I read Shailendra Jha’s Press 9 for a Crime with my late-night lamp on; it’s a razor-sharp, humane thriller set between East Delhi and scam hubs in Southeast Asia. Fast, funny, and disturbingly real, it follows Aseem’s risky rescue of his missing brother. This review analyses theme, craft, character work and why the book both alarms and entertains and lingers.
Why did this book grab me at once?
Have you ever opened a book at midnight because the world outside felt suddenly less interesting than the danger on the page? That was me with Press 9 for a Crime. As someone who reads a lot of thrillers, I’m picky about two things: believable stakes, and characters I care about. Jha gives me both within the first ten pages.
The opening scenes place you in a cramped East Delhi neighbourhood and you instantly feel the hum of small-town hopes: the son who promises escape through a “job in Bangkok”, the ledger of family debts, the refrigerator light in a kitchen where dreams are rationed. Jha’s background in journalism and screenwriting pays off — the prose is concise, cinematic and economical. He doesn’t waste an emotional beat: the vanishing of Atul feels like both a headline and a private calamity. Within that first hour of reading I was not just curious about the plot; I was invested in this family’s tiny, precarious future.
This immediate investment is important because the novel then escalates quickly — into criminal networks, into forced fraud hubs and across borders. But he never lets the spectacle swallow the people. From a reader’s point of view the pacing is perfect: quick enough to keep me turning pages, but always returning to the domestic core — the Anand family — so the stakes are emotionally anchored.
(Author/publisher details: Press 9 for a Crime is published by Penguin — Ebury Press in September 2025; length listed around 180 pages in paperback. Cover design has been createdby Sparsh Raj Singh.
What is the plot in a nutshell?
What if a single phone call changed everything? That’s the premise. In a low-income neighbourhood of Delhi, the Anand family pins their hopes on Atul, the dependable elder son who accepts a seemingly lucrative job in Bangkok. Days later, Atul disappears. The truth — when it surfaces — is horrifying: he has been trapped inside a cyber-scam compound operating out of Cambodia, forced to deceive strangers online, and kept in prison-like conditions.
Aseem, his younger brother — charmingly described as a "prince of failed plans" — is a wayward figure with a string of small schemes and a taste for reckless hope. With the family unraveling, Aseem concocts the only plan he sees: to find and rescue Atul. The story follows his infiltration attempts, the moral compromises he faces, and the ways in which small courage and desperate cunning intersect in a world of organised deceit.
Plotwise the novel moves from a personal missing-person story to a cross-border thriller about modern slavery by way of online fraud: the perpetrators are both the unseen scammers and whatever failures of law, diplomacy and greed allowed such compounds to thrive.
Which themes does the novel explore most powerfully?
How does the book handle the theme of family?
At its heart this is a family story. Jha treats the Anand household with tenderness and impatience, the kind you see in real families that press their luck on the strength of one member’s hopes. The novel asks a quietly corrosive question: how much risk should love tolerate? Atul’s departure is a gamble, and the family’s daily survival is a ledger of small compromises. Jha doesn’t sentimentalise poverty; rather, he shows how compassion and obligation can become pressure points, forcing decisions that look rational when you’re hungry.
Aseem’s arc is the emotional engine. He’s not a tidy hero; he’s a messy, half-formed man who must learn what discipline of action looks like when the stakes are life and death. That growth — from small scams to one very dangerous, altruistic gamble — frames the emotional narrative.
How does it treat modern digital vulnerability and scams?
Jha writes as someone who understands the mechanics and the human cost. The scam compounds in the book are not cartoonish villains' lairs; they are plausible, industrialised operations that groom, coerce and enclose workers into fraud routines. The novel foregrounds the uncomfortable truth: these schemes rely on empathy, human gullibility and the anonymity of the web. But they also depend on the exploitation of the economically vulnerable, making the novel less a whodunit than a commentary on global inequality.
I checked the real-world backdrop because the novel’s power depends on that believability. Recent reporting and investigations (Amnesty, Reuters, the UN and the Global Initiative on Transnational Organised Crime) confirm that scam compounds in Cambodia and other parts of Southeast Asia have been implicated in human trafficking, torture and massive online fraud operations — the scale and brutality Jha dramatizes are aligned with verified reporting. For instance, Amnesty and Reuters piece together allegations of dozens of scam centres and systemic abuses; the UN and AP have reported waves of arrests and large-scale rescue efforts in 2024–25. These are not fictional inventions.
Who are the protagonists and what makes them tick?
What drives Aseem and how does he change?
