The 3 Mistakes of My Life Read online

  The 3 Mistakes of My Life

  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 by Chetan Bhagat

  Originally published by Rupa Publication

  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: 9781503987685

  Cover Designer: Rachita Rakyan

  To my country, which called me back

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty one

  Epilogue

  Epilogue II

  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 ambitous 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: [email protected]

  Sent: 12/28/2005 11.40 p.m.

  To: [email protected]

  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 coffeee 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 some 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?’ Anush