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REVOLUTION 2020 LOVE . CORRUPTION . AMBITION

By : CHETAN BHAGAT

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SYNOPSIS
Once upon a time, in small-town India, there lived two intelligent boys. One wanted
to use his intelligence to make money. One wanted to use his intelligence to create
a revolution. The problem was, they both loved the same girl. Welcome to Revolution
2020. A story about childhood friends Gopal, Raghav and Aarti who struggle to find
success and love in Varanasi. However, it isn’t easy to achieve this in an unfair
society that rewards the corrupt. As Gopal gives in to the system, and Raghav
fights it, who will win? From the bestselling author of Five Point Someone, one
night @ the call center, The Three Mistakes of My Life and 2 States, comes another
gripping tale from the heartland of India. Are you ready for the revolution?

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PROLOGUE
“And I hope not just you but our whole country will keep that spark alive. For
there is something cool about saying – I come from the land of a billion sparks.
Thank you,” I said, ending my motivational speech at Tilak Hall, Varanasi. The
claps and whistles were my cue to leave. Security volunteers formed a human
barricade and soon I managed a neat exit from the hall. “Thank you so much, sir,”
someone said right behind me. I turned around to face my host. “Mr Mishra,” I said,
“I was looking for you.” “Please call me Gopal,” he said. “The car is over there.”
I walked out with the young director of GangaTech College, Gopal Mishra. His black
Mercedes whisked us away from the crowded Vidyapath Road. “Any more temples you
want to see?” Gopal asked. “That’s all Varanasi has, anyway. You saw the ghats,
right?” “Yeah, I went to the Vishwanath temple and Dasaswamedh ghat at five in the
morning,” I said. “The aarti was out of the world.” Gopal frowned. “What?” I said.
“You must be used to the aarti by now. I was seeing it for the first time, all
those diyas floating at dawn.” “It is not that,” he said, but did not elaborate.
“You will drop me at Ramada hotel?” I said. “Your flight is only tomorrow morning,”
Gopal said.
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“Why don’t you come home for dinner?” “Don’t be formal…” I began. “You have to come
home. We must have a drink together. I have the finest whiskey in the world,” he
said. I smiled as I shook my head. “Thanks, Gopal, but I don’t drink much.” “Chetan
sir, one drink? I can tell people I had a drink with ‘the’ Chetan Bhagat.” I
laughed. “That’s nothing to brag about. Still, say it if you want. You don’t
actually have to drink with me.” “Not like that, sir. I actually want to have a
drink with you.” I saw his intense eyes. He had sent me twenty invites in the last
six months, until I agreed to come. I knew he could persist. “Okay, one drink!” I
said, hoping I wouldn’t regret this later. “Excellent,” Gopal said. We drove ten
kilometers outside the city on the Lucknow Highway to reach GangaTech. The guards
saluted as the campus gates opened up. The car came to a halt at a gray bungalow.
It had a stone exterior that matched the main college and hostel buildings. We sat
in the living room on the ground floor. It opened out to a badminton court-sized
lawn. “Nice house,” I said as I sat on an extra-soft brown velvet sofa. I noticed
the extra-high elevated ceiling. “Thanks. I made it myself. The contractor built
it, but I supervised everything,” Gopal said. He proceeded to the bar counter at
the other end of the room. “It’s the
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bungalow of an engineering college director. You and your friends raided one,
right?” “How do you know?” I said. “Everyone knows. We’ve read the book. Seen the
movie.” We laughed. He handed me a crystal glass filled with a generous amount of
Irish whisky. “Thank you.” I took my drink. “Single malt, 12 years old,” he said.
“It’s the director’s bungalow, but you don’t have a daughter,” I said. “You aren’t
even married. The youngest director I’ve ever seen.” He smiled. “How old are you?”
I was curious. “Twenty-six,” Gopal said, a hint of pride in his voice. “Not just
the youngest, but also the most uneducated director you’ve met.” “Uneducated?” “I
never went to college.” “What?” I said as I twirled the ice-cubes in my glass and
wondered how potent this drink was. “Well, I did do a joke of a correspondence
degree.” “Wow!” I said. “It isn’t a joke to open such a big college.” “Sixteen
hundred students now, ji, across all batches. Each paying one lakh a year. We
already have a sixteencrore turnover. And you inaugurated the MBA coaching today.
That’s another new business.” I took a sip. The smooth whiskey burnt my throat. “Do
you have beer? Or wine?” I coughed. Gopal’s face fell. Not only had I ignored his
impressive business statistics, I had rejected his whiskey.
