Core idea: Manipulators rarely target the least intelligent person in the room. They target the person who believes they can spot manipulation.

The smartest people are often easier to manipulate.

That sounds counterintuitive.

We tend to imagine manipulation working on people who are uninformed, inexperienced, or naïve.

But in many situations, the opposite is true.

Manipulators rarely target the least intelligent person in the room.

They target the person who believes they can spot manipulation.

Because intelligence often creates confidence.

And confidence can quietly become a blind spot.

A senior executive may think:

“I’ve negotiated contracts worth crores. Nobody is fooling me.”

A cybersecurity professional may think:

“I know how phishing works. I can spot a scam from a mile away.”

Someone navigating relationships may think:

“I understand people. I know when someone is being genuine.”

The problem is that manipulation is rarely presented as manipulation.

If it were, nobody would fall for it.

Instead, it arrives disguised as something we already want to believe.

A business opportunity.

A flattering introduction.

An emotionally vulnerable conversation.

A shared interest.

A chance encounter.

A familiar story.

A trusted recommendation.

Manipulation succeeds not because it defeats our intelligence.

It succeeds because it bypasses it.

The most effective manipulators understand that human beings do not make decisions using logic alone. We use trust, emotion, pattern recognition, hope, loneliness, ambition, and occasionally, ego.

And the more certain we are that we can see through people, the less likely we are to examine our own assumptions.

That is why some of the most successful professionals, the most experienced leaders, and the most technically capable experts sometimes make surprisingly human mistakes.

Not because they are foolish.

Because they are human.

Intelligence can help us analyse information.

It does not automatically protect us from believing what we want to be true.

Perhaps the question isn’t:

“Could someone manipulate me?”

The better question is:

“What assumptions am I making that I haven’t bothered to verify?”

That’s usually where the real vulnerability begins.

How many books are sold and read in the world’s biggest markets?

Ready for some more maths? Yes, maths. Not math. I remain committed to grammatical completeness.

Let’s begin with the three giants of the global book ecosystem – United States, China & India. Now here’s where things get interesting.

Roughly how many books are SOLD annually?

China ~100–130 crore books (1–1.3 billion)

US ~70–80 crore books (700–800 million)
India ~40–80 crore books (400–800 million)

At first glance, though behind China and the US, India appears to have a big number. But wait. What KIND of books are these? Because not all book markets are built the same way.

In the US:

• A very large chunk is trade publishing.
• Fiction, thrillers, romance, memoirs, self-help, fantasy.
• Leisure reading is deeply commercialised.

In China:

• Educational + state-supported publishing is massive
• Digital reading ecosystems are huge
• Online literature platforms have exploded readership

And India? India is a fascinating paradox. We are one of the largest book-consuming nations in the world. But most of that volume comes from:

• Textbooks
• Competitive exam preparation
• Academic publishing
• School/college ecosystems

Which means India is a giant reading market, but not yet an equally giant leisure-reading market.

Why is India a giant reading marketing?

Let’s come to books READ annually. This is harder to measure because:

• People borrow books
• Read digitally
• Use libraries
• Re-read books
• Listen to audiobooks
• And surveys are often self-reported

But estimates suggest:

• Americans read ~17 books/reader/year
• Indians read ~16 books/reader/year
• Brits read ~15 books/reader/year

Please take a pause to understand that the above is the ‘Average Number of Books Read Per Reader Annually’, not the ‘Average Number of Books Read Per Citizen Annually’. I could not find the estimated figure for China, so mentioned the British number.

Also, the number of books sold ≠ the number of books read, as one book can be read by multiple readers. And, a book(s) can also be re-read by a reader.

Even if these estimates are directionally correct, India may be reading tens of billions of books annually. That’s astonishing. But here’s the twist:

A very large percentage of those books are read because they are necessary.

Not because they are discovered.

And that changes the economics of storytelling completely.

A textbook has institutional distribution.

