'Statistically impossible.'
'Why? Australia has twenty million people. Yet they win almost every match.
We have fifty times the people, so fifty times the talent. Plus, cricket is India's
only game while Australia has rugby and football and whatever. So there is no
way we should be defeated by them. Statistically, my friend, Australia should be a
rounding error.'
'Then why?' I said.
'Well, you saw that kid. Parents will spend thousands teaching kids useless
trigonometry and calculus they will never use in real life. But if it is sports
coaching, it is considered a waste of money.'
'Don't worry, we have them covered. Our shop now offers both.'
'It is not about the business Govind. Really, is this just about money for you?'
'Money is nice...'
'These kids, Govind. Look at them, thirteen-year-olds holding their bats with
pride. Or the way they want to learn to bowl better. They have a fire in their eyes
before every little match at Nana Park. When India wins, they dance. They are
they only people Ij see with passion. I like being with them.'
'Whatever,' I shrugged.
'Of course, in two years time they will reach Class X. Their bats will be replaced
with physics books. And then the spark will begin to die. Soon, they will turn into
depressed adults.'
'That is not true, Ish. Everyone needs a passion. I have mine.'
'Then why are most grown-ups so grumpy? Why can't they smile more often
and be excited like those kids at Nana Park?' 'Can you stop being grumpy now
and help me clean the
shop?'
'Ok, ok, we will do a booze party,' I laughed. Omi and Ish had gripped me tight
from both sides until I relented.
'Where is my son Omi?' Bittoo Mama entered our shop at (losing time and
proceeded to hug his nephew. He held a box of sweets in a red velvet cloth.
'Where were you, Mama?' Omi said. Since the shop opened, he had never
visited us.
'I toured all over Gujarat, with Parekh-ji. What an experience! Here, have some
besan ladoos. Fresh from Baroda,' Bittoo Mama said. I ordered a Frooti. Ish
pulled out stools and we sat outside. I picked a ladoo.
'What is this, Omi? Wearing shoes?' Bittoo Mama's eyes were lined with kohl.
He had a red tikka in the middle of his forehead.
'Mama?' Omi squeaked. I looked at my feet. I wore fake Reebok slippers. Ish
wore his old sneakers.
'Your shop is in a temple, and you are wearing shoes? A Brahmin priest's boy?'
'Mama, c'mon this is outside the temple. None of the other shopkeepers wear...'
'Other shopkeepers are useless baniyas so you will also become like them? Do
you do puja every morning before you open?'
'Yes, Mama,' Omi lied point-blank.
'You also,' Mama said, referring to Ish and me. 'You are Hindu hoys. You have
your shop in such a pure place. At least remove your shoes, light a lamp.'