Three Mistakes of My Life by Chetan Bhagat


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 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

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

I know. He won’t get promoted unless he impresses his boss.’ My wife looked at me. My face was argument enough. She knew I would not talk sense until I had met the boy. ‘Well, there is only one direct flight at 6 p.m. today. You can check the tickets.’ She dialled the Singapore Airlines number and handed me the phone

I entered the room the nurses had led me to. The eerie silence and the darkness made my footsteps sound loud. Ten different instruments beeped and LED lights flickered at regular intervals. Cables from the instruments disappeared into the man I had travelled thousands of miles to see Govind Patel. I noticed the curly hair first. He had a wheatish complexion and bushy eyebrows. His thin lips had turned dry because of the medicines. Hi Chetan Bhagat the writer you wrote to I said, unsure if he could place me


I shook hands and sat down. His mother came into the room. She looked so sleep-deprived, she could use a sleeping pill herself. I greeted her as she went out to get tea. I looked at the boy again. I had two instant urges – one, to ask him what happened and two, to slap him. `Don’t look at me like that,’ he said, shifting in his bed, ‘you must be angry. Sorry, I should not have written that mail

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