A novel has to fight for attention.

Which brings me to my favourite statistic from publishing:

The average book may sell only ~55 copies a year globally.

Not because books are bad.

But because discoverability is brutally hard.

So the next time you see an author posting repeatedly about their book, remember:

They are not just marketing a product.

They are trying to survive inside one of the noisiest discovery ecosystems in the world.

And every genuine reader matters more than most people realise.

Sources are listed below in comments.

Sources:

1. US book sales (Circana / Statista)
2. China book market
3. India publishing data
4. Average books read per country

Are you ready to do some exciting maths with me?

Yes, I still call it maths. ‘Math’ feels like a someone removed a function from it. 😊

Let’s break it down:

Roughly 220 crore (2.2 billion) books are sold globally every year.

An estimated 22–40 lakh (2.2–4 million) new titles are published annually. The publishing industry calls this as frontlist.

It is also estimated that 3–5 crore (30–50 million) titles are actively in circulation. The publishing industry calls this as backlist.

Now comes the interesting part. If you divide all the books sold annually globally by the sum of annual frontlist and backlist, you get answer to the question we began with.

Total books sold ÷ (frontlist + backlist) ~ 41 to 68 copies per book per year.

Let’s call it ~55 copies per title.

Let that sink in. Not 5,000, not 500, ~55 copies per year per book (on average).

What about lifetime sales then? This is harder to pin down as there’s no single authoritative number, but most industry estimates fall between:

<500 copies (very common)

~1,000 copies (a reasonable midpoint)

Up to ~5,000 copies (for relatively successful titles)

Books don’t fail because they are bad. Most books just don’t get discovered enough.

So what can you do?

If you know an author:

(1.) Buy their book

(2.) Read it

(3.) And only if you like it, recommend it to the right people

Because in a world where the average book sells ~55 copies a year… every reader actually matters.

Source: Publishing Stats.

The PM announced the 7 austerity measures and gili gili chhoo – just like that a billion and a half expressions started pouring over on whatever media people could lay their hands on.

This one is mine.

Never waste a good crisis, especially if you are an existing or an aspiring social media influencer / finfluencer. Each creator is geo-economist, a geopolitical strategist whose thumbnail is yelling BIG CRISIS.

The way some creators are bundling crude oil dependency, inflation risks, rupee pressure, car-pooling, public transport, travel avoidance, WFH 2.0, buying desi and gold imports in a 30-second reel would put Indian mothers who pack 14 outfits in one suitcase, to shame.

Some are even asking their followers to not travel from one room to another.

Then there are those who are dropping ultra-nationalist cinematic reels of walking instead of driving shot by drone (battery powered, so no problem), with emotional background music adding to the gravity, and “sacrifice” aesthetics.

Never mind if one of the influencers is explaining fuel conservation while recording from her idling SUV.

The community of TV anchors is one of absolute diversity. Some are framing national discipline, others are ringing economic alarm bells, and others still, are leaning on high-decibel nationalism. Some angles they are trying to explore, are: Are long drives anti-national? What should be done to parents who are not collaborating for school pick-ups and drops? Why do women buy gold? Small detail – only last week an anchor’s wife placed a jewellery order which she won’t cancel this week.

They are oscillating between being media sages giving out Vedic advice of slow living, minimalism, intentional travel, and mindful consumption on one hand, to BREAKING NEWS on the other – Citizen spotted using car for grocery purchase. The creative team is busy putting up huge red graphics, the anchor is coining a BIG NATIONAL QUESTION or two. And the five guests on the show are ready to slit each other’s throat with no one answering the real question.

Incidentally, the anchors and the guests travelled individually in their fuel guzzling SUVs to the studios. Traveling together could have invited serial killings in the car.

Corporates are not to be left behind. HR issued a few circulars – To support national fuel conservation, employees are encouraged to think before using office chairs with wheels. Lift usage above the 3rd floor requires managerial approval. As part of the national interest, all meetings longer than 12 minutes will now be emails.

