Indian spy thrillers are hard to come by, this one is said to be a gripping tale of espionage, betrayal, romance and patriotism…

Reviewed by Vikram Vepa

NUCLEAR bombs, secret missions, art, archaeology, history, medicine and torture, bureaucracy, old world romance, poisons that leave no trace, Bollywood, underworld dons, spies and hit squads, moles and double agents, the Himalayas, London, Washington, terrorists, colonial legacy, the Cold War, Nobel laureates, hi tech, girl power and Lady Luck. Take this potpourri of ingredients, churn them well, add a dash of realism, throw in Osama Bin Laden for good measure, garnish with geopolitics, and serve on an international platter.
“The Portrait of a Secret” is a novel that combines all these elements in a 282-page book, a first attempt by Tarun Mehrishi, and published by Penguin Random House India. Mr Mehrishi has been a corporate lawyer, a graduate of the Indian School of Business, dabbled in sports management, and is now into EV’s. A chequered background, the same diversity he brings to his writing.
The title of the book first caught my fancy, intrigue and art rolled into one. It starts off with Nicholas Roerich, a Russian who dabbled in paints and spiritual mysticism, reportedly inducing hypnosis in the viewers, a preserver of cultural heritage. He spent many years in India, practicing and propagating his “agni yoga.” He breathed his last in November 1947, soon after India got Independence. What would be revealed, what long lost tales would come to light? As I read further, I realised that Nicholas Roerich was only the beginning of a story that would result in a panorama of international relations that would play out many years after his death.
The plot itself is simple. Roerich had gifted two paintings of his to a small research station near his house in the hills of India, the existence of which was forgotten and never appreciated. It was only after they were stolen that their worth was realised, and efforts were made to recover them. Particularly after it was discovered that one of the paintings had a secret message embedded in it, information that could have far reaching repercussions in the sub-continent. The book is all about the ways in which the conflicting parties attempt to possess these paintings for their own benefit, and the lengths they go to achieve their ends.
The author claims that the basic premise of the story, the theft of the paintings, is a fact; and the rest is a work of fiction. It is well that he makes this disclaimer. Anyone who has lived through most of these events or studied them, will find credible similarities to real life. He also uses a “time warp” to displace historical events, so that parallels are not so obvious. The constant shuffling between the 40’s, the 60’s and the 21st century creates its own time warp, which the reader will have to pay close attention to. There is one more true recorded fact in the tale, which I will leave the reader to discover.
The author gives us an insight into the red tape world of Indian bureaucracy, the rigid following of archaic rules, and the torturous path taken in the corridors of powers. He also gives us a glimpse of a new India, its technological prowess, and the ability to get things done quickly, by-passing the constraints that system has built into itself. Does this come from a familiarity with the workings, which he has observed closely, even if once removed?
The author describes the workings of the intelligence agencies, their penetration of each other networks, their machinations, and the number of different strands being brought together like a puppet master. There are executions and terminations, a hard-headed disregard for compassion in the interests of national security. At times you are willing to believe it is true, for the simple reason that it seems so unbelievable! Maybe truth is stranger than fiction. It is then that you remember that this really is fiction, and the author has made good use of his license.
To sum up, the book is interesting to read on a lazy afternoon, or on a long flight. It will keep you occupied, keep boredom at bay, and will help you strengthen your mental muscles whilst you figure out the various story lines that the author manages to connect quite successfully. If I were to classify it, I would say it’s a Ludlum-like thriller, abridged and simplified. All in all, a pleasant read. A good first book, I look forward to reading more from him.
I found one major flaw in the storyline; I wonder how many of the readers will discover it!

Excerpted from `The Portrait of a Secret’ by Tarun Mehrishi…

Chapter 41
1 March 2010
London
1.15p.m.
HE spoke to Pamela nearly every other day since his return. With both of them being caught up with work, the opportunity t meet refused to materialize, so they had to make do with regular phone calls, interspersed with letters frilled with longing and promises about the future. Eight months later, she informed him that she would be unavailable for a few days, having been tasked with an assignment in Indonesia. A few weeks later, he read of the Cia’s failed attempt to topple the Indonesian president and wondered whether this was the mission that Pamela had been assigned to. Having no way to find out, he continued to wait. A few weeks after that, when he had still not heard from her, he began to make inquiries, reaching out to his to his contacts within the CIA.
His contacts failed to find Pamela, running into impenetrable walls of classified information. He called her number every day, waiting painfully for the operator to connect the international call, but got nothing more than unanswered rings. He found himself at a loss and took time off work to visit her home in Washington, only to discover that her neighbours had not seen her in months. Assuming that the worst had happened in Indonesia, he returned to India, desolate. His dreams destroyed, he threw himself into his work, giving himself no free time to grieve.
In December, his friends introduce him to Neha, the daughter of India’s ambassador to the USSR. Desperate to fill the void left by Pamela, he made himself fall in love again, telling himself that he could do worse than marry a girl devoted to him, having the right connections as well. By February the following year, they were married, the ceremonies attended by powerful friends of the ambassador’s, including then incumbent and future prime ministers. One of the several wedding gifts organized by his father-in-law was his promotion to Senior Analyst, which allowed him to run his own team. His life was on track although he still remembered Pamela sometimes, she became an increasingly distant memory, which dimmed daily as his love for Neha grew.
And then suddenly, it all fell apart with a phone call he received. Having reflexively answered the phone, he nearly dropped the receiver when he heard Pamela’s voice. His happiness turned to dismay as he heard Pamela threatening him, unable to believe that this was the woman he had loved. She hung up before he could respond, confident that he would find a way to come to the States to meet her.
He hung on to the receiver long after the call was disconnected. He had not told Neha or her father about Pamela and now he was stuck. He had no doubt that if Pamela acted on her threat and circulated either the sex tape that she claimed to be in possession of or the letters that he had written to her, his life would be over. Neha would leave him and his father-in-law would destroy his career.
Hoping to reason with Pamela, he flew to Washington on the pretext of meeting the CIA to set up an intelligence-sharing platform. Their meeting – no doubt, to reinforce the extent to which he was trapped – had been organized at her house. He walked in and saw Pamela, beautiful as always, but now the coldness in her eyes. She played the tape that showed them in bed, leaving no doubts about his identity or for their actions to be interpreted as anything but passionate sex.
Beseechingly, he looked up and was horrified by the haughtiness on her face. She needled him and asked him whether he had truly believed that she could love an insipid, ugly and from a Third World country like him. She laughed as she told him about the fun she had had reading out and responding to his passionate letters with her colleagues. He had wept silently, her words cutting him to the depth of his soul, anger replacing the space vacated by love.
He lost control when she asked him for what she wanted in exchange for her silence. He grabbed her by the neck, pinning her against the wall as he strangled the life out of her. She had been caught unprepared and once he had his legs locked with hers, there was no way for her to break out of the grasp of the much stronger man. Her eyes opened wide in terror as she realized that the gentle man she knew had changed into a trapped animal that was going to kill her to protect what he had earned. He cried as he strangled her, grief and anger combining to block out reason and the warnings of his rational brain drowning in the torrent of primal hormones flowing through him. He continued to squeeze long after she had stopped struggling, his fingers imprinting themselves on her squashed throat.
Eventually, he allowed her limp body to drop to the floor and sat on her sofa to catch his breath and collect his thought. He screamed when he felt a hand on his shoulder, but a blunt object crashed against his skull before he could even turn around. When he woke, he was tied to a chair. He looked around and found that he was still in Pamela’s house, still facing the television on which he had watched himself having sex with her before.
But this time, it was playing the footage of the murder he had just committed.