask Ali first? It is his life and his decision,’ Mr Greener said.

  ‘Yes, no pressure,’ Fred said, turning over both his palms.

  We explained the offer in simple terms to Ali while a waiter cleared our plates.

  ‘So, Ali … what do you want?’ Ish said.

  ‘If I make it to the team, who will I play for?’ Ali said.

  ‘Australia,’ Mr Cutler said.

  ‘But I’m an Indian,’ Ali said.

  ‘But you can become an Australian as well. We are a multicultural society,’ Mr Greener said.

  ‘No,’ Ali said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I am an Indian. I want to play for India. Not for anyone else.’

  ‘But son, we will give you the same respect as your own country. And some good coaching,’ Mr Greener said.

  ‘I have a good coach,’ Ali said and looked at Ish. Ish beamed at his proudest moment ever.

  ‘It will be tough to make it in your country. You coach knows that,’ Mr Cutler said.

  Ali spoke slowly after a pause.

  ‘It’s ok if I don’t become a player, but it’s not ok if I am not an Indian,’ Ali said. Maybe he never meant it to be profound, but that was his deepest statement yet.

  ‘But,’ Mr Cutler said. He leaned forward and put his hand on Ali’s shoulder.

  Ali slid next to Ish and hid against him.

  The officials tried for another half an hour. They asked if we could speak to Ali’s parents, but realised this wasn’t going to work after all. I maintained the polite conversation.

  ‘We are sorry. We do realise that this is a big, big honour,’ I said, ‘sorry Fred. What you have done for us is huge.’

  ‘No worries mate. Your kid is good and he knows it. If you can make a billion people proud, why bother with us down under?’ Fred said and laughed. He didn’t show if he was upset. Sportsman spirit, I guess.

  We saw the officials off to their car.

  ‘Never mind mate. Maybe next time, next life in this case. You could be Australian, who knows?’ Mr Greener said as he slid into the driving seat of his silver Honda Accord.

  ‘I don’t want to,’ Ali said, his face emerging from hiding behind Ish.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t want to be Australian in my next life. Even if I have a hundred next lives, I want to be Indian in all of them,’ Ali said.

  A plane flew above us. I looked up in the sky. I was glad I was going home tonight.

  Fifteen

  Vidya. Vidya. Vidya – her name rang like an alarm in my head. I ran through tomato sellers and marble playing kids to reach her house on time.

  I had tons of work. There were waiting suppliers, stuck stocks and unattended orders. However, Vidya’s thoughts dominated them all. A part of me, the logical part, told me this was not a good idea. Businessmen should not waste time on stupid things like women. But the other irrational part of me loved it. And this part controlled me at the moment. Where is Vidya? I looked up at her window as I pressed the bell downstairs.

  ‘Govind,’ Vidya’s dad opened the door. I froze. Why does every male in the family of the girl you care about instil a fear in your soul?

  ‘Uncle, Vidya … tuitions,’ I said.

  ‘She is upstairs, on the terrace,’ he said as he let me in. He picked up a newspaper from the coffee table. Why do old people like newspapers so much? They love reading the news, but what do they do about it? I went to the internal staircase to go up to the terrace.

  He spoke again as I climbed the steps. ‘How is she? Will she make it to the medical entrance?’

  ‘She is a bright student,’ I said in a small voice.

  ‘Not like her useless brother,’ uncle said. He buried himself into the newspaper, dismissing me.

  I climbed up to the terrace. Vidya stood there with an air-hostess smile. ‘Welcome to my al fresco tuition place.’

  She went and sat on a white plastic chair with a table and an extra chair in front. ‘
I had so many doubts,’ she said, flipping through her notebook.

  Smoke came out from under the table.

  ‘Hey, what’s this?’ I said.

  ‘Mosquito coil,’ she said.

  I bent under the table to see the green, smouldering spiral coil. I also saw her bare feet. She had her trademark pearl-white nail polish only on the toenail tips. ‘The coil is not working,’ I said as I came up, ‘I see a mozzie party on top of your head.’

  ‘Mozzie?’

  ‘It is what they call mosquitoes in Australia,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, foreign returned now. How was Australia?’

  ‘Great,’ I looked at her. I tried to be normal. I couldn’t, not after that call. I had opened my cards already. No matter how close I held them to my chest now, she had seen them.

  I noticed her dress. She wore a new purple and white bandhini salwar kameez today. Her necklace had a purple teardrop pendant and matching earrings. She had freshly bathed. Her hair smelt of a little bit of Dettol soap and well, her. Every girl has a wonderful smell right after a bath. I think they should bottle it and sell it.

  ‘You brought my gift,’ she said to break the pause, or rather to fill up the silence as I checked her out.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said.

  I stood up to take out the match box from my jeans pocket.

  ‘Blue Orange Café, cool,’ she said. She took the box and slid it open with her thin fingers.

  ‘Wow, an Australian beach in my hands,’ she said. She held it up with pride as if I had presented the queen’s stolen diamonds.

  ‘I feel silly. I should have brought something substantial,’ I said.

  ‘No, this is perfect. Look there is a tiny shell inside,’ she signalled me to lean forward. Our heads met in a dull thud as we looked into the matchbox’s contents.

  Her toes touched mine as we inched closer.

  ‘Ouch,’ she said as she pulled her feet away.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘Nothing, the mosquito coil,’ she said, ‘I touched the hot tip.’

  I sat back upright. Water droplets had passed from her hair to mine. Half the mosquitoes hovering over her head had shifted over to mine as well.

  ‘Why am I so cheap?’ I said.

  ‘It’s fine. The call would have cost something.’

  ‘Yeah, five dollars and sixty cents,’ I said and regretted talking like an accountant the next second.