Aseem is the novel’s beating, imperfect heart. He’s the kind of character who keeps borrowing hope like a short-term loan: sometimes useful, sometimes poisonous. What readers will recognise immediately is his restless optimism — the kind born from feeling boxed in. He’s resourceful; he’s funny in a way that eases stress rather than denying it. When Aseem chooses action, the choice is less heroic plan than a refusal to be inert in the face of harm to someone he loves.
His arc is linear but convincing. The stakes force him to focus; the petty schemes that once defined him become tools for a higher aim. Jha writes Aseem with compassion: his flaws never become the joke of the plot; they are part of the reason we root for him.
What is Atul’s role beyond 'missing person'?
Atul is a ghostly presence structurally — absent yet formative. He stands for the migrant hope that sends family members overseas in search of income and dignity. In the scenes we do get of him (phone calls, memories) he’s less a fully enumerated character and more a moral force that provokes the family’s choices. That works: Atul’s absence reveals more about the living than any direct depiction could.
What about the rest of the family and side characters?
Jha gives enough dimension to the parents and neighbours to make the Delhi setting feel lived-in. They’re practical, sometimes cruel in their impatience, but also full of tenderness. This small chorus makes the novel feel like a community novel trapped inside a thriller: it’s about how violence and criminal economies ripple through ordinary lives.
How does Shailendra Jha use pace, humour and tension to keep readers hooked?
One of the novel’s slyest achievements is how it marries urgency with a conversational humour. The stakes are lethal, yet the book is often funny — not laugh-at-the-situation humour, but humour as a human survival technique. When characters banter, when Aseem makes a ridiculous plan and refuses to see it as ridiculous, the humour relieves otherwise unbearable pressure without undercutting the danger. That tonal balance is hard to pull off; Jha manages it by letting seriousness and comedy exist on the same plane.
Pacing is economical. Scenes are short, often cinematic — a trait you can trace to Jha’s screenwriting craft. He edits ruthlessly: no subplot overstays its welcome; every chapter pushes the protagonist forward, either in action or in moral decision. The result is a book that reads quickly — as it should for a thriller — but leaves time for reflective pauses that deepen character.
Readers who like tense thrillers with moments of dark laughter will find this rhythm intoxicating.
What literary devices and craft techniques stand out?
Does the book use journalistic detail or cinematic beats?
Both. Jha’s journalism roots show up in his meticulous attention to small, clarifying details: the exact way a ledger is folded, the smell of a cheap hotel corridor, the cadence of a scammer’s patter. Those are the details that make fiction feel truthful. At the same time, his screenwriter’s instinct produces cinematic beats: quick cuts, dialogue that reads like dialogue meant to be spoken, and cliffhangers placed at chapter ends that make you stay up later than you planned.
What about imagery, voice and structure?
Imagery is lean: he rarely lingers over metaphor, preferring a crisp, public-service clarity. Voice is first-person at times and third-person close at others (the book shifts to follow Aseem closely). Structurally, the book alternates between family scenes and the claustrophobic spaces of the scam compounds. This alternation sets up an emotional tug of war — home versus system — that feels deliberate and successful.
How believable is the scam-factory backdrop and what do the facts say?
If you read this novel and think “this is dramatized”, please note the disquieting reality: investigative reports from 2024–25 indicate that organised scam compounds have been widespread in parts of Southeast Asia, including Cambodia, and that they often involve coercion, trafficking and violence. Amnesty International and Reuters documented dozens of scam centres and alleged systemic abuses; the Global Initiative on Transnational Organised Crime published analyses of how these operations evolved in the pandemic’s aftermath. The AP and other outlets have reported large-scale raids and thousands of arrests in 2025. In short: the industry Jha fictionalises exists and, in many reports, operates with shocking violence and scale.
Including these facts greatly increases the novel’s urgency and the ethical stakes of its action. It turns Press 9 for a Crime from mere entertainment into a warning shot about how modern frauds prey on hope.
How does this remind me of Taxi Driver season 2, episode 1 — are the comparisons fair?
The K-drama Taxi Driver (Season 2, Episode 1) follows a vigilante rescue agency that retrieves victims and mete out a kind of justice the system won’t. The similarity is structural: both works centre on retrieval/rescue, on people who operate outside formal institutions to confront wrongs. Taxi Driver often frames its rescues as cinematic missions; Jha’s book frames Aseem’s mission as a messy, more intimate act of reckoning.