Imagine driving your wife to the mall or dinner and the parking attendant asking you, ‘Sir, is this trip essential for the nation?’

Brands are cashing in. They are 48 hours away from launching: Patriotism Cashback Week.

One startup launched “AI-enabled patriotism tracking”.

By evening, our society WhatsApp group had:

(1.) Banned second trips to the grocery store,
(2.) Proposed biometric tracking for vehicle usage,
(3.) Suspended learners’ driving,
(4.) Accused Flat 302, Tower B of “anti-national idling”. It was actually their kid secretly video calling his girlfriend in Paris since his father did not allow unnecessary foreign travel.

Petrol prices haven’t increased yet. But emotionally, the Indian middle class has already entered recession.

Clearly, India cannot experience a simple advisory quietly. Everything must become a debate, or a moral movement, or a LinkedIn lesson, or a startup opportunity, or a Meta Reel / carousel, or a thread tweet, or a WhatsApp PhD thesis.

Me? I am considering:

(1.) Banning pressure cooker usage after 8 pm.
(2.) Launching a LinkedIn series titled “5 Ways to Detect Scooter Misuse in Your Neighbourhood”
(3.) And walking the 100 metres to my office while filming it cinematically for national morale.

The first idea has already been rejected at home on security grounds. My security!

You? Decide for yourself!

PS: Since no name has been given to this measure / drive, I am calling it Atm-niyantrit Bharat. Why? Because it sounds like the sibling of Aatmnirbhar Bharat.

The emotion of “mamata” encompasses the feelings of unconditional love, sacrifice, care, and a deep nurturing affection. It is the essence of motherhood – the maternal instinct. It evokes an immediate, emotional response; the idea that someone will stand up when it matters most.

But what happens when that instinct is tested by power?

Two incidents in West Bengal, separated by over three decades, offer a way to examine that question.

1993: The Dipali Basak Moment

The then 38-year-old Union Minister for HRD, Youth Affairs & Sports, and Women & Child Development in the PV Narasimha Rao government, Mamata Banerjee livid and horrified with how things turned out with Dipali, decided to take the matter right to the then CM Jyoti Basu.

Dipali, a deaf & mute girl from Phulia (Nadia), West Bengal, was allegedly raped by a CPM worker.

On the 6^th of January 1993, Mamata met Dipali and her mother Felani, and took an appointment from Jyoti Basu. The next day when she went to meet with Jyoti Basu, he refused to meet her & Dipali. Mamata then staged a sit-in dharna. After about three hours of protest the police dragged her out, she was pulled by her hair, and her saree was torn.

Dipali, pregnant at that time was injured and rushed to Ramakrishna Seva Pratishthan, a charitable hospital run by the Ramakrishna Mission, whereas Mamata was taken to the Lalbazaar lock-up from where she was released later pressed by the gathering Youth Congress supporters.

On her way home in a police escort, she stopped at the Gandhi statute Mayo College Road. It is said that it is here that she made a vow to enter Writers Building next only as a CM and after dislodging CPM from power.

The protest at Writers’ Building during the Dipali Basak case became one of the defining moments of this image. She was seen not as a distant politician, but as someone willing to challenge power structures in real time.

The Making of a Political Identity

Moments like 1993 do more than create headlines; they build reputations. Over time, Mamata Banerjee’s political persona came to be associated with accessibility, emotional immediacy, and a willingness to confront authority.

This identity played a significant role in her eventual rise to power. When she became Chief Minister of West Bengal on 20^th May 2011, it was seen not just as a political victory, but as the arrival of a leader shaped by grassroots संघर्ष (struggle).

She created history by exiting CPM ending its 34-year rule in the state – the longest tenure for an elected communist government anywhere in the world.

