Priya Kaul woke up feeling she was burning in a desert—her lips cracked, throat parched and her tongue uselessly licking serrations on her lips hoping for some moist traction. There was none. Her fingertips were ice-cold, and she could make no sense of where she was. She felt suspended like water drops on a leaf, poised to fall, yet unable to do so, stuck at the tipping edge. A sense of control had defined her life. So far. Maybe now she had lost it. Could she have lost the use of her limbs? Or, a stroke or a heart attack was wasting her?
She was Priya Kaul. For the people of India, she was a goddess incarnate. A woman who lived life on her own terms in a world of men. The look of her arched eyebrows expressing displeasure, a stretch of her saree pallu firmly around her head; even her deadpan looks behind black, oversized sunglasses were enough to send a chill through the most indomitable of spirits. It is said that even the United States President, supposedly the most powerful man on the planet, was subjected to that unique, Priya Kaul-belt-treatment in a closed-door meeting with her. And what was his fault? He had the audacity to threaten and dominate her with humiliating demands.
But now at 3 in the night in her home, she was in a paroxysm of night terror. The vestiges of her ruthless dominating self-becoming a distant memory. And yet, purely from that old reflex she managed to throw the covers off the bed. And struggled to get to the door.
The gilded mirror was next to the door. The curtains were slightly parted, and moonlight coming in through the French windows illuminated the mirror. She looked at the mirror and saw an old woman, face drawn, eyes hollowed out. She screamed from the depths of her soul and sank to her knees shivering.
It was her. She was the face in the mirror. This is what she had been reduced to. An old, terrified, out of control woman living life on the edge.
She crawled on all fours to the bed switch and switched on the table lamp. She slumped near the bed, her head staring vacuously at the ceiling. She lay in that posture for a while and then she willed herself to get up and walk out the door.
She was Priya Kaul. She was feared and respected by all. There were no other words to describe her. And yet, she was at the far end of the world, lost, confused, and fearful like she had never been before.
The house lay in semi-darkness. Corner table lamps dimly lit up the rectangular drawing room, throwing funnel-shaped shadows on the walls. She stumbled on her way to the small refrigerator next to the dining table. She opened the Frigidaire and took out a vodka bottle tucked in between a row of cold water-bottles.
Bottle in hand, she looked for a glass from the crockery shelf and a chair at the dining table. She sat for the next half an hour downing three stiff vodka shots. She began to feel more composed and in control of her emotions. She was thinking properly. It was not some crippling heart attack that had unsettled her. She could no longer manage the stress and strain of her eventful life. Good news was at a premium. Bad news never came in driblets.
She got on a line, euphemistically called RAX (restricted automatic exchange) by the Intelligence Bureau. There was a click, and her man for all seasons, of night and day—Narang, answered. ‘Madam.’
She heard his flat tone, the unchanging acknowledgement, and once again felt hopeful and connected to the world. Despite her panicked state, she thought of Narang. He never changed. He had the unique gift of always remaining the same. His reassuring voice came on the phone, and she felt better. It was as if his existence was defined by waiting for the phone to ring from her end. Even at 3 in the night.
‘Narang, I cannot sleep.’
‘I am here, Madam. Tell me what you need?’
She thought for a moment and then asked him about the rally Tapash had held in Patna earlier that day. The conservative news agency PTI (Press Trust of India) had given a figure of 3 lakh people. That many people had turned up to listen to Tapash to rant and rave against her. But the government held a significant stake in the news agency. She knew from experience that the numbers had been sanitised. But Narang would know. He always knew. He always had his ear to the ground. She asked him for the real number.
Narang hesitated for a second. Then he replied in his flat monotone.
‘It would be closer to twice that number, Madam.’
Her breath was taken away. She was finally beginning to understand what lay at the bottom of her fears. She pressed on.
‘What else? Where is it all leading to?’
Narang again hesitated. Then he answered pithily.
‘Total revolution. He’s given a call for that. An uprising of students all over the country against your government. And he no longer plans to be confined to Bihar. He’s coming to Delhi. He plans a massive rally at Ramlila Maidan….’
Priya Kaul switched off. So, the enemy was at the gates.
Oddly, she was beginning to feel calm, more controlled, like her own self. She was an old woman in the mirror, but there was still enough fight left in her. She thought of herself as a plane hurtling to the ground heading for a crash. And then, the plane miraculously kissed the surface, and the wings lifted with new, inexplicable force to meet the sky. That was her of late. Touch and go, touch, and go.
And then, the calm of the night outside shattered. Something had happened. There was a crashing noise at the gates, a car horn blared incessantly, the searchlights came on and the guard dogs barked uncontrollably.
The powerful searchlights on the terrace picked up an ambassador sedan that had crashed into the gate at the driveway. The car headlight was broken, and the bonnet of the sedan was crumpled up from the impact. The engine was still running as Prahlad emerged from the driver’s seat sodden with drink. The door to the sedan opened from the other side and a girl in a mini, the cut of her dress just above the knees, with cultivated long hair, emerged and ran towards Prahlad to steady him.
Priya Kaul squinted in the night light. A girl in a mini at the Prime Minister’s residence. That must be a first.
One of India’s pioneering TV journalists turned writer-stage actor, Juggi Bhasin, known for his popular comic strip and bestselling Agent Rana thrillers — returns with ‘Lies, Spies and Nuclear Rise’ (Vitasta), a razor-sharp reality fiction that delves into the volatile interplay of power, deception, and patriotism amid South Asia’s nuclear race.
At the centre of this tense story is Prime Minister Priya Kaul—a leader under pressure, betrayed by friends, chased by powerful nations, and fighting to regain control. Her bold final move is to approve India’s first nuclear test, triggering a dangerous clash between the CIA, ISI, and RAW. As India becomes a playground for spies, spymaster Rhino and scientist Dr. Venkat Iyer must race against time to complete their mission — or risk losing everything.
Blending cinematic storytelling with sharp political insight, Bhasin creates a world where loyalty is short-lived, and survival depends on deceit. Lies, Spies and Nuclear Rise is a thrilling mix of politics and storytelling — perfect for readers who enjoy smart, high-stakes stories that feel real and intense.
