the three mistakes of my life

The Three Mistakes

of My Life

A Story about Business, Cricket and Religion

Chetan Bhagat

Rupa & Co

Acknowledgements

My readers, you that is, to whom I owe all my success and motivation. My

life belongs to you now, and serving you is the most meaningful thing I can do with my

life. I want to share something with you. I am very ambitious in my writing goals.

However, I don't want to be India's most admired writer. I just want to be India's

most loved writer. Admiration passes, love endures.

To Shinie Antony, a friend who has been with me all these years and who

critically reviews my work and ensures that it is fit for my reader's consumption. My

family, which continues to support me in all my ventures. Specially, my brother Ketan

Bhagat for his critical feedback from Sydney and cricket freak brother-in-law Anand

Suryanaryan who told me more about cricket than anyone else would have.

The people of Gujarat, in particular Ahmedabad, where I spent some of the most

wonderful and formative years of my life.

My publishers Rupa and Co, who have fulfilled all my dreams and continue to

pursue the goal of making India read.

My friends in the film industry, who have given me a new platform to tell my

stories from, and who teach me new things everyday, in particular Atul Agnihotri, Raju

Hirani, Alvira Khan, Sharman Joshi, Vipul Shah, Imtiaz Ali, Shirish Kunder, Farah Khan and

Salman Khan.

The Madras Players and Evam Theatre Group, who turned my stories into wonderful

plays.

My friends in the media, especially those who have understood my intentions for my

country and are with me.

My colleagues at Deutsche Bank, my friends in Mumbai and Hong Kong.

God, who continues to look after me despite my flaws.

Prologue

It is not everyday you sit in front of your computer on a Saturday morning and get

an email like this:

From: Ahd_businessman@gmail.com Sent: 12/28/2005 11.40 p.m.

To: info@chetanbhagat.com

Subject: A final note

Dear Chetan

This email is a combined suicide note and a confession letter. I have let people down

and have no reason to live. You don't know me. I'm an ordinary boy in Ahmedabad who

read your books. And somehow I felt I could write to you after that. I can't really tell

anyone what I am doing to myself - which is taking a sleeping pill everytime I end a

sentence - so I thought I would tell you.

I kept my coffee cup down and counted. Five full stops already

I made three mistakes; I don't want to go into details.

My suicide is not a sentimental decision. As many around me know, I am a

good businessman because I have little emotion. This is no knee-jerk reaction. I

waited over three years, watched Ish's silent face everyday. But after he refused my

offer yesterday, I had no choice left.

I have no regrets either. Maybe I'd have wanted to talk to Vidya once more –

but that doesn't seem like such a good idea right now.

Sorry to bother you with this. But I felt like I had to tell someone. You have

ways to improve as an author but you do write decent books. Have a nice weekend.

Regards

Businessman

17, 18, 19. Somewhere, in Ahmedabad a young 'ordinary' boy had popped

nineteen sleeping pills while typing out a mail to me. Yet, he expected me to have a

nice weekend. The coffee refused to go down my throat. I broke into a cold sweat.

‘One, you wake up late. Two, you plant yourself in front of the computer first

thing in the morning. Are you even aware that you have a family?' Anusha said.

In case it isn't obvious enough from the authoritative tone, Anusha is my wife.

I had promised to go furniture shopping with her – a promise that was made

ten weekends ago.

She took my coffee mug away and jiggled the back of my chair. ‘We need

dining chairs. Hey, you look worried?’ she said.

I pointed to the monitor.

`Businessman?' she said as she finished reading the mail. She looked pretty

shaken up too.

And it is from Ahmedabad,' I said, 'that is all we know.' `You sure this is

real?' she said, a quiver in her voice. `This is not spam,' I said. `It is addressed to

me.'

My wife pulled a stool to sit down. I guess we really did need write extra

chairs.

`Think,' she said. `We've got to let someone know. His parents maybe.'

`How? I don't know where the hell it came from,' I said. And who do we

know in Ahmedabad?'

`We met in Ahmedabad, remember?' Anusha said. A pointless statement, I

thought. Yes, we'd been classmates at IIM-A years ago. ‘So?’

`Call the institute. Prof Basant or someone,' she sniffed and left the room.

'Oh no, the daal is burning.'

There are advantages in having a wife smarter than you. I could never be a

detective.