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“Not good?” Gopal asked. “It’s Glenfiddich, four thousand a bottle. I’ll open Blue
Label? That’s ten thousand a bottle.” It is not a price issue, I wanted to tell him
but didn’t. “I don’t drink whiskey. Too strong for me,” I said instead. Gopal
laughed. “Live life. Start having fine whiskey. You will develop a taste.” I
attempted another sip and winced. He smiled and poured more water in my drink to
dilute it. It ruined the scotch, but saved my sanity. “Life is to be enjoyed. Look
at me, I will make four crores this year. What is the point if I don’t enjoy it?”
In most parts of the world, speaking about your income is taboo. In India, you
share the figures like your zodiac sign, especially if you have lots. He seemed to
have put the question more to himself than me. His dark eyes continued to bore into
me. His eyes demanded attention. The rest of him – wheatish complexion, modest
five-feet-seven-inch height, sideparted hair – was reassuringly nondescript. “Yeah,
of course. One should enjoy,” I said as he cut me. “Next year I will make five
crores.” I realised he would keep forecasting his salary until I demonstrated
suitable awe. “Five crores!” I said, my voice loud and fake. Gopal grinned. ‘Baby,
eat this, for I have made it,’ is probably the T-shirt slogan he would choose.
“That’s incredible,” I murmured, wondering how I could switch the topic. I noticed
stairs winding up. “What’s upstairs?” I said.
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“Bedrooms and a terrace. Come, I will show you.” We climbed up the steps. We walked
past a room with a luxurious king-sized bed. From the terrace I took in the
panoramic view. “This was a wasteland, all of it. My grandfather’s old agricultural
land,” Gopal said. “Ten acres?” I made a guess. “Fifteen. We had fifteen acres
more,” Gopal said, “but we sold it to fund the construction.” He pointed to a small
array of lights towards the eastern wall of the floodlit campus. “Right there, see.
There is a mall coming up.” “Every Indian city is building malls now,” I said.
“India shining, Chetan-ji,” he said and clinked his glass with mine. Gopal drank
more than four times my pace. I hadn’t finished my first when he poured his fifth.
“You big-city types. Drinking for style,” he teased when I refused a refill. “I
don’t drink much. Really,” I said. I checked the time; 10:00 p.m. “When do you eat
dinner?” he asked. “Up to you,” I said, though I wished he’d decide to eat right
away. “What is the big hurry? Two men, one educated, one uneducated. Having a good
time,” Gopal said and raised his glass in the air. I nodded out of courtesy. My
stomach rumbled for food. We came downstairs to sit down in the living room again.
“Did you really go to the professor’s daughter’s house?”
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Gopal said. I smiled. “Love makes us do stupid things.” Gopal laughed out loud. He
chugged his drink bottoms-up, then grabbed the half-empty bottle to make his sixth
tipple. “Love? Forget stupid things. Love fucks you,” Gopal said. “That’s harsh,” I
said. “Is that why there is no Mrs Director yet?” Gopal’s hand trembled as he
continued to pour his drink. I wondered if I should stop him from drinking more.
“Mrs Director!” Gopal smirked. He gripped the whiskey bottle tight. “Easy, Gopal,
you are drinking too fast. It’s dangerous.” Gopal plonked the bottle on the coffee
table. “Why dangerous? Who is going to fucking cry for me? If I live, I want to
enjoy. If I die, who cares?” “Your parents?” Gopal shook his head. “Friends?”
“Successful people don’t have friends,” Gopal demurred. “It’s true, no?” His lavish
house felt cold and isolated. I took the whiskey bottle and placed it back in the
bar. “Pessimist, eh?” I said. “Surprising, given you are doing so well.” “What
well, Chetan-ji?” Gopal said, now completely drunk and, presumably, completely
honest. He pointed to the huge TV, stereo system and the silk carpet under our feet
in quick succession. “What does all this mean? I’ve lived with nothing…”
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Our conversation had become serious. I patted his back to cheer him up. “So you
read about my girlfriend in the book. How about you? You ever had one?” Gopal
didn’t respond, but looked distraught. He placed his glass on the coffee table.
Touchy topic, I figured too late. He retched. “Are you okay?” I said. He ran to the
restroom. I heard him throw up. I browsed the display shelves to pass time. I saw
framed news stories about GangaTech, trophies, pictures of Gopal with guests who
had visited the college. I wondered if my picture would also be there soon. When he
hadn’t returned in twenty minutes I called for the maid. She took me to the
bathroom. I knocked at the door. No answer. I banged my fists on the door. Nothing.
“Looks like we have to break the door,” the maid said. I wondered how I, who had
come as a chief guest for a college orientation programme, became involved with
forcing open random toilets in Varanasi.