A Gods in The Glass City Saga Manthan

Description

Gods in the Glass City is a conspiracy thriller about a smart city that edits reality with polite screens. By day, Amaravati sells “calm.” By night, it quietly decides what the public will see. The result is a churn—manthan—where nectar and poison rise together, and no one is sure which cup is in their hand.

At the center is Mridula Sharma, an archivist who trusts paper over dashboards. A late-night file and a small mismatch on a “donor lane” turn her into a witness. Kaal, a street-clever listener, hears the city’s hidden beat—1, 2, 3, hold, 4—and begins to measure how long “safety” holds harm in place. Together with Kashi, a steady ex-cop, they collect small proofs: a stamp, a serial, a minute that won’t learn a new name. In the glass towers, programs with soft names—City Balance, mohini_gate, Vajra—choose which truth to pour. Varun slides into a quiet chair that looks like it has been waiting for him; Maya keeps the tone clean; a convoy meant for a hospital ends at a data annex. Calm is arranged. Costs are hidden.

What to expect: short, tense chapters; plain language; human stakes. Each chapter ends with a brief paradox note and a sharp hook to the next. The book favors touchable proof—ink, paper, time—over jargon. It begins with a prophecy in an old room and builds toward a simple, stubborn question: can a record made by hand outlast a story made by code?

If you like thrillers where small acts refuse to vanish, this is your book.

About The Author

Abhishek Kumar Mishra is a data-and-research scientist who hunts for patterns by day and writes them into stories by night. He works with real signals—numbers, timestamps, measured change—and brings the same discipline to the page: clean lines, clear stakes, no wasted motion.

He writes poems, sketches in charcoal, and paints on canvas when a line needs to breathe. Years of lifting iron and training martial arts taught him form, timing, and respect for small, repeatable moves—the same virtues that shape his chapters. He also cooks, because heat, patience, and attention turn simple ingredients into something that stays with you. Code, verse, a left hook, a brushstroke, a slow stew: different crafts, one grammar—measure, commit, refine.

His fiction lives where human feeling meets engineered order. He is drawn to quiet rebels, to paper and stamps, to proofs you can touch. On the research side, he studies how complex systems behave; on the literary side, he asks what those systems do to us. The result is a voice that is spare, steady, and hard to shake.

Gods in the Glass City is his invitation: step into a city that smiles while it edits, and meet ordinary people who refuse to disappear. If you listen closely, you may hear the count. If you lean closer, you may feel the breath.