Revolution 2020: Love, Corruption, Ambition Read online

  REVOLUTION 2020

  Chetan Bhagat is the author of four bestselling novels – Five Point Someone (2004), One Night @ the Call Center (2005), The 3 Mistakes of My Life (2008) and 2 States: The Story of My Marriage (2009).

  Chetan’s books have remained bestsellers since their release, and have been adapted into major Bollywood films. The New York Times called him the ‘the biggest selling English language novelist in India’s history.’ Time magazine named him as one amongst the ‘100 Most Influential People in the world’ and Fast Company, USA, listed him as one of the world’s ‘100 most creative people in business.’

  Chetan writes for leading English and Hindi newspapers, focusing on youth and national development issues. He is also a motivational speaker.

  Chetan quit his international investment banking career in 2009, to devote his entire time to writing and make change happen in the country. He lives in Mumbai with his wife Anusha, an ex-classmate from IIM-A, and his twin sons Shyam and Ishaan.

  To know more about Chetan visit www.chetanbhagat.com or email him at [email protected].

  Praise for previous work

  Many writers are successful at expressing what’s in their hearts or articulating a particular point of view. Chetan Bhagat’s books do both and more.

  – A R Rahman, in TIME magazine, on Chetan’s inclusion in the Time 100 Most Influential People in the world

  The voice of India’s rising entrepreneurial class.

  – Fast Company Magazine, on Chetan’s inclusion in the 100 Most Creative People in business globally

  India’s paperback king.

  – The Guardian

  The biggest-selling English-language novelist in India’s history.

  – The New York Times

  A rockstar of Indian publishing.

  – The Times of India

  Bhagat has touched a nerve with young Indian readers and acquired almost cult status.

  – International Herald Tribune

  Text copyright © 2015 Chetan Bhagat

  Originally published by Rupa Publications

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Amazon Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Amazon Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  eISBN-13: 9781503987852

  Cover Designer: Rachita Rakyan

  To my mother

  To Varanasi

  To the holy river

  To the Indian student

  Contents

  Thanks to:

  Prologue

  1

  2

  Seven Years Later

  3

  4

  5

  Kota

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  Varanasi

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  Varanasi Three More Years Later

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  Epilogue

  Thanks to:

  My readers, for their love and support.

  God, who looks after me.

  Shinie Antony, who remains the first reader and editor of my books.

  Anubha Bang, for her suggestions at all stages in the writing of this book. Nutan Bendre, Niharika Khanna, Michelle Pereira, Prateek Dhawan, Zitin Dhawan and Anurag Anand, for their great comments on the manuscript.

  Saurabh Rungta and Kishore Sharma, for their help in research.

  The amazing, amazing people of Varanasi.

  All the people I met during my travels and talks, who helped me understand my country better.

  My mother Rekha, wife Anusha, brother Ketan, for being in my life. My sons Ishaan and Shyam, who tell me, ‘It’s OK, Daddy,’ during my lows.

  My extended family on Twitter and Facebook.

  Rupa and Company, for publishing me.

  The filmmakers who chose to make my stories into films.

  And once again, you, dear reader, for wanting a revolution.

  Prologue

  ‘And I hope not just you but our whole country will keep that spark alive. There is something cool about saying – I come from the land of a billion sparks. Thank you,’ I said, ending my motivational speech at Tilak Hall, Varanasi.

  The claps and whistles were my cue to leave. Security volunteers formed a human barricade and soon I managed a neat exit from the hall.

  ‘Thank you so much, sir,’ someone said right behind me.

  I turned around to face my host. ‘Mr Mishra,’ I said, ‘I was looking for you.’

  ‘Please call me Gopal,’ he said. ‘The car is over there.’

  I walked out with the young director of GangaTech College, Gopal Mishra. His black Mercedes whisked us away from the crowded Vidyapath Road.

  ‘So you saw the temples and the ghats?’ Gopal asked. ‘That’s all Varanasi has, anyway.’

  ‘Yeah, I went to the Vishwanath Temple and Dashashwamedh Ghat at five in the morning. I love this city,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, good. What did you like best about Varanasi?’

  ‘Aarti,’ I said.

  ‘What?’ Gopal looked surprised.

  ‘The morning aarti at the ghats. I saw it for the first time, all those diyas floating at dawn. It was out of this world.’

  Gopal frowned.

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘Isn’t Varanasi’s aarti beautiful?

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, it is … it is not that,’ he said, but did not elaborate.

  ‘Will you drop me at Ramada Hotel?’ I said.

  ‘Your flight is only tomorrow morning,’ Gopal said. ‘Why don't you come home for dinner?’

  ‘Don’t be formal …’ I began.

  ‘You have to come home. We must have a drink together. I have the finest whisky in the world,’ he said.

  I smiled as I shook my head. ‘Thanks, Gopal, but I don’t drink much.’

  ‘Chetan sir, one drink? I can tell people I had a drink with “the” Chetan Bhagat.’

  I laughed. ‘That’s nothing to brag about. Still, say it if you want. You don’t actually have to drink with me.’

  ‘Not like that, sir. I actually want to have a drink with you.’

