The first time might have been a random event; the second, possiblycoincidence. But with the release of his third book, the ominously titled The3 Mistakes of My Life, Chetan Bhagat has made one thing quite clear. Hereally isn't a great writer. This shouldn't come as news to the Indian literaryestablishment, which has been savaging Bhagat in print and in the blog world forthe past four years. His success (he is India's biggest-selling English languagewriter ever) has only sharpened the critics' knives.
The new book, however, makes it clear that most of Bhagat's critics have beenoff-target. He has been attacked for being the sort of poor writer whoordinarily cannot even get hired as a lowly hack in print media. He is clearlynothing of the sort. Bhagat only lacks literary skills the way the Da VinciCode's Dan Brown, thriller writer Alistair MacLean or horror/crime writerDean Koontz lack literary skills. Clunky writers all, they are nonethelessengaging in their varied styles, have sold in the millions, and have plots thattend to translate very easily into film scripts.
To that extent, The 3 Mistakes is Bhagat's best book yet, and thefirst to properly knit elements of plot, characterisation and narrative. Thevillain, a religious fanatic, is actually creepy, the central character, Govind,is sympathetic despite his flaws (among other things, being the archetype of anamorally money-hungry Gujarati businessman); all firsts for a Bhagat novel. Andhe has discovered narrative flow. The cricket-based passages are easily amongthe best things that he has ever written. It is certainly a considerably slickerproduct than Bhagat's first two books, and avoids embarrassments like thedreadful pop-philosophising of his sophomore effort, One Night at the CallCentre; that one was a sort of Paulo Coelho for Dummies.
The new novel is set mainly in Ahmedabad over 2000-02, and is a coming-of-agestory where the events of the time, joyous (India's cricket victory overAustralia in Kolkata in 2001), tragic (the Republic Day earthquake earlier thatyear) and appalling (Godhra and its aftermath) are all integral to the story.There are plenty of the themes and ideas that people like to engage with,including young love, business and work, friendship, tragedy and above all, thethree hot-button subjects for most Indians--cricket, politics, and religion.
In fact, by making the tragedy of the assault on the Sabarmati Express andits terrible aftermath vital to the story, Bhagat is taking literary risks forthe first time in his career. His distaste for the violent religious bigotry atthe heart of the Gujarat violence is clear. Among India's literaryestablishment, which is largely secular, this stance is hardly unusual; in thebroader market of middle-class India that he taps, the lines aren't so clearlydrawn. Among these millions, there is a significant number that doesn't thinkpeople did anything particularly wrong during those numbing weeks in March 2002.
That apart, given the plot devices like a flashback, sexual discovery, someexotic foreign travel amid much local colour it's clear that the books containsthe makings of the sort of film that could go down very well with themall-and-multiplex crowd in any Indian city. Ever since Dil Chahta Hai therehas been an urban market for the sort of Bollywood film that is ostensibly inHindi but where the protagonists call each other dude. And it is this market,far more than any conventional view of the Indian book-reading public, that canbest explain Bhagat's success.
Ignore the critics' opinion for a while, and look at a novel from the pointof view of the would-be reader. A critic is the only person who reads apublished book because she or he has to; that's their job. But for everyoneelse, that book is something they would only read away from their jobs; it'ssomething they do as part of their leisure time. There exist, and hopefully forthe future of literature, there will always be, a few people who genuinely feelthat this leisure time is best spent wading through French philosophy,Shakespearian sonnets or whatever version of High Art they like their books totake. For a far greater number of people that time to call their own is farbetter used in pursuit of more easily absorbed pleasures; sport, food, thecinema, the company of friends, a tall cold glass of beer. Books do come intothe picture, but only when they offer appropriate escapism and entertainment ata price that compares favourably with all the options that jostle for inclusionin what is, for most of us, a very limited time available for leisure.
Only a teetotaler or someone in the throes of an evil hangover would rateBhagat's writing above beer, but consider a realistic alternative that'savailable to more or less everyone in his intended readership. For the price oftrip to a multiplex in any Indian city--a movie, popcorn and a fizzy drinkfollowed by a snack--you can buy all three Chetan Bhagat books. The Bhagat dietis clearly less fattening, yes, but also generally better plotted, equallyengaging and at least as entertaining.
Which is Bhagat's particular genius, that his is a proposition of relevanceand attractiveness in a large market of his choosing. It is why Dan Brown orPaulo Coelho are so successful. If their entire oeuvres put together can't matchthe literary merits of a single Don DeLillo chapter (they don't) it makes not awhit of a difference to the larger reading public. Ever since the pennydreadful, less-than-gifted writers have been laughing all the way to the bank.Bhagat would, too, if he weren't already a very successful banker in his dayjob.
The 3 Mistakes of My Life, like his other books, will annoy criticsand please casual readers in roughly equal measure. With this book, Bhagat hasshown that as long as he keeps his literary risk-taking mild, he may welleventually occupy the same place in writing that Bollywood holds for filmsnobs--the unadulterated and cheerful Guilty Pleasure. That's not a bad place tobe at all.
(A slightly edited -- for reasons of space -- version of this appears inprint)