Mamata Banerjee built her political identity not through institutional power, but through visible, emotionally charged public engagement. Long before she became Chief Minister of West Bengal, she was known for street-level politics – leading protests herself, sitting on dharnas, confronting authorities directly, and physically appearing beside victims, workers, and protestors.

Her persona also became associated with emotional immediacy because she communicated more through instinct and visible emotion than bureaucratic language. Her speeches often sounded personal rather than administrative. Combined with her simple public presentation, cotton sarees, slippers, modest lifestyle optics, and the widely used identity of “Didi,” she came to represent familiarity and accessibility rather than hierarchy. Supporters felt she reacted first as a human being and then as a politician. This perception deepened further during movements like Singur and Nandigram, where she positioned herself as the emotional face of public grievance ready to take on authority.

The emotional construct of “mamata” was all visible & established amongst people’s conscience. She was the hero people feted. She was the hero they wanted to give their power to, through vote.

But power changes the nature of leadership. And with it, the expectations.

2024: The RG Kar Medical College Case

In August 2024, a young postgraduate trainee doctor, whom we know only as Abhaya, was found raped and murdered inside RG Kar Medical College and Hospital. The details were deeply unsettling – The crime occurred within a hospital campus, and the victim was part of the healthcare system itself. The setting challenged assumptions about safety in institutional spaces. The reaction was swift.

Doctors across India protested. Medical services were disrupted. Public discourse turned sharply toward questions of safety, accountability, and administrative response.

The investigation was eventually transferred to the Central Bureau of Investigation. But the core issue extended beyond the crime. It was about how the system responded in the immediate aftermath. Concerns were raised about initial handling of the case, communication from authorities & the perceived tone of the state’s response.

At the centre of this response was Mamata Banerjee, not as a protester, but as the Chief Minister.

From Instinct to Institution

The contrast between 1993 and 2024 is not simply political. It is structural. In 1993 Mamata Banerjee was structurally an outsider to state power. Even though she was a Union Minister, in West Bengal she functioned as an opposition leader confronting the ruling establishment. Her political role was to question the system, amplify the victim’s voice, and morally challenge authority. Her strength came from moral clarity and immediacy.

By 2024, the structure had completely reversed. She was no longer confronting the state – she was the state. Her role was to manage, respond, and ensure accountability. The police, the administration, the health system, and the political accountability mechanisms all operated under her government.

That changes the nature of leadership fundamentally. A protest leader derives legitimacy from moral clarity and emotional immediacy. A governing leader is judged through institutional response, administrative competence, and public trust in systems.

That is why the contrast in later years became so symbolically significant. The same leader who rose by appearing emotionally available during moments of injustice, eventually became the institution expected to manage crisis, process, and accountability. Therefore, much of the public conversation around cases like the RG Kar incident is shaped not only by governance questions, but by the memory of the earlier Mamata – the leader whose politics once seemed driven by instinctive empathy and immediacy.

The Shift that People Noticed

The memory of 1993 is simple and enduring – a leader who refused to leave a victim unheard.

The perception in 2024, however, is more complicated – a system that moved slower, more measured, less empathetic, less sympathetic, and, to a vast majority, responsible for what had happened.

People understand that governance demands caution, verification, and process. But people’s perception often judges leadership not by the internal complexity of governance, but by how the response feels emotionally and morally. When response feels delayed or impersonal, it creates a gap. And that gap is where symbols begin to weaken.

People’s anger wasn’t just about the crime. It was about the response. Allegations of delayed or mishandled initial investigation surfaced. Public trust seemed fragile. The state appeared defensive, not empathetic.

And at the centre of it all was the same leader who once sat in protest – now the Chief Minister.

Did Mamata Lose Because She Lost Her “mamata”?

This is not a question of political success or failure. It is a question of alignment. The rise of Mamata Banerjee was closely tied to the idea of “mamata” – the instinct to act, to stand beside, and to confront injustice without hesitation.