  I saw his intense eyes. He had sent me twenty invites in the last six months, until I finally agreed to come. I knew he could persist.

  ‘Okay, one drink!’ I said, hoping I wouldn’t regret this later.

  ‘Excellent,’ Gopal said.

  We drove ten kilometres outside the city on the Lucknow Highway to reach GangaTech. The guards saluted as the campus gates opened. The car came to a halt at a gray bungalow. It had a stone exterior that matched the main college and hostel buildings.

  We sat in the living room on the ground floor. It opened out to a badminton court-sized lawn.

  ‘Nice house,’ I said as I sat on a cushy brown velvet sofa. I noticed the extra-high ceiling.

  �
��Thanks. I designed it myself. The contractor built it, but I supervised everything,’ Gopal said. He proceeded to the bar counter at the other end of the room. ‘It’s the bungalow of an engineering college director. You and your friends raided one, right?’

  ‘How do you know?’ I said.

  ‘Everyone knows. We’ve read the book. Seen the movie.’

  We laughed. He handed me a crystal glass filled with a generous amount of whisky.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Single malt, twelve years old,’ he said.

  ‘It’s the director’s bungalow, but you don’t have a daughter,’ I said. ‘You aren’t even married. The youngest director I’ve ever seen.’

  He smiled.

  ‘How old are you?’ I was curious.

  ‘Twenty-six,’ Gopal said, a hint of pride in his voice. ‘Not just the youngest, but also the most uneducated director you’ve met.’

  ‘Uneducated?’

  ‘I never went to college.’

  ‘What?’ I said as I twirled the ice-cubes in my glass and wondered how potent this drink was.

  ‘Well, I did do a joke of a correspondence degree.’

  ‘Wow!’ I said. ‘It isn’t a joke to open such a big college.’

  ‘Sixteen hundred students now, Chetan-ji, across all batches. Each paying one lakh a year. We already have a sixteen-crore turnover. And you inaugurated the MBA coaching today. That’s another new business.’

  I took a sip. The smooth whisky burnt my throat. ‘Do you have beer? Or wine?’ I coughed.

  Gopal’s face fell. Not only had I ignored his impressive business statistics, I had also rejected his whisky.

  ‘Not good?’ Gopal asked. ‘It’s Glenfiddich, four thousand a bottle. Should I open Blue Label? That’s ten thousand a bottle.’

  It is not a price issue, I wanted to tell him but didn’t. ‘I don’t drink whisky. Too strong for me,’ I said instead.

  Gopal laughed. ‘Live life. Start having fine whisky. You will develop a taste.’

  I attempted another sip and winced. He smiled and poured more water in my drink to dilute it. It ruined the scotch, but saved my sanity.

  ‘Life is to be enjoyed. Look at me, I will make four crores this year. What is the point if I don’t enjoy it?’

  In most parts of the world, speaking about your income is taboo. In India, you share the figures like your zodiac sign, especially if you have lots.

  He seemed to have put the question more to himself than to me. His dark eyes continued to bore into me. They demanded attention. The rest of him – wheatish complexion, modest five-feet-seven-inch height, side-parted hair – was reassuringly normal.

  ‘Yeah, of course. One should enjoy …’ I said as he cut me.

  ‘Next year I will make five crores.’

  I realised he would keep forecasting his salary until I demonstrated suitable awe.

  ‘Five crores!’ I said, my voice loud and fake.

  Gopal grinned. ‘Baby, eat this, for I have made it,’ is probably the T-shirt slogan he would choose.

  ‘That’s incredible,’ I murmured, wondering how I could switch the topic. I noticed stairs winding up. ‘What’s upstairs?’ I said.

  ‘Bedrooms and a terrace. Come, I will show you.’

  We climbed up the steps and walked past a room with a luxurious king-sized bed.

  I took in the panoramic view from the terrace.

  ‘This was a wasteland, all of it. My grandfather’s old agricultural land,’ Gopal said.

  ‘Ten acres?’ I made a guess.

  ‘Fifteen. We had fifteen acres more,’ Gopal said, ‘but we sold it to fund the construction.’

  He pointed to a small array of lights towards the eastern wall of the floodlit campus. ‘Right there, see. There is a mall coming up.’

  ‘Every Indian city is building malls now,’ I said.

  ‘India shining, Chetan-ji,’ he said and clinked his glass with mine.

  Gopal drank more than four times my pace. I hadn’t finished my first when he poured his fifth. ‘You big-city types. Drinking for style,’ he teased when I refused a refill.

  ‘I don’t drink much. Really,’ I said. I checked the time; 10:00 p.m.

  ‘At what time do you eat dinner?’ he asked.

  ‘Up to you,’ I said, though I wished he’d decide to eat right away.

  ‘What is the big hurry? Two men, one educated, one uneducated. Having a good time,’ Gopal said and raised his glass in the air.

  I nodded out of courtesy. My stomach rumbled for food. We came downstairs to sit down in the living room again.

  ‘Did you really go to the professor’s daughter’s house?’ Gopal asked.

  I smiled. ‘Love makes us do stupid things.’

