One Night at the Call Center Read online

  To my twin baby boys

  and the wonderful woman

  who created them*

  with a little bit of help from me

  Before you begin this book, I have a small request. Right here, note down three things that

  you fear

  make you angry and

  you don't like about yourself

  Be honest, and say something meaningful to you.

  Don't think too much about why I am asking you to do this. Just do it.

  One thing I fear:

  ______________________________________

  One thing that makes me angry:

  ______________________________________

  One thing I do not like about myself:

  ______________________________________

  Okay, now forget about this exercise and enjoy the story.

  Have you done it?

  If you haven't, please do it. You will enjoy this book a lot more.

  If you have, then thanks. And sorry I doubted you.

  Now, please forget about the exercise, or that I doubted you, and enjoy the story.

  Prologue

  THE NIGHT TRAIN FROM KANPUR TO DELHI Was the most memorable journey of my life. Firstly, it gave me the idea for my book. And second, it is not every day you sit in an empty compartment and a young, pretty girl walks in.

  Yes, you see it in the movies, you hear about it from friends” friends, but it never happens to you. When I was younger, I used to look at the names on the reservation chart stuck outside my train compartment to check out all the female passengers near my seat—F-17 to F-25 is what I'd look for most—yet it never happened. In most cases I shared my compartment with talkative aunties, snoring men, and wailing infants.

  But this night was different. Firstly, my compartment was empty: This new summer train had only just started running and nobody knew about it. Second, I was unable to sleep.

  I had been to the Indian Institute of Technology in Kanpur to give a talk. Before leaving, I sat in the canteen chatting with the students and drank four cups of coffee, which no doubt led to my eight hours of insomnia alone in my compartment. I had no magazines or books to read and could hardly see anything out of the window in the darkness. I prepared myself for a dull and silent night.

  She walked in five minutes after the train had left the station. She opened the curtains of my enclosure and looked around puzzled.

  “Is this coach A4, seat 63E?” she asked.

  The yellow lightbulb in my compartment was a moody one. It flickered as I looked up at her.

  “Huh?” I said. It was difficult to withdraw from the gaze of her eyes.

  “Actually it is. My seat is right in front of you,” she answered her own question and heaved her heavy suitcase onto the upper berth. She sat down opposite me and heaved a sigh of relief.

  “I got into the wrong coach. Luckily the cars are connected” she said, adjusting her countless ringlets. I looked at her from the corner of my eye. She was young, perhaps early to mid-twenties, and her waist-length hair had a life of its own: A strand kept falling onto her forehead. I couldn't yet see her face in the bad light, but I could tell one thing—she was pretty. And her eyes—once you looked into them, you couldn't turn away. I kept my gaze down.

  She rearranged stuff in her handbag while I looked out of the window. It was completely dark.

  “So, this is a pretty empty train” she said after ten minutes.

  “Yes,” I said. “It's the new holiday special. They've just started it without really announcing it”

  “No wonder. Otherwise, trains are always full at this time.”

  “It will fill up. Don't worry. Just give it a few days,” I said and leaned forward. “Hi. I am Chetan, by the way, Chetan Bhagat.”

  “Hi,” she said and looked at me for a few seconds. “Chetan … your name sounds familiar.”

  Now this was cool. It meant she had heard of my first book. I'm rarely recognized, and never by a girl on a night train.

  “You might have heard of my book, Five Point Someone. I'm the author,” I said.

  “Oh yes,” she said and paused. “Oh yes, of course. I've read your book. About the three underperformers and the professor's daughter, right?” she said.

  “Yes. So, did you like it?”

  “It was all right.”

  I was taken aback. I could have done with a little more of a compliment here.

  “Just all right?” I said, fishing a bit too obviously.

  “Well…” she said, and paused.

  “Well what?” I said after ten seconds.

  “Well, yeah, just all right. An OK-OK type of book,” she said.

  I kept quiet. She noticed the expression of mild disappointment on my face.

  “Anyway, nice to meet you, Chetan. Where are you coming from? IIT Kanpur?”

  “Yes,” I said, my voice less friendly than a few moments before. “I had to give a talk there”

  “Oh really? About what?”

  “About my book—you know, the OK-OK type one. Some people do want to hear about it,” I said, using a sweet tone to coat my sarcasm.

  “Interesting,” she said and went quiet again.

  I was quiet too. I didn't want to speak to her any more. I wanted my empty compartment back.

  The flickering yellow light above was irritating me. I wondered if I should just turn it off, but it was still not that late.

  “What's the next station? Is it a nonstop train?” she asked after five minutes, obviously to make conversation.

  “I don't know” I said and turned to look out of the window again, even though I couldn't see anything in the darkness.

  “Is everything OK?” she asked softly.

  “Yes, why?” I said.

  “Nothing. You're upset about what I said about your book, aren't you?”

  “Not really,” I said.

  She laughed. I looked at her. Her smile was as arresting as her eyes. I knew she was laughing at me, but I wanted her to keep smiling. I dragged my eyes away again.

  “Listen. I know your book did well. You are a sort of youth writer and everything. But at one level…”

  “What?” I said.

  “At one level, you are hardly a youth writer.”

  I looked at her for a few seconds. Her magnetic eyes had a soft but insistent gaze.

  “I thought I wrote a book about college kids. Isn't that youth?” I said.

  “Yeah, right. So you wrote a book on the Indian Institute of Technology, an elite place where few people get to go. You think that represents the youth?” she asked and took out a box of mints from her bag. She offered me one, but I declined.

  “So what are you trying to say? I had to start somewhere, so I wrote about my college experiences. And the story isn't all about IIT. It could have happened anywhere. Is that why you're trashing my book?”

  “I'm not trashing it. I'm just saying it hardly represents Indian youth,” she said and shut the box of mints.

  “Oh really—“I began, but was interrupted by noise as the train passed over a long bridge.

  We didn't speak for the next three minutes, until the train had got back onto a smoother track.

  “So what represents youth, exactly?” I said.

  “I don't know. You're the writer. You figure it out,” she said, and brushed aside a few curls that had fallen over her forehead.

  “That's not fair,” I said. I sounded like a five-year-old throwing a tantrum. She saw me grumbling to myself and smiled. A few seconds later, she spoke again.

  “Are you going to write another book?” she said.

  “I'll try to.”

  “So what's it going to be about this time? The Indian I