The challenge of leadership is to retain that instinct even when power demands restraint. If the public begins to feel that the instinct has faded, that response has become more administrative than empathetic, then the symbol starts to erode.

It is a gradual shift. And when that happens, political outcomes often follow perception. Leaders are not expected to react the same way in opposition and in power. But they are expected to feel the same way.

That emotional continuity, visible through action, is what sustains public trust over time.

“Mamata” means motherhood. It implies instinctive protection, a refusal to tolerate harm, an emotional immediacy.

In 1993, that instinct was visible – raw & uncompromising. In 2024, it felt distant. Filtered through systems, politics, and control. It is the distance between who you were when you fought power and who you became when you held it.

The Distance Between Two Moments

Two incidents. One state. Thirty years apart. The Dipali Basak case revealed a leader willing to challenge power in defence of a victim. The Abhaya / RG Kar case has tested whether that instinct survives within power.

The answer is not binary as to whether the leader retained her moral instinct, or completely lost it. But it leaves behind an important reflection that leadership perhaps, is not just about rising to power. It is about carrying forward the very instinct that made that rise possible.

Because in the end, “mamata” is not defined by a name or a position. It is defined by whether, in moments of crisis, the response still feels human.

In 1993, Mamata Banerjee challenged power.

In 2011, people vested in her, their power.

In 2024, she was the power being challenged.

In 2026, people divested her of that power.

And she may have lost power because she first lost the emotional trust that created it. In the end, “mamata” is not just a name, it is a responsibility.

About Dipali and Abhaya

Dipali gave birth to a girl child. She died in March 2009 due to snakebite. As per Felani Basak (Dipali Basak’s mother), Mamata never visited them again. Dipali’s elder brother Nikhil said that Mamata never enquired about Dipali after the Writers Building incident. Felani died in March 2025 at the age of 91. 

Ratna Debnath, Abhaya’s mother won from the Panihati Assembly constituency in the 2026 West Bengal Assembly elections.

I am an ordinary people. My heart goes out to Dipali & Abhaya and all others named and unnamed who suffered. God bless them all.

Sources & References:

Dipali Basak Case / 1993 Protest

• Throwback 1993: Mamata Banerjee Made A Vow, Then Kept It For 18 Years

• Head held high but back-door arrival

• Forgotten mother’s justice wish

• Felani, whom Mamata took to Writers’ seeking justice, dies aged 91

• Turning point: Being thrown out of Writers’

An investigation was carried out. A senior professional stepped aside “pending enquiry”. The leadership role was quietly reassigned, and absence was explained as “internal reasons”.

There were no copyrights or IP stolen. There was no customer or internal data leak. Neither a financial loss was announced, nor was there any public breach notification.

Then there were whispers and rumours. This was followed by reputational ambiguity. An investigation was carried out. There was insult, and the career of the victim paused without a formal accusation. Finally, came the resignation – sure as night and day!

Nothing has to be lost for everything to feel compromised.

Loss is not just ‘financial’. It can be reputational. Reputational damage is invisible violence. It is hard to detect and even harder to contest – because at stake, is more than just the career. Not all cyberattacks are designed to extract value (ransom).

In some cases, “consequences” are the objective.  The focus is not on taking something away, it is leaving something behind; a doubt that did not previously exist.

In others, there may be no missing money, no corrupted systems, and no clear victim metric. But if someone’s access gets reviewed, their responsibilities have been quietly reduced, and the tone of conversations with them undergoes a change, it is clear that suspicion has entered the system.

In such contexts, an attack need not leave behind evidence. It only needs to leave behind enough breadcrumbs to enable inference. There is no accusation, only a suggestion, and suggestions are often sufficient to reshape outcomes.

In that sense, ruining credibility is more effective than stealing data.