  Gopal laughed out loud. He gulped his drink bottoms-up, then grabbed the half-empty bottle to make his sixth tipple.

  ‘Love? Forget stupid things. Love fucks you,’ Gopal said.

  ‘That’s harsh,’ I said. ‘Is that why there is no Mrs Director yet?’

  Gopal’s hand trembled as he continued to pour his drink. I wondered if I should stop him from drinking more.

  ‘Mrs Director!’ Gopal smirked. He gripped the whisky bottle tight.

  ‘Easy, Gopal, you are drinking too fast. It’s dangerous.’

  Gopal plonked the bottle on the coffee table. ‘Why dangerous? Who is going to fucking cry for me? If I live, I want to enjoy. If I die, who cares?’

  ‘Your parents?’

  Gopal shook his head.

  ‘Friends?’

  ‘Successful people don’t have friends,’ Gopal averred. ‘It’s true, no?’

  His lavish house felt cold and isolated. I took the whisky bottle and placed it back in the bar.

  ‘Pessimist, eh?’ I said. ‘Surprising, given you are doing so well.’

  ‘What well, Chetan-ji?’ Gopal said, now completely drunk and, presumably, completely honest.

  He pointed to the huge TV, stereo system and the silk carpet under our feet in quick succession.

  ‘What does all this mean? I’ve lived with nothing …’

  Our conversation had become serious. I patted his back to cheer him up. ‘So you read about my girlfriend in the book. How about you? You ever had one?’

  Gopal didn’t respond, but looked distraught. He placed his glass on the coffee table.

  Touchy topic, I figured too late.

  He retched.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I said.

  He ran to the restroom. I heard him throw up. I browsed the display shelves to pass time. I saw framed news stories about GangaTech, trophies, pictures of Gopal with guests who had visited the college. I wondered if my picture would also be there soon.

  When he hadn’t returned in twenty minutes I called for the maid. She took me to the bathroom. I knocked at the door. No answer. I banged my fists on the door. Nothing.

  ‘Looks like we will have to break the door,’ the maid said.

  I wondered how I, who had come as a chief guest for a college orientation programme, became involved with forcing open random toilets in Varanasi.

  The rustle of sheets on the hospital bed woke me from my nap. The bedside clock showed 3:00 a.m. I had brought a passed-out Gopal to the Heritage Hospital, in the Lanka area of Varanasi.

  Gopal sat up on the bed now, massaging his temples.

  His hangover reminded me of my college days. However, here the director had binged on alcohol, not a student.

  ‘You were here all night?’ He looked surprised.

  ‘I could not let my host die on me,’ I said.

  ‘I am sorry. I had a bit too much.’ Gopal gave a sheepish grin.

  ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘Yeah, I am good.’

  ‘Not right now. Are you okay generally?’

  He turned his head to stare at the opposite wall.

  ‘How’s life, Gopal?’ I asked softly.

  He didn’t answer.

  I stood up after a minute. ‘I should leave
, catch some sleep before my flight.’ I walked to the door.

  ‘Do you think I am a good person, Chetan-ji?’ he said.

  I turned around.

  ‘Am I?’ he asked again.

  I shrugged my shoulders. ‘I don’t know you, Gopal. You organised the talk well. Treated me good. You seem fine,’ I said.

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘You’ve achieved a lot. Take it easy. Even expensive whiskies can be harmful.’

  He smiled and gave a brief nod. ‘I will drink less,’ he said. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘You are young. Don’t give up on love yet,’ I said, checking my watch. ‘I really should go. It is almost time for the morning aarti.’

  ‘That’s her name,’ he said.

  I didn’t want to stay any longer, but I was hooked. ‘What name? Whose name?’ I asked even as I reminded myself that this was not my business and I should leave soon.

  ‘Aarti,’ he said.

  ‘Aarti who? Someone you like?’ I hazarded a guess.

  ‘Like is not the word, Chetan-ji.’

  ‘You loved her?’ I smiled.

  ‘Imagine every sadhu and priest in Varanasi. More than all their devotion put together, that’s how much I loved her.’

  I absorbed the analogy. Curiosity had taken over my need for sleep. I allowed myself to ask one more question. ‘She loved you too?’

  He mulled over the question for a while. ‘She didn’t just love me, she owned me.’

  I shifted from one foot to the other. I had a long day ahead. A sleepless night would be a bad idea. But I heard myself asking him, ‘So what happened? Between you and Aarti.’

  Gopal smiled. ‘This is not an interview, Chetan-ji. Either you sit down and listen to this stupid man’s whole story or you leave. Up to you.’ His charcoal eyes met mine. Something about the young director intrigued me. His unusual achievements, his cockiness, his tortured voice or maybe this strange holy city made me want to know more about him.

  I let out a huge sigh. He pointed to the chair next to him.

  ‘Okay, tell me your story,’ I said and sat down.

  ‘Do you want another drink?’ Gopal said.

  I glared at him. He laughed. ‘I meant tea,’ he said.

  We ordered a pot of extra-hot masala tea and glucose biscuits; nothing complements a conversation better.

  ‘Where do I start?’ Gopal said.

  ‘Let’s begin with Aarti. The girl who did this to you.’