The parallels are uncanny—themes of scam farms, hidden cybercrime networks, and the moral question of what justice really means. But Jha’s story is firmly rooted in Indian family life, giving it an emotional centre that feels closer to home.
The comparison is fair in mood and premise — a missing person, a rescue mission, a vigilante thrust. But the tone differs. Taxi Driver has operatic heroics; Press 9 for a Crime is David to that drama’s Goliath — or, better, a close, grainy documentary about one family trying to navigate a monstrous system. Both satisfy the desire for cathartic retribution, but Jha’s approach is smaller, grittier and grounded in the bureaucracy and cruelty of criminal economies. For readers who loved the rescue mechanics in Taxi Driver, Jha’s novel will feel familiar; but expect less spectacle, more smell, and more interior pain.
Where does the book succeed most? (strengths)
-
Emotional core: The family centre (the Anands) is vivid and convincing. Jha writes ordinary love with rare tenderness, which heightens the danger when things go wrong.
-
Pacing and readability: Short chapters and cinematic scenes make this a single-sitting read for many late-night readers.
-
Topical realism: The scam compound material is grounded in verified reporting; that factual anchor makes the fiction feel almost documentary-like.
-
Tone balance: The humour, where present, comes from human resilience rather than flippancy. It softens the horror without trivialising it.
Who will love this book and who might not?
You’ll love it if you: enjoy urgent, humane thrillers; read late at night; like fast, cinematic prose; want topical fiction that feels anchored in reportage; appreciate a mixture of grit and low-simmering humour.
You might not enjoy it if you: prefer dense literary psychodramas, or want fully expansive casts with long internal monologues; or if you dislike ending scenes that suggest more questions than tidy solutions.
A note on the author — who is Shailendra Jha?
Shailendra Jha is best known as the creator and co-writer of the acclaimed Disney+ Hotstar web series Grahan and has a background in news and television. He has been honoured with the Screenwriters Association Award and has earned multiple nominations, including for the Filmfare OTT Awards. His film and short-film credits include Tumhare Bina, screened at international festivals.
Writers are often shaped by the worlds they inhabit, and Shailendra Jha is no exception. Before becoming a novelist, he was a journalist, a screenwriter, and a showrunner. Each of these roles finds its way into Press 9 for Crime.
Jha also worked in news television. He launched Tez, India’s first speed news channel, and held senior roles at Aaj Tak and Star India. What does that mean for his fiction? It means he understands pace. News is about urgency, immediacy, cutting fat from the story—and that’s exactly what his novel delivers.
He continues to work independently as a creative consultant, developing films and series alongside his fiction.
Readers, do you think journalists-turned-authors bring more realism into their stories, or do they risk making them too “report-like”?
Which famous line or back-cover quote sticks with me?
There are a few pithy endorsements on the jacket worth quoting — they capture the book’s strange double life as both entertainment and public warning.
Have you ever worried about falling for a scam call?
In our hyperconnected world, it’s not unusual to receive a phone call that feels “off.” Maybe it’s someone offering you a too-good-to-be-true deal, or perhaps a polite voice reminding you about an overdue bill that you know you already paid. Most of us hang up. Some of us fall for it. And every now and then, we stop to wonder: What really happens behind those calls?
This is where Shailendra Jha’s Press 9 for Crime comes charging in. It isn’t just a crime thriller. It’s a story that shakes you awake to the realities of how entire industries of scams are thriving in Southeast Asia—targeting vulnerable youth, exploiting families, and turning digital vulnerability into a billion-dollar enterprise.
At 170 pages, this book is deceptively slim. Yet, in those pages, Jha manages to pack humour, grit, heartbreak, and thrill. He makes you laugh at moments you least expect, then immediately leaves you uneasy.
Why is this important today? Because cybercrime is no longer an isolated issue. According to Cybersecurity Ventures, the global cost of cybercrime is projected to hit $10.5 trillion annually by 2025. That’s larger than the GDP of most nations. When crime goes digital, nobody is safe. And Jha’s story shows us just how terrifyingly real this problem has become.
What is the plot of Press 9 for Crime?
So, what’s this book actually about?
At its heart, Press 9 for Crime tells the story of the Anand family. A modest, middle-class family living in a Delhi neighbourhood, their hopes are pinned on the elder son, Atul. He’s the reliable one—the bright child who has secured a lucrative job in Bangkok. His journey represents every parent’s dream: escape from economic hardship, a chance at stability, a better life abroad.