What makes these cyberattacks effective

The power of such attacks lies in the attacker’s knowledge of what institutions are forced to do next. It could be a timed leak, or a selective disclosure, or a contextless artefact. Anything that creates plausibility for an accusation. No system might have been fully compromised. No fabrication might have been done. If enough doubt is sowed, if enough suspicion arises, and an inference can be drawn, an internal investigation is most likely to follow.

These attacks exploit procedural response by creating “partial” or “false” truths. They operate in grey zones, not red flags.

Reputational defence mechanisms can become reputational weapons

Organisations are risk-averse, procedurally-bound and reputation-sensitive. That is why when faced with the risk of loss of reputation, the board demands stability and the leadership prioritises containment. This can trigger all or any of these defensive responses within the organisation – internal silence, distancing from the event, or precautionary actions.

Silence is a risk containment strategy, not avoidance. It buys time to see if the issue escalates, or fizzles out. Organisations see distancing from the event as system protection, not judgement. It is done to prevent a contagion from the event. Simple precautionary actions like reviewing access, or reassign duties are an answer to ‘What did you do when you first noticed something?’.  Once taken, precaution resembles guilt externally, even though internally it is framed as neutral.

Reputational attacks work because organisations respond rationally to uncertainty. And because uncertainty cannot be tolerated, even in the absence of guilt, career damage occurs.

The inquiry may conclude but the pause rarely does

In many such cases, the investigation eventually ends. Files are closed, access logs reviewed, intent found to be ambiguous rather than malicious. But the pause that follows rarely lifts in the same way. Careers do not resume at the point they were interrupted; they restart, if at all, under a different light. A lot of times, the person changes jobs, which could also be a difficult switch, since the industry “gets to know”.

Modern organisations are designed to prevent risk, not to reverse suspicion. And the mechanisms that protect institutions often leave individuals carrying residual doubt – whether something was actually found against them. Such a damage is administrative rather than criminal, procedural rather than punitive. It requires no conviction, only a sequence of reasonable actions taken in response to uncertainty. In that sense, some contemporary attacks do not depend on theft or exposure at all.

They succeed when systems behave predictably, when caution outruns context, and when reputational harm becomes an outcome without a single illegal act ever needing to be proven.

Nitish Bhushan writes about technology, trust, and how behavioural vulnerabilities quietly reshape relationships and institutions.

Several of the themes explored here; insider vulnerability, reputational collapse, and quiet escalation, are examined through fiction in his novel Shadow Play: Love & Blackmail.

This article was first published in The Print on the 13^th of Feb 2026

It begins inconspicuously, like a normal last-minute adjustment to an earlier calendar invite. Along with it comes a document shared with a note that says, ‘Sharing a doc so we’re aligned.’ Small negotiations that keep the business moving. So far nothing unusual.

The recipient responds because it feels reasonable to respond. A delay would look unhelpful because the sender appears legitimate, familiar, and the matter seems urgent. Nothing has gone wrong. There is no breach. No system failure. No red flag blinking on a dashboard. There is only work – happening at speed, under pressure, with the quiet assumption that cooperation is safer than caution.

The incident begins socially, not technically

Cyber incidents usually begin long before a system is touched. Smart hackers rely on coordination, cooperation, compliance, or, sheer courtesy, rather than begin with malicious code or sophisticated exploits. They make a request in good faith. A response follows because that is how work is expected to function. Risk enters the moment cooperation becomes automatic, not at the point of intrusion. When speed is rewarded, when responsiveness signals competence, and when questioning a request feels like friction rather than diligence, the conditions for failure are set.

By the time a system is accessed or data is exposed, the decisive step has often already occurred quietly, socially, and without resistance.

What drives compliance is more often organisational psychology than technical ignorance

Let us understand why this happens. There is an invisible social mechanics in play here that typically encourages people to not respond in a ‘no’. Especially if the request is from a customer, or someone in a position of authority.

Asking questions signals lack of alignment or slowness, or insecurity. Hesitation is often interpreted as inefficiency while compliance is read as professionalism. Declining a request disrupts momentum. It introduces friction, and requires justification.

