BHAG(at)-O!

Revolution 2020.

Not a revolution by any gross stretch of imagination. Not even a substantial creation.

One would assume, that after churning out four mind-numbingly ridiculous excuses for novels, Chetan Bhagat would recover from his pitiable bent of mind that leads him to assume that he is capable of producing any work of literary- or even minorly distinctive- merit.

If not for the sake of saving some face with literary circles across the country who have, now, a newfound pastime in dissecting (I would add 'and condemning', but that, I would assume, is a default with those who've made their lives of studying, or even reading as an enjoyable hobby, the works of Shaw and Shakespeare. Or even Arundhati Roy.) his works: he might have some consideration for his (This is about the time I experience physical heartache) fans across the country. This is his fifth- for lack of more appropriate terminology- book, his fifth great milestone after he so famously (No, no, it wasn't famous when it happened. He wrote about it in 'Five Point Someone' remember? Right after he stole the keys from his Dean's...oh that's right. Everybody read the book.) discarded his Engineering career for a career as a writer.

If you think you've fulfilled your calling, I'm sorry, Mr. Bhagat, far from it.

Revolution 2020 sees, once again, the same character stereotypes- the same North-Indian, khaata-peeta naujawan, with family problems, education problems, that done-to-death mindless Engineering persuasion. The same aye-haye girl, with her airs and graces, and her chiffon dupatta. Boy screws her. And then screws her over. Many years later, when he's rich and successful, he moans about the true meaning of life. Once in a while, someone opens up a college. Or sees God. Or has a fight with his best friend. (Actually, scratch the "once in a while" for that last. That's not really a once-in-a-while thing for us anymore. Is it, C.B.?)

And then, of course, the Trump. Each book begins with a disclaimer. A personal anecdote, or an unashamed claim that the story up ahead is true- making that the only thing you think about as you read. Touche, Mr. Bhagat. Run away from the unidimensional insipidity of your writing by kicking sand in the reader's face.

Alright, I'll cave: Five Point Someone, was well-enjoyed, though the giddying praise for it was overrated beyond all sane limits. It was one of those intriguing Indie-student-type novels, where people say 'fucker' and 'chutya' removed from context or meaning, in purebred Punjabi accents (But hey, who am I to stereotype? Chetan's already doing that for me.), that I know I'll never enjoy. Still, kudos for taking the first step in that direction. It takes something, I'm assuming. Something more brave than sheer lack of ideas- which is, unfortunately, what I see it as.

But honestly, quit trying to fool us by printing the same novel over and over again with a different cover and different names. I know we seem to eat up your crap now, but we won't stand this for long.

How long do you think horny, hungry eighteen year-olds who're stoned out of their wits and made to study from textbooks (Which, by the way, are far less linear than your work) till they can understand nothing more than the 'Arrey yaar' English you use, will realize that all your books are- exempting, pardon me, the photograph of you on the back flap- the absolute same? I mean, at least try plagiarizing from someone else's work next time. Doing it from your own- especially when your raw material isn't spectacular- is unbearably narcissistic.

I'm not asking for something better next time. No, I know better. But maybe, maybe, just to mix things up for your poor, addicted readers- you could try making the musckul-man hero Tamilian instead.

Love, always.