But then, just days after he leaves, Atul vanishes. Not into thin air, but into something far darker—a brutal cyber-scam hub operating out of Cambodia. These are not small-time crooks. These are organised crime rings that lure young Indians with the promise of jobs, then trap them in compounds where they’re forced to cheat others over the phone.
Back in Delhi, the Anand family is crushed. Their fragile bonds begin to break. But the story doesn’t stop there. The spotlight shifts to Aseem—the younger son. Unlike Atul, Aseem is reckless. A boy with a reputation for failed ventures, constant money troubles, and a knack for half-baked schemes. Yet when his brother disappears, Aseem steps up.
How does the book balance grit with humour?
One of the most surprising qualities of Press 9 for Crime is its tone. This could easily have been a grim, heavy story. After all, it deals with forced labour, international scams, and fractured families. Yet, Jha doesn’t let it drown in darkness.
There’s an undercurrent of wit that keeps the narrative alive. Aseem, with all his flaws, often brings humour into tense situations—not through forced jokes, but through his natural personality. It’s the kind of humour you find in your own family during moments of crisis. You laugh, not because things are funny, but because laughter is the only way to survive.
This balancing act—serious themes layered with entertainment—is what makes the book work. It doesn’t weigh you down, but it doesn’t let you escape unscathed either. Much like Imtiaz Ali said about it, it’s “fast, fierce and frighteningly believable.”
What themes stand out the most?
Every thriller hides larger themes beneath its chase sequences and high-stakes moments. Press 9 for Crime is no different. Three themes in particular stand out:
-
Scams and Digital Vulnerability:This is the most obvious one. The novel isn’t science fiction—it’s reality wrapped in fiction. Scam centres in Cambodia, Laos, and Myanmar have been making headlines for years. By 2023, The Guardian reported that thousands of Indians were being trafficked and forced to run online scams. Jha builds on this very real horror.
-
Family and Redemption:If scams are the novel’s skeleton, family is its beating heart. The Anand family isn’t extraordinary. They’re like any other family you might know—parents hoping one child succeeds, quietly worrying about the other. But when tragedy strikes, it isn’t the golden son who holds them together—it’s the unreliable one. This theme reminded me of The Children at Green Meadows, another story that explores fragile family dynamics under pressure, albeit in a very different setting. Both stories show us how families bend, break, and sometimes rebuild when tested by forces larger than themselves.
-
Trust vs. Deception:Every scam is built on deception. But what hurts more in this novel isn’t the scam—it’s the betrayals within the family, the doubts, and the unspoken fears. Trust is hard to earn, easy to break, and almost impossible to restore fully. Jha shows us how scams don’t just steal money—they steal faith.
Who are the protagonists and what makes them memorable?
Characters are where Shailendra Jha shines. His background in writing for screen is evident here—the characters feel alive, flawed, and cinematic.
-
Atul Anand: The elder son. Responsible, reliable, everything a parent dreams of. His disappearance is the trigger for the story, but he also represents a larger truth: sometimes, doing everything “right” still doesn’t protect you from the wrongs of the world.
-
Aseem Anand: The younger son. A walking disaster in many ways, yet strangely likeable. He’s impulsive, often selfish, but also deeply human. Aseem is the reason the novel sparkles with humour. He’s also proof that sometimes the least likely person rises to the occasion when it matters most.
-
The Parents: They aren’t given flashy roles, but their presence is constant. They embody the quiet strength—and fragility—of countless Indian families. They hope, they worry, they fight, but above all, they love. And that love, in its own way, drives the story forward.
That’s Aseem in a nutshell. And maybe, that’s family in a nutshell too.
How does Shailendra Jha use literary devices to shape the story?
When you read Press 9 for Crime, you’ll notice that it doesn’t “read” like a typical novel. Instead, it feels like you’re watching a tightly-edited web series. That’s not surprising, given that Jha is the creator of Grahan, the much-acclaimed Disney+ Hotstar series.
The pacing is quick, often cinematic, with sharp scene transitions and cliffhanger chapter endings. Every chapter leaves you saying, “Just one more,” until suddenly you’re at the end of the book at 3 AM.
His use of humour is another subtle device. Rather than inserting comic relief artificially, he lets humour come from the characters’ flaws—especially Aseem’s tendency to stumble into ridiculous situations even while dealing with danger. This keeps the tension human and relatable.
The juxtaposition of places also plays a big role:
-
Delhi’s low-income neighbourhoods, where dreams are fragile.
-
Cambodia’s scam farms, where those dreams are shattered.
By moving between these two worlds, Jha highlights the thin line between aspiration and exploitation.