The fear of appearing incompetent, and the perceived social cost of saying ‘no’ makes it way lot easier to say ‘yes’. Because the context creates legitimacy, social acceptance creates room for technical compromise.

Nobody behaves irrationally. Nobody thinks they are being careless. Every step feels explainable in isolation.

The structure itself enables its destruction

Organisations audit systems, not conversations. They discipline errors, not environments. They log actions, not pressures thus individualising failure, erasing context, and preserving the fiction that choice was free and unconstrained.

Most enterprise systems are designed to record what was done, who did it, when it was done, from where, and using which credentials. They are not designed to record why it felt necessary, what fear preceded it, what threat, ambiguity, or power imbalance was present, and what consequences the person was trying to avoid.

So the record shows: Employee X accessed File Y at 11:42 pm. It does not show: Employee X had just been told their role was ‘under review’, was informally asked for data by a superior, and was afraid that refusal would be noted.

When something goes wrong, investigations move outwards from the log, not inwards from the human. An action is identified, a policy violation is cited, and a responsibility is assigned. The pressure gradient that made the action feel inevitable remains invisible.

This is why good employees, who complied earlier, appear reckless later. Mistakes look malicious in hindsight, thereby hardening ‘insider threat’ narratives.

This allows institutions to say that, ‘The system worked. The human failed.’ Even when the system quietly created the conditions for that failure.

What we misunderstand about risk

There is no checklist here, no definitive to-do list of what organisations must do next. But there is no denying that in fearing technical sophistication, we overlook social predictability.

Organisations tend to believe danger as something external and advanced: zero-day exploits, sophisticated malware, elite foreign hackers. This fear is comfortable because it externalises the threat, justifies expensive tools, and suggests that only specialists could have prevented it. So when incidents occur, organisations ask, ‘Which vulnerability was exploited? Which system failed? Which tool did we lack?’ The assumption is: damage requires brilliance.

But damage often comes from social predictability which we routinely overlook. Human behaviour is remarkably consistent under pressure. People comply with authority, rush under deadlines, avoid conflict, and fear reputational harm more than abstract policy.

Attackers don’t need genius. They need insight into incentives, fear points, organisational culture, and informal power structures. Once those are mapped, outcomes become almost deterministic. The attacker isn’t guessing. They’re triggering a known response.

The question, then, is not whether people behaved wrongly, but whether modern organisations have made it unreasonable to behave otherwise.

If risk increasingly emerges from predictable human responses, we may need to ask a harder question than how systems were breached: what kinds of behaviour do our institutions reward, and which do they quietly punish?

Nitish Bhushan writes about technology, trust, and how behavioural vulnerabilities quietly reshape relationships and institutions.

Several of the themes explored here; insider vulnerability, reputational collapse, and quiet escalation, are examined through fiction in his novel Shadow Play: Love & Blackmail.

*This article was first published in The Print on the 31st of Jan 2026

The Unexpected Disturbance

There’s a fine line between what we read and what we feel, especially after midnight.

Raghav was halfway through one of the top Indian thriller novels, the kind that made your pulse match the turning of its pages. The hero on paper was chasing shadows; the reader in bed was running away from sleep.

And then, as if like a conspiracy, darkness.

The power went out. The hum of the ceiling fan died mid-spin. He could hear the slow, deliberate footsteps approaching. His mind, trained by pages of crime and suspense, filled in the gaps faster than logic could. The thrill of the story bled into the air around him. When the lights flickered back, his pulse still hadn’t slowed.

Across the city, she was wide awake too; deep inside the same thriller novel that promised “an ending you’ll never see coming.”

At 2:00 a.m., her doorbell rang.

Once. Then again.

She hesitated. Her neighbourhood was usually asleep by then. She peered through the peephole. All she could see was no one and a flickering tube light.

