Five Point Someone
What not to do at IIT
Chetan Bhagat is the author of two blockbuster novels – Five Point Someone (2004) and One Night @ The Call Center (2005) – which continue to top bestseller lists. In March 2008, the New York Times called him the ‘biggest-selling English-language novelist in India’s history’. Both his books have inspired major Bollywood films.
Seen more as the voice of a generation than just an author, this IIT/IIM-A graduate is making India read like never before. The 3 Mistakes of My Life is his third novel.
After eleven years in Hong Kong, the author relocated to Mumbai in 2008, where he works as an investment banker. Apart from books, the author has a keen interest in screenplays and spirituality. Chetan is married to Anusha, his classmate from IIM-A, and has twin boys – Ishaan and Shyam.
Five Point Someone
What not to do at IIT
A Novel
by
CHETAN BHAGAT
First published in 2004 by
Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd.
7/16, Ansari Road, Daryaganj
New Delhi 110002
Sales centres:
Allahabad Bengaluru Chennai
Hyderabad Jaipur Kathmandu
Kolkata Mumbai
Copyright © Chetan Bhagat 2004
Cover design:
[email protected] This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and
incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events or
localities is entirely coincidental.
This digital edition published in 2012
e-ISBN: 978-81-291-2138-7
Chetan Bhagat asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
Digital edition prepared by Ninestars Information Technologies Ltd.
All rights reserved.
This e-book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated, without the publisher’s prior consent, in any form or cover other than that in which it is published. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic, mechanical, print reproduction, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. Any unauthorized distribution of this e-book may be considered a direct infringement of copyright and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
For my mother
For IIT, my alma mater
Contents
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Bare Beginnings
Terminator
Barefoot on Metal
Line Drawing
Make Notes not War
Five-point Something
Alok Speaks
One Year Later
The Mice Theory
Cooperate to Dominate
The Gift
Neha Speaks
One More Year Later
Vodka
Operation Pendulum
The Longest Day of My Life I
The Longest Day of My Life II
The Longest Day of My Life III
The Longest Day of My Life IV
The Longest Day of My Life V
The Longest Day of My Life VI
Ryan Speaks
Kaju-burfi
Will we Make It?
A Day of Letters
Meeting Daddy
Five Point Someone
Acknowledgements
Well, to say this is my book would be totally untrue. At best, this was my dream. There are people in this world, some of them so wonderful, that made this dream become a product that you are holding in your hand. I would like to thank all of them, and in particular:
Shinie Antony – mentor, guru and friend, who taught me the basics of telling a story and stayed with me right till the end. If she hadn’t encouraged and harassed me all the way, I would have given this up a long time ago.
James Turner, Gaurav Malik, Jessica Rosenberg, Ritu Malik, Tracie Ang, Angela Wang and Rimjhim Chattopadhya – amazing friends who read the manuscript and gave honest comments. All of them also stayed with me in the process, and handled me and my sometimes out-of-control emotions so well.
Anusha Bhagat – a wife who was once a classmate, and was the first reader of the draft. Apart from being shocked by some of the incidents in the book, she kept her calm as she had to face the tough job of improving the product and not upsetting her husband.
My mom Rekha Bhagat and brother Ketan, two people with an irrational, unbreakable belief in me that bordered on craziness at times. My relationship with them goes beyond the common genes we share, and I, like every author, needed their irrational support for me.
My IIT friends Ashish (Golu), Johri, VK, Manu, Shanky, Pappu, Manhar, VP, Rahul, Mehta, Pago, Assem, Rajeev G., Rahul, Lavmeet,Puneet, Chapar and all others. This is a work of fiction, but fiction needs real inspiration. I love them all so much that I could literally write a book on them. Hey wait, have I?
My friends in Hong Kong, my work colleagues, my yoga teachers and others that surround me, love me and make life fun.
The editor and the entire team at Rupa for being so professional and friendly through the process.
And lastly, it is only when one writes a book that one realizes the true power of MSWord, from grammar checks to replace-alls. It is simple – without this software, this book would not be written. Thank you Mr Bill Gates and Microsoft Corp!
Prologue
I had never been inside an ambulance before. It was kind of creepy. Like a hospital was suddenly asked to pack up and move. Instruments, catheters, drips and a medicine box surrounded two beds. There was hardly any space for me and Ryan to stand even as Alok got to sprawl out. I guess with thirteen fractures you kind of deserve a bed. The sheets were originally white, which was hard to tell now as Alok’s blood covered every square inch of them. Alok lay there unrecognizable, his eyeballs rolled up and his tongue collapsed outside his mouth like an old man without dentures. Four front teeth gone, the doctor later told us.
His limbs were motionless, just like his father’s right side, the right knee bent in a way that would make you think Alok was boneless. He was still, and if I had to bet my money, I’d have said he was dead.
