Prologue-05
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.
`O ... How did ... you find me?' he said, finding it difficult to speak.
`Destined to, I guess,' I said.
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.'
'Forget the mail. You should not have done what you did.'
He sighed. He took a hard look at me and then turned his gaze sideways.
`I have no regrets,' he said.
`Shut up. There is nothing heroic in this. Cowards pop pills.' `You would
have done the same, if you were in my place.' `Why? What happened to you?'
`It doesn't matter!
We fell silent as his mother returned with tea. A nurse came in and told his
mother to go home, but she refused to budge. Finally, the doctor had to intervene.
She left at 11.30 p.m. I stayed in the room, promising the doctor I would
leave soon.
`So, tell me your story,' I said, once we were alone.
`Why? What can you do about it? You can't change what happened,' he
said tiredly.
`You don't just listen to stories to change the past. Sometimes, it is
important to know what happened.'
`I am a businessman. To me, people only do things out of self-interest.
What's in it for you? And why should I waste my time telling you anything?'
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I stared at the soft-skinned face that hid such hardness inside. `Because I will
want to tell others,' I said. There, that was my incentive.
And why would anyone care? My story is not trendy or sexy like the IITs
and call centres.'
He removed the quilt covering his chest. The heater and our conversation
kept the room warm.
`I think they will care,' I said, 'a young person tried to kill himself. That does not
seem right.'
`No one gives a fuck about me.'
I tried, but found it difficult to be patient. I considered slapping him again.
`Listen,' I said, pitching my voice to the maximum allowed in a hospital.
'You chose to send your last mail to me. That means at a certain level you
trusted me. I located you and flew out within hours of your mail. You still
question if I care? And now this cocky attitude, this arrogance is part of your
business? Can't you talk to me like a friend? Do you even know what a friend is?'
A nurse came peeking into the room on hearing my loud voice. We became
quiet. The clock showed midnight.
He sat there stunned. Everyone had behaved nicely with him today. I stood
up and turned away from him.
'I know what a friend is,' he said at last.
I sat down next to him.
'I do know what a friend is. Because I had two, the best ones in the world.'