Readers, let me ask you something: when you read crime fiction, do you prefer it to feel like a movie—fast-paced, edge-of-your-seat—or do you enjoy slow-burn narratives that give you time to sit with the characters?
In what way is the book frighteningly real?
Some thrillers feel larger than life. This one? It feels too close for comfort.
Reports about scam centres in Southeast Asia are not fiction. In 2023, South China Morning Post published chilling accounts of young people from India, Nepal, and Bangladesh lured with fake job offers, only to be trapped in guarded compounds. Forced to run scam calls and cryptocurrency frauds, these young workers lived in conditions bordering on modern slavery.
That’s exactly what happens to Atul in Press 9 for Crime. He becomes one of those faceless numbers behind the scam calls you and I sometimes ignore. Suddenly, it isn’t a stranger on the line—it’s someone’s brother, son, or friend.
This is what makes the book terrifying. You finish reading and catch yourself thinking: What if I’ve already spoken to an “Atul” on the phone without knowing it?
And that fear lingers.
But here’s the bigger question—how should we, as readers, respond to such stories? Should we treat them as thrilling entertainment, or should we also take them as cautionary tales that urge us to be more aware of our own digital lives?
Where does the book fall short?
No review is complete without honesty, so let’s talk weaknesses.
-
Predictability in parts: The arc of Aseem—the “loser brother” turning into the unlikely hero—feels a bit expected. It works emotionally, but seasoned thriller readers might see it coming.
-
Side characters: While the Anand family is well-drawn, some secondary characters (especially those at the scam hub) could have been explored in more depth.
-
Too cinematic at times: Jha’s background in television is a double-edged sword. The fast pace is engaging, but occasionally it feels like you’re reading a screenplay rather than a novel. If you prefer richly descriptive prose, you might feel shortchanged.
-
Setting details: Cambodia as a backdrop could have been painted more vividly. The atmosphere is present, but not as textured as it could be.
That said, none of these shortcomings take away from the book’s impact. They simply suggest that Jha is a writer who thrives in the “thriller” format—quick, intense, emotional—rather than in sprawling, slow narratives.
Let me throw this to you, readers: do you think thrillers should always surprise you with twists, or is the journey itself enough even if you see the ending coming?
How does it compare with other bestselling thrillers of 2025?
Now, let’s situate Press 9 for Crime in the larger thriller market. This Diwali, if you’re planning to gift yourself or a loved one some page-turners, here are a few top picks (besides Jha’s latest):
-
The Midnight Lockdown – A chilling cyber-thriller about AI gone rogue, blurring the line between technology and humanity.
-
Crimson Lotus – A psychological thriller set in Singapore’s corporate world, filled with betrayals and boardroom battles.
-
Shadow Code – For fans of techno-thrillers, this one explores how encryption and espionage collide in everyday life.
-
The Last Betrayal – A classic whodunit reimagined in a small Indian town, blending old-school detective work with modern sensibilities.
-
The Owl, The River, and The Valley: A Journey – Not a thriller, but a soulful read that mixes mystery with philosophy. It’s perfect for readers who like stories with emotional depth alongside suspense.
Comparing these with Press 9 for Crime, Jha’s novel stands out for its realism. While many thrillers exaggerate or imagine futuristic threats, this one is grounded in problems that are happening right now. It’s fiction rooted in fact.
What are critics and authors saying about it?
Critical reception has been glowing, and the blurbs aren’t just filler—they capture the book’s essence.
-
Imtiaz Ali, filmmaker: “Fast, fierce and frighteningly believable. This is the kind of thriller that keeps you turning pages—and then keeps you up at night.”
-
Divya Prakash Dubey, author and screenwriter: “Some books entertain and some scare you. This one does both—and leaves you checking if your camera is still on.”
-
Satya Vyas, author: “A fearless, fast-paced story that grips you from page one.”
-
Anu Singh Choudhary, writer and filmmaker: “A dreadfully real account of a crime which is also a cautionary tale in this digitally dependent world of ours.”
But beyond the blurbs, here’s what struck me: this isn’t just a thriller. It’s a meditation on dharma—the subtle art of doing the right thing even when you’re deeply flawed. That’s why it reminded me of The Difficulty of Being Good: Exploring the Subtle Art of Dharma. Both books, in very different ways, ask: What does it mean to be “good” in a world where deception is everywhere?
So let me ask you directly—when you read crime fiction, do you reflect on the ethical questions behind the crimes, or do you read it purely for the thrill of the chase?
Why is this a late-night binge read?