For a second, she thought she saw movement. A shadow, maybe, or her own fear dancing on the wall. She stood for a moment, and then dashed back.

When she returned to her reading chair, the story felt changed. So did the night. The fiction had reached out and touched her reality.

For both Raghav and Ananya, the interruption wasn’t a break. It was an extension of their thrill. The books had spilled into life, and they liked it that way. They both realised, unaware of each other’s existence that in the world of top Indian thriller novels, fear isn’t always on the page; it sometimes stands right outside your door.

A five-part micro story series that dives into the world of Indian suspense thriller novels. Through the eyes of two young midnight readers, it explores how suspense thriller Indian novels, top Indian thriller novels, and celebrated Indian thriller authors create unique thrills when the city sleeps.

Parallel Introductions

At 1 a.m., two different windows of the city glowed faintly against the dark.

In a cramped hostel room, Raghav balanced a torchlight against a stack of books. The hostel had finally gone quiet – snoring roommates, buzzing fans, an occasional thud from someone turning in their bunk. That was when he came alive. He reached for his latest obsession: an Indian suspense thriller novel. To him, the silence wasn’t empty; it was charged. Every rustle of a page felt like a warning, every creak in the corridor like a plot twist. The chaos of the day melted away, replaced by the thrill of conspiracies and cliffhangers.

Across the city, in a high-rise apartment twenty floors above the streetlights, Ananya poured herself a cup of masala chai. She worked in marketing, her days crammed with deadlines and client calls. But midnight was hers alone. She curled up by the balcony window with her current read – an Indian mystery thriller she had been saving for the quiet hours. For her, solitude wasn’t loneliness. It was suspense amplified: the hum of the refrigerator became a heartbeat in the dark, the honk of a late taxi a distant clue in the story.

Neither Raghav nor Ananya knew of the other. But in their separate worlds, they shared the same ritual – unlocking the night’s stillness through the sharp edge of a thriller’s page.

For both, midnight wasn’t just an hour. It was an atmosphere. A stage where fiction and life blurred, where thrillers novels written by Indian authors became more than entertainment – they became lifelines.

And so began their journeys, chapters apart, yet stories together. #KahaniHaiNaAmazing?

Do you also find your thrill past midnight?

A five-part micro story series that dives into the world of Indian suspense thriller novels. Through the eyes of two young midnight readers, it explores how suspense thriller Indian novels, top Indian thriller novels, and celebrated Indian thriller authors create unique thrills when the city sleeps.

The Sounds in the Backdrop

The city never truly sleeps; it just changes its soundtrack.

It was the daily late-night cacophony for Raghav. The sporadic bursts of laughter, the sound of students climbing up and down the stairs, chatting in the stairwell, the swearing, the arguments, walking past his room talking to each other, sometimes talking over each other, the spirited discussion around the tuck shop not far from his hostel building. It remained open till 2:00 AM. At times he could even hear the faint clang of steel plate in the mess. Finally, these voices would become too low to be of any significance.

That was his cue. He opened one of his favorite suspense thriller Indian novels, the kind that didn’t just tell a story but pulled him into it. Every faint sound, a creak in the corridor, a door closing two rooms away, felt like part of the plot. The book’s tension seemed to sync with the hostel’s heart rate.

Across the city, Ananya’s high-rise offered a different symphony. The distant faint wail of a siren, the occasional bark of dogs protecting their turf, a high-speed vehicle passing by. Each sound sharpened her awareness as she read, heightening every twist of her Indian thriller novel. Sometimes she paused, not sure if what she heard belonged to her book or the night itself.

Both felt the strange collaboration between fiction and environment. The city didn’t just frame their stories; it deepened them. It gave their thrillers an echo, their imaginations a rhythm.

For Raghav and Ananya, midnight wasn’t silence; it was suspense rendered in surround sound. Every noise outside their window became a clue, every silence a warning.

Different addresses. Same pulse. The city whispered, and their stories replied.