There was a time when Indian writing felt like it was on the brink of something bigger. A wave had caught on—mythology retellings, hidden histories, forgotten heroes—and all of this was brought alive in a language accessible to the new urban reader.

I remember the Shiva Trilogy by Amish with the same excitement of getting my hands on a gem of literature. It was fresh and different. The writing wasn’t perfect, but the story carried a spark. Suddenly, Indian mythology wasn’t something you just inherited from your grandparents’ stories—it became cool, accessible, and thrilling. And importantly, we suddenly had all these reimaginings of different characters from our stories.

But then came the Ram Chandra Series. To be very honest, each book felt flatter than the one before, though Raavan at least had the promise of character depth. And then War of Lanka arrived—a book so poorly crafted that even a school student could have written it better. It felt disjointed, like the work of several hands stitched together without a life of its own.

What once carried energy now carried the exhaustion of a genre. Amish, the author who had once reimagined Shiva with such creativity, seemed now to be recycling himself endlessly—this time with an “Immortal Writers’ Guild.”

The Dan Brown Parallel

This is where I fear Amish’s trajectory is bound to end up like Dan Brown’s. The first time you encounter the formula, it’s exhilarating: hidden clues, fast-paced narrative, history blending with thriller.

Personally