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.

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