Is there space on serious Indian bookshelves for the silliness of a racy crime novel?

What’s the point of murder mysteries? As a debut writer of one, it’s probably too late for me to be asking this question. But, like most debut novelists, my nerves are shot and it’s causing me to get philosophical. “What does it all mean?” I ask myself in the dead of night (followed closely by “why are we all here” and “what is life, anyway”, upon which I have to get out of bed to get myself some ice-cream. On the whole, it’s been a wearying – and calorific – process).

No one reads anymore, we’re told, except for self-improvement manuals and celebrity cookbooks. In India, particularly in English, reading has started to become inextricable from educational aspiration and attainment. In other words, too many of us read out of necessity, out of the need to cram information, out of the desire to improve our vocabulary and mainline knowledge. In traditional book markets, romance novels and potboilers have been overwhelmed by SAT textbooks and manuals about how to write the perfect college essay. Reading for maximum utility, not flavour – a protein shake rather than a galouti kabab.

And there’s no type of fiction that is more galouti kebab-esque than the classic whodunit,...

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