Three Mistakes Of My Life(Chetan Bhagat) - Chapter 2：Prologue-02

`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 porridge 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 we 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.

`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 we 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.

`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 we 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.’