“If Alok makes it through this, I will write a book about our crazy days. I really will,” I swore. It is the kind of absurd promise you make to yourself when you are seriously messed up in the head and you haven’t slept for fifty hours straight…
1
—
Bare Beginnings
BEFORE I REALLY BEGIN THIS BOOK, LET ME FIRST TELL you what this book is not. It is not a guide on how to live through college. On the contrary, it is probably an example of how screwed up your college years can get if you don’t think straight. But then this is my take on it, you’re free to agree or disagree. I expect Ryan and Alok, psychos both of them, will probably kill me after this but I don’t really care. I mean, if they wanted their version out there, they could have written one themselves. But Alok cannot write for nuts, and Ryan, even though he could really do whatever he wants, is too lazy to put his bum to the chair and type. So stuff it boys – it is my story, I am the one writing it and I get to tell it the way I want it.
Also, let me tell you one more thing this book is certainly not. This book will not help you get into IIT. I think half the trees in the world are felled to make up the IIT entrance exam guides. Most of them are crap, but they might help you more than this one will.
Ryan, Alok and I are probably the last people on earth you want to ask
about getting into IIT. All we would say as advice is, if you can lock yourself in a room with books for two years and throw away the key, you can probably make it here. And if your high school days were half as miserable as mine, disappearing behind a pile of books will not seem like such a bad idea. My last two years in school were living hell, and unless you captained the basketball team or played the electric guitar since age six, probably yours were too. But I don’t really want to get into all that.
I think I have made my disclaimers, and it is time for me to commence.
Well, I have to start somewhere, and what better than the day I joined the Indian Institute of Technology and met Ryan and Alok for the first time; we had adjacent rooms on the second floor of the Kumaon hostel. As per tradition, seniors rounded us up on the balcony for ragging at midnight. I was still rubbing my eyes as the three of us stood to attention and three seniors faced us. A senior named Anurag leaned against a wall. Another senior, to my nervous eye, looked like a demon from cheap mythological TV shows – six feet tall, over a hundred kilos, dark, hairy, and huge teeth that were ten years late meeting an orthodontist. Although he inspired terror, he spoke little and was busy providing background for the boss, Baku, a lungi-clad human toothpick, and just as smelly is my guess.
“You bloody freshers, dozing away eh? Rascals, who will give an introduction?” he screamed.
“I am Hari Kumar sir, Mechanical Engineering student, All India Rank 326.” I was nothing if not honest under pressure.
“I am Alok Gupta sir, Mechanical Engineering, Rank 453,” Alok said as I looked at him for the first time. He was my height, five feet five inches – in short, very short – and had these thick, chunky glasses on. His portly frame was covered in neatly ironed white kurta-pajamas.
“Ryan Oberoi, Mechanical Engineering, Rank 91, sir,” Ryan said in a deep husky voice and all eyes swung to him.
Ryan Oberoi, I repeated his name again mentally. Now here was a guy you don’t see in IIT too often; tall, with spare height, purposefully lean and unfairly handsome. A loose gray T-shirt proclaimed ‘GAP’ in big blue letters on his chest and shiny black shorts reached his knees. Relatives abroad for sure, I thought. Nobody wears GAP to bed otherwise.
“You bastards,” Baku was shrieking, “Off with your clothes.”
“Aw Baku, let us talk to them a bit first,” protested Anurag, leaning against the wall, sucking a cigarette butt.
“No talking!” Baku said, one scrawny hand up. “No talking, just remove those damn clothes.”
Another demon grinned at us, slapping his bare stomach every few seconds. There seemed to be no choice so we surrendered every item of our clothing, shivering at the unholy glee in Baku’s face as he walked by each of us, checking us out and grinning.
Nakedness made the difference between our bodies more stark as Alok and me drew figures on the floor with deeply embarrassed toes, trying to be casual about our twisted balloon figures. Ryan’s body was flawless, man, he was a hunk; muscles that cut at the right places and a body frame that for once resembled the human body shown in biology books. You could describe his body as sculpture. Alok and I, on the other hand, weren’t exactly what you’d call art.
Baku told Alok and me to step forward, so the seniors could have better view and a bigger laugh.
“Look at them, mothers fed them until they are ready to explode, little Farex babies,” Baku cackled.
The demon joined him in laughter. Anurag smiled behind a burst of smoke as he extinguished another cigarette, creating his own special effects.
“Sir, please sir, let us go sir,” Alok pleaded to Baku as he came closer.
“What? Let you go? We haven’t even done anything yet to you beauties. C’mon bend down on all fours now, you two fatsos.”
I looked at Alok’s face. His eyes were invisible behind those thick, bulletproof spectacles, but going by his contorted face, I could tell he was as close to tears as I was.
“C’mon, do what he says,” the demon admonished. He and Baku seemed to share a symbiotic relationship; Baku needed him for brute strength, while the servile demon needed him for directions.
Alok and I bent down on all fours. More laughter, this time from above our heads, ensued. The demon suggested racing both of us, his first original opinion in a while but Baku overrode him.