Personally, I began reading the book at 11 PM on a weekday—a mistake, or so I thought. But by 4 AM, I had finished it in one go. The pace is relentless. Chapters end on cliffhangers. Scenes cut like movie sequences. If you’re a late-night reader like me, this is the kind of book that will rob you of sleep, and you won’t complain.
Each chapter ended like a Netflix cliffhanger. One question answered, another raised. By the time I thought of stopping, the book had already pulled me in deeper. At 2 AM, I was bargaining with myself: “Okay, just two more chapters.”
This isn’t an isolated experience. Many thrillers drag in the middle, making you pause and reconsider. Not this one. The pacing is relentless without being exhausting. It’s like being on a rollercoaster: thrilling, terrifying, but always fun.
Part of this comes from Jha’s screenwriting background. He knows how to write for a binge audience—the kind of reader who inhales chapters like popcorn. If you’re a fan of Kdramas or high-stakes Netflix thrillers, this will feel familiar.
Another reason is the emotional hook. The family at the centre of the novel—parents who have pinned their hopes on one son, and now must rely on the other—is something many of us can relate to. Even if you’ve never faced a scam, you’ve likely faced family tensions, sibling rivalries, or moments where someone unexpected had to step up.
This makes the book not just a thriller, but a human story. It reminded me of how some books—like Kashmir Under 370: Unveiling Realities—anchor their narratives in real socio-political backdrops. While Jha’s novel is set against scams instead of politics, both show us how storytelling becomes more compelling when rooted in reality.
So, let me ask you: when you read a thriller, do you prefer it to stay light and escapist, or do you enjoy when it’s grounded in real issues like scams, politics, or corruption?
What is my personal recommendation?
Here’s my honest take. Press 9 for Crime isn’t perfect. It has its flaws—predictable arcs, thin side characters, a sometimes too-cinematic pace. But despite that, it’s a book that matters.
This is the kind of book I’d recommend to:
-
Late-night readers who want an unputdownable experience.
-
Fans of crime dramas who enjoy gritty, fast-paced storytelling.
-
People curious about scams and cybercrime, who want fiction that feels terrifyingly real.
Would I gift this book? Absolutely—though more as a wake-up call than just entertainment. This is the kind of novel I’d slip into a friend’s hands and say, “Read this. Then tell me you’re not going to be more careful about the next unknown call you get.”
And that’s why this book leaves a mark. Not just because of its story, but because of its relevance.
But enough about me. What about you? If you’ve ever stayed up late reading a thriller, which one was it? Did you regret it the next morning—or did the story make it worth it?
Frequently Asked Questions
Why does this book matter in 2025?
Thrillers are often dismissed as “entertainment only,” but Press 9 for Crime is more than that. It is both mirror and warning. It reflects a society where dreams of better jobs abroad can quickly turn into nightmares. It warns us of the vulnerability that comes with blind trust in strangers, technology, and sometimes even family.
Aseem’s journey, in particular, feels almost like a case study in risk-taking. His reckless gamble to save his brother makes us question the fine line between foolishness and courage. In fact, it reminded me of Why Your Strategy Sucks by Sandeep Das—a book that bluntly points out how bad strategies can doom even the best intentions. Aseem’s “strategy” could have gone horribly wrong, and yet it’s his flawed boldness that gives the family a chance.
So here’s a question for you: when life corners you, do you play safe—or do you gamble everything for the people you love?
What’s the final word on Press 9 for Crime?
Press 9 for Crime is not the kind of book you simply read and shelve. It lingers. You’ll think about scam calls differently. You’ll reflect on how fragile families can be. And you’ll probably wonder whether you’d have the courage—or recklessness—of Aseem if faced with impossible odds.
It’s not flawless. Predictable in places, light on secondary characters, a bit too “cinematic” at times. But it achieves something far greater than perfection: it makes you feel entertained, unsettled, and oddly hopeful—all at once.
In 2025’s crowded thriller market, that’s no small achievement.
📚 Over to you now:
-
What’s your current read?
-
Would you enjoy a thriller rooted in real scams, or do you prefer purely escapist crime fiction?
-
And most importantly—have you ever almost fallen for a scam call?
Let’s share stories. Who knows, your comment might save someone else from being scammed.
Tushar Mangl writes on books, investments, business, mental health, food, vastu, leisure, and a greener, better society. Speaker, author of Ardika and I Will Do It.
And hey—if you enjoy bookish discussions, don’t forget to subscribe to my YouTube Channel at Tushar Mangl for more inspiring insights.
Comments