Chapter 8：Winning the Series

One sidelong glance at his dad and Ish walked back home.

'Where the hell are you going now?' Ish's dad said.

'Match. Why? You want to curse me some more?' Ish said.

'When you've wasted your entire life, what's another day?' Ish's father said and

the neighbours half-nodded their heads in sympathy.

We missed the final five overs of the match. Luckily, India won and Ish didn't

get that upset.

Yes, yes, yes,' Ishaan jumped. 'Gopi on me tonight.' I love idiots.

Actually, Ishaan is not an idiot. At least not as much as Omi. It is just that

both of them suck at studies, especially maths, and I am good at it. Hence, I have

this chip on my shoulder. It does sound a bit conceited, but it is the only chip on

my shoulder. For instance, I am easily the poorest of the three (though I will be

the richest one day), even though Ishaan and Omi aren't particularly wealthy.

Ishaan's dad works in the telephone exchange, and while they have lots of phones

in the house, the salary is modest. Omi's dad is the priest of the Swamibhakti

temple, which actually belongs to Omi's mom's family for generations. And that

does not pay well either. But still, they are a lot better off than me and my mom.

My mom runs a small Gujarati snacks business, and the little bit of money I

make from tuitions helps us get by, but that's about it.

'We won, we won the series 3-1,' Omi repeated what he read on the TV screen.

Of course, it would have been too much for him to express such original insight.

ball hit him on the head in Class VI. I didn't know the reason, but I did know that

maybe the best idea for him would be to become a priest. He wouldn't have much

of a career otherwise, given that he barely scraped through Class XII, after

repeating the maths compartment exam twice. But he didn't want to be a priest,

so my plan was the best one.

I ate the khakra. My mother made it better than Ishaan's mom. We were

professionals after all.

'I'll go home to change and then we will go to Gopi, ok?' I said as Ishaan and

Omi were still dancing. Dancing after an Indian victory was a ritual we had

started when we were eleven, one that should have stopped by thirteen. However,

here we were at twenty-one, jigging like juveniles. Ok, so we won, someone had

to. In mathematical terms, there was a pretty good probability - did it really need

jumping around?