“No racing-vacing, I have a better idea. Just wait, I have to go to my room. And you naked cows, don’t look up.”
Baku raced up the corridor as we waited for twenty tense seconds, gazing at the floor. I glanced sideways and noticed a small water puddle adjacent to Alok’s head, droplets falling from his eye.
Meanwhile, the demon made Ryan flex his muscles and make warrior poses. I am sure he looked photogenic, but didn’t dare look up to verify.
Our ears picked up Baku’s hurried steps as he returned.
“Look what I got,” he said, holding up his hands.
“Baku, what the hell is that for…?” Anurag enquired as we turned our heads up.
In each of his hands, Baku held an empty Coke bottle. “Take a wild guess,” he said as he clanged the bottles together, making suggestive gestures.
Face turning harder, arms still in modelling pose, Ryan spoke abruptly, “Sir, what exactly are you trying to do?”
“What, isn’t it obvious? And who the hell are you to ask me?” choked Baku.
“Sir, stop,” Ryan said, in a louder voice.
“Fuck off,” Baku dismissed, disbelief writ large in his widened eyes at this blatant rebellion against his age-old authority.
As Baku put the bottles in position, Ryan abandoned his pin-up pose and jumped. Catching him unawares, he grabbed the two bottles and stamped hard on Baku’s feet. Baku released his hands and the bottles were with Ryan, James Bond style.
We knew that stomp hurt since Baku’s scream was ultrasonic.
“Get this bastard,” Baku shrieked in agony.
The demon’s IQ was clouded by the events but his ears registered the command for action and he had just collected himself in response when Ryan smashed the two Coke bottles on the balcony parapet. Each bottle now was butt-broken, and he waved the jagged ends in air.
“Come, you bastards,” Ryan swore, his face scarlet like a watermelon slice. Baku and the demon retreated a few paces. Anurag, who had been smouldering in the backdrop, snapped to attention. “Hey, cool it everyone here. How did this happen? What is your name - Ryan, take it easy man. This is just fun.”
“It’s not fun for me,” growled Ryan, “Just get the hell out of here.”
Alok and I looked at each other. I was hoping Ryan knew what he was doing. I mean sure, he was saving our ass from a Coke bottle, but broken Coke bottles could be a lot worse.
“Listen yaar,” Anurag started as Ryan cut him short.
“Just get lost,” Ryan shouted so hard that Baku seemed to blow away just from the impact. Actually, he was shuffling backward slowly and steadily till he was almost flying in his haste to get away, the demon following suit. Anurag stood there gaping at Ryan for a while and then looked at us.
“Tell him to control himself. Or one day he will take you guys down too,” Anurag said.
Alok and I got up and wore our clothes.
“Thanks Ryan, I was really scared,” Alok said, as he removed his spectacles to wipe snot and tears, face to face with his hero at last.
There is a reason why they say men should not cry, they just look so, like, ugly. Alok’s spectacles were sad enough, but his baby-wet blubbery eyes were enough to depress you into suicide.
“Yes, thanks Ryan, some risk you took there. That Baku guy is sick. Though you think they would have done anything?” I said, striving for a cool I did not feel.
“Who knows? Maybe not,” Ryan rotated a shoulder, “But you can never tell when guys get into mob mentality. Trust me, I have lived in enough boarding schools.”
Ryan’s heroics were enough to make us all bond faster than Fevicol. Besides, we were hostelite neighbours and i
n the same engineering department. They say you should not get into a relationship with people you sleep with on the first date. Well, though we hadn’t slept together, we had seen each other naked at primary meet, so perhaps we should have refrained from striking up a friendship. But our troika was kind of inevitable.
“M-A-C-H-I-N-E,” the blackboard proclaimed in big bold letters.
As we entered the amphitheatre-shaped lecture room, we grabbed a pile of handouts each. The instructor sat next to the blackboard like a bloated beetle, watching us settle down, waiting for the huddled murmurs to cease.
He appeared around forty years of age, with gray hair incandescent from three tablespoons of coconut oil, wore an un-tucked light blue shirt and had positioned three pens in his front pocket, along with chalks, like an array of bullets.
“Welcome everyone. I am Professor Dubey, Mechanical Engineering department…so, first day in college. Do you feel special?” he said in a monotone.
The class remained silent. We were busy scanning our handouts and feeling like a herd.
The course was Manufacturing Processes, often shortened to ManPro for easier pronunciation. The handouts consisted of the course outline. Contents covered the basic techniques of manufacturing – such as welding, machining, casting, bending and shaping. Along with the outline, the handout contained the grading pattern of the course.
Majors – 40%
Minors – 20%
Practicals – 20%
Assignments (6-8) and Surprise Quizzes (3-4) – 20%
Prof Dubey noticed the limp response to his greeting and made his voice more exuberant. “Look at the handout later. Don’t worry, you will get enough of these, one for every course. Put them aside now,” he said as he stood up and walked toward the blackboard.