I searched the institute numbers on the Internet and called. An operator

connected me to Prof Basant's residence. I checked the time, 10.00 a.m. in Singapore,

7.30 a.m. in India. It is a bad idea to mess with a prof early in the morning.

`Hello?' a sleepy voice answered. Had to be the prof.

`Prof Basant, Hi. This is Chetan Bhagat calling. Your old student, remember?'

`Who?' he said with a clear lack of curiosity in his voice. Bad start.

I told him about the course he took for us, and how we had voted him the

friendliest professor in the campus. Flattery didn't help much either.

'Oh that Chetan Bhagat,' he said, like he knew a million of them. You are a

writer now, no?'

'Yes sir,' I said, 'that one.'

'So why are you writing books?'

'Tough question, sir,' I stalled.

'Ok, a simple one. Why are you calling me so early on a Saturday?'

I told him why and forwarded the email to him.

'No name, eh?' he said as he read the mail.

'He could be in a hospital somewhere in Ahmedabad. He would have just

checked in. Maybe he is dead. Or maybe he is at home and this was a hoax,' I said.

I was blabbering. I wanted help – for the boy and me. The prof had asked a

good question. Why the hell did I write books – to get into this?

'We can check hospitals,' Prof said. 'I can ask a few students. But a name

surely helps. Hey wait, this boy has a Gmail account, maybe he is on Orkut as

well.'

'Or-what?' Life is tough when you are always talking to people smarter than

you.

'You are so out of touch, Chetan. Orkut is a networking site. Gmail users

I heard him clicking keys and sat before my own PC. I had just reached the

Orkut site when Prof Basant exclaimed, 'Aha, Ahmedabad Businessman. There is a

brief profile here. The name only says G. Patel. Interests are cricket, business,

mathematics and friends. Doesn't seem like he uses Orkut much though.'

'What are you talking about Prof Basant? I woke up to a suicide note,

written exclusively to me. Now you are telling me about his hobbies. Can you

help me or...'

A pause, then, 'I will get some students. We will search for a new young

patient called G. Patel, suspected of sleeping pill overdose. We will call you if we

find anything, ok?

'Yes, sir,' I said, breathing properly after a long time.

'And how is Anusha? You guys bunked my classes for dates and flow forget

me.'

'She is fine, sir.'

'Good, I always felt she was smarter than you. Anyway, let's find your boy,'

the prof said and hung up.

Besides furniture shopping, I had to finish an office presentation. My boss,

Michel's boss was due from New York. Hoping to impress him Michel asked me

to make a presentation of the group, with fifty charts. For three consecutive

nights last week I had worked until 1:00 a.m., but had gotten only halfway.

'This is a suggestion. Don't take it the wrong way. But do consider taking a

bath,' my wife said.

I looked at her.

'Just an option,' she said.

I think she is overcautious sometimes. I don't bite back.

'Yes, yes. I will,' I said and stared at the computer again.

Thoughts darted through my head. Should I call some hospitals myself?

What if Prof Basant dozed off again? What if he could not collect the

students? What if G. Patel was dead? And why am I becoming so involved

here?

I took a reluctant shower. I opened the office presentation, but found myself

unable to type a single word.

I refused breakfast, though regretted it moments later – as hunger and anxiety

did not go well together.

My phone rang at 1.33 p.m.

`Hello,' Prof Basant's voice was unmistakable. 'We have a match at Civil Hospital.

His name is Govind Patel, twenty-five years of age. A second-year student of mine

found him.'

‘And?'

‘And he is alive. But won't talk. Even to his family. Must be in shock.’

‘What are the doctors saying?’ I said.

'Nothing. It is a government hospital. What do you expect? Anyway, they will

flush his stomach and send him home. I won't worry too much now. Will ask a student

to check again in the evening.'

'But what is his story? What happened?'

All that I don't know. Listen, don't get too involved. India is a big country.

These things happen all the time. The more you probe, the more the chances of the

police harassing you.'

Next, I called the Civil Hospital. However, the operator did not know about the

case and there was no facility to transfer the line to the ward either.

Anusha, too, was relieved that the boy was safe. She then announced the plan for

the day – the dining chair hunt. It would begin at Ikea on Alexandra Road.

We reached Ikea at around three o'clock and browsed through the space-saving

dining sets. One dining table could fold four times over and become a coffee table –

pretty neat.

'I want to know what happened to the twenty-five-year-old businessman,' I

muttered.

