The last two decades have witnessed a flourishing of Indian English fiction that pivots on the murky intersections of power, politics, urban life, and the human psyche. In particular, a new genre of literary thrillers and social dramas has emerged—stories that speak not just of murders and betrayals, but of the systems that enable them and the people shaped by them. The three books under review fall squarely into this tradition. While their plots differ widely—a celebrity murder in Mumbai, suspicious deaths in a remote village, and a missing tech founder—they are bound together by their preoccupation with moral ambiguity, institutional decay, and the relentless pull of human desire.
Siddharth Dhanvant Shanghvi’s The Lost Flamingoes of Bombay is a deeply atmospheric novel that wraps its noir aesthetic around Bombay of the 1990s—a city caught at the cusp of transformation, wrestling with its postcolonial identity, and brimming with possibility and despair in equal measure. At the centre of this story is Karan Seth, a young photographer who arrives in the city with dreams, only to be gradually sucked into its cruel labyrinth.
Karan’s initial encounters—whether with the refined pianist Samar Arora, the magnetic actress Zaira, or the American writer Leo—are bathed in the city’s glamorous haze. Yet, beneath the surface lies a volatile terrain marked by class divides, political interference, and sexual undercurrents. The murder of Zaira by the son of a powerful politician jolts the narrative into darker territory, exposing a legal system riddled with corruption and a society numbed to violence.
The novel ambitiously weaves together themes of passion, betrayal, homosexuality, riots, and the AIDS crisis. However, it remains somewhat scattered in its treatment, dabbling in each but exploring none in depth. Shanghvi’s narrative is rich in mood but loose in cohesion, often forsaking structural discipline for lyrical detours. The result is a story that is emotionally potent yet narratively diffuse—a portrait of Bombay as a city that devours both its heroes and its dreamers.
Still, the novel succeeds in portraying the psychological aftermath of violence. It is less interested in the whodunit and more invested in the emotional ruins left behind—how grief, guilt, and trauma distort identity and how people, even when broken, are compelled to return to the city that destroyed them. It is this cyclical pattern of departure and return, of loss and longing, that gives the book its melancholic power.
If Shanghvi’s novel is a tone poem on love and loss, Rakesh Kumar Singh’s Affairs of Deception is a sharp political thriller. Set in Chhattisgarh, in the village of Dantewada, the novel begins with the mysterious deaths of two young girls. But what appears to be a tragic incident soon spirals into a gripping investigation that implicates everyone, from local bureaucrats to high-ranking officials.
Singh’s strength lies in his ability to depict the deep rot within systems of power. The narrative operates on the principle of ‘guilty until proven innocent’, and this inversion of legal commonsense casts a long shadow over every character. No one is above suspicion—neither the investigators nor the supposed protectors of justice. The novel suggests that in a landscape where truth is negotiable and loyalty is transactional, innocence becomes a casualty.
What distinguishes Affairs of Deception from conventional thrillers is its psychological depth. Characters are not merely agents of plot; they are individuals torn between ambition and morality, between personal gain and professional duty. The novel’s exploration of moral compromise is subtle and nuanced—its characters are not evil but human, trapped in a world where choices are rarely clear-cut.
However, the book is not without its flaws. Some readers might find the delayed introduction of major events—such as the high-profile murders—a structural weakness. The pacing occasionally lags, and the complex web of relationships can lead to confusion. But these are minor quibbles in a novel that otherwise manages to remain intellectually engaging and emotionally resonant.
Singh also uses his story as a mirror to contemporary India where the judiciary, media, and police often find themselves caught in political crossfire. The novel forces the reader to confront uncomfortable truths: that justice is often selective, that institutions are not infallible, and that the line between good and evil is not only blurry—it is constantly shifting.
Rohithari Rajan’s Party to a Crime takes us into a world seemingly far removed from the dusty lanes of Dantewada or the chaotic charm of Bombay: the polished, high-stakes world of Indian startups. But beneath its sleek, corporate surface lies a story equally riddled with betrayal, ambition, and moral collapse.
When Karan, a charismatic entrepreneur, vanishes under mysterious circumstances, the narrative unfolds through the conflicting testimonies of four individuals: his wife, a close associate, an old friend and a disgruntled employee. Each is a potential suspect; each has something to hide. The back-and-forth structure of the novel, alternating between testimonies and flashbacks, creates a rhythm of suspense and revelation that keeps the reader guessing.
What makes Party to a Crime particularly compelling is its exploration of desire—not just romantic or sexual, but the desire for recognition, power, control. The characters are all, in some way, broken by this desire, making compromises that blur the line between ambition and manipulation. Ranjan’s prose is clinical yet immersive, allowing readers to peel back the layers of each character’s psyche with surgical precision.
Yet, the novel is not merely a whodunit. Like Affairs of Deception, it is an inquiry into the cost of personal and professional ambition. It lays bare the fragile morality of corporate life, where loyalty is conditional, and success often demands the erasure of conscience. The novel’s unsettling ending—neither redemptive nor fully punitive—echoes its central theme: in a world governed by greed, closure is a myth.
Taken together, these three novels form a fascinating triptych of modern Indian life—urban and rural, elite and subaltern, personal and institutional. They interrogate the illusions of justice, the hollowness of power, and the weight of individual choices. Each novel, in its own way, asks the same question: what does it mean to live ethically in a world that rewards compromise?
Another common thread is the critique of institutions—be it the police, the judiciary, the media, or the start-up ecosystem. These novels do not preach; instead, they depict. The cumulative effect is a sobering commentary on the erosion of trust in systems meant to uphold truth and justice.
There is also a shared structural trait in the way all three novels use multiple perspectives, fragmented narratives, and non-linear storytelling. This not only adds to the suspense but mirrors the thematic uncertainty that runs through them. Truth, in these novels, is always partial, always contested.
In the end, The Lost Flamingoes of Bombay, Affairs of Deception, and Party to a Crime are not just stories—they are investigations, not only of crimes but of character, society, and conscience. They show us that the most haunting mysteries are not about who committed a crime, but why they did it—and how they lived with themselves afterward.
For readers interested in fiction that probes beneath the surface, blurs genres while staying rooted in social reality, these novels offer rewarding, if unsettling journeys. They remind us that while justice may be elusive, literature can still illuminate the shadows where truth trembles and waits.
Sunat and Tamana Aijaz Khan have just completed their postgraduation in Political Science from Jamia Millia Islamia, New Delhi.[/ihc-hide-content]