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

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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 th re e mis tak e s ; I don 't wan t t o go in t o 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 w e 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
sign up there. If he is a member and we are lucky, we can check his profile.'
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.'

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