'You will find out eventually. Let him recover. Must be one of those crazy reasons of

youth – rejection in love, low marks or drugs.' I stayed silent.

'C'mon, he just emailed you. Your ID is on your book cover. You really don't need

to get involved. Should we take six or eight?' She moved towards an oak-wood set.

I protested that we rarely had so many guests at home. Six chairs would be

enough.

'The marginal capacity utilisation of the two chairs would be less than ten

per cent,' I said.

'You men are least helpful,' she tossed back and then selected six chairs.

My mind strayed back to the businessman.

Yes, everyone was right. I shouldn't get involved. But yet, of all the people

in the world, this boy had sent me his last words. I couldn't help but get involved.

We ate lunch in the food court next to Ikea.

'I have to go,' I told my wife as I played with my lemon rice. 'Where? To

the office. Ok, you are a free man now. I did my shopping,' my wife said.

'No. I want to go to Ahmedabad. I want to meet Govind Patel.' I did not

meet her eye. Maybe I was sounding crazy.

‘Are you nuts?’

I think it is only in my generation that Indian women started slamming

their husbands.

'My mind keeps going back,' I said.

'What about your presentation? Michel will kill you.'

'I know. He won't get promoted unless he impresses his boss.' My wife

looked at me. My face was argument enough. She knew I would not talk sense until I

had met the boy.

'Well, there is only one direct flight at 6 p.m. today. You can check the

tickets.' She dialled the Singapore Airlines number and handed me the phone.

I entered the room the nurses had led me to. The eerie silence and the

darkness made my footsteps sound loud. Ten different instruments beeped and LED

lights flickered at regular intervals. Cables from the instruments disappeared into

the man I had travelled thousands of miles to see – Govind Patel.

I noticed the curly hair first. He had a wheatish complexion and bushy

eyebrows. His thin lips had turned dry because of the medicines.

`Hi, Chetan Bhagat ... the writer you wrote to,' I said, unsure if he could

place me.

`O ... How did ... you find me?' he said, finding it difficult to speak.

`Destined to, I guess,' I said.

I shook hands and sat down. His mother came into the room. She looked so

sleep-deprived, she could use a sleeping pill herself. I greeted her as she went out to

get tea.

I looked at the boy again. I had two instant urges – one, to ask him what

happened and two, to slap him.

`Don't look at me like that,' he said, shifting in his bed, 'you must be angry.

Sorry, I should not have written that mail.'

‘Forget the mail. You should not have done what you did.'

He sighed. He took a hard look at me and then turned his gaze sideways.

`I have no regrets,' he said.

`Shut up. There is nothing heroic in this. Cowards pop pills.' `You would

have done the same, if you were in my place.' `Why? What happened to you?'

`It doesn't matter!

We fell silent as his mother returned with tea. A nurse came in and told his

mother to go home, but she refused to budge. Finally, the doctor had to intervene.

She left at 11.30 p.m. I stayed in the room, promising the doctor I would

leave soon.

`So, tell me your story,' I said, once we were alone.

`Why? What can you do about it? You can't change what happened,' he

said tiredly.

`You don't just listen to stories to change the past. Sometimes, it is

important to know what happened.'

`I am a businessman. To me, people only do things out of self-interest.

What's in it for you? And why should I waste my time telling you anything?'

I stared at the soft-skinned face that hid such hardness inside. `Because I will

want to tell others,' I said. There, that was my incentive.

And why would anyone care? My story is not trendy or sexy like the IITs

and call centres.'

He removed the quilt covering his chest. The heater and our conversation

kept the room warm.

`I think they will care,' I said, 'a young person tried to kill himself. That does not

seem right.'

`No one gives a fuck about me.'

I tried, but found it difficult to be patient. I considered slapping him again.

`Listen,' I said, pitching my voice to the maximum allowed in a hospital.

'You chose to send your last mail to me. That means at a certain level you

trusted me. I located you and flew out within hours of your mail. You still

question if I care? And now this cocky attitude, this arrogance is part of your

business? Can't you talk to me like a friend? Do you even know what a friend is?'

A nurse came peeking into the room on hearing my loud voice. We became

quiet. The clock showed midnight.

He sat there stunned. Everyone had behaved nicely with him today. I stood

up and turned away from him.

‘I know what a friend is,' he said at last.

I sat down next to him.

‘I do know what a friend is. Because I had two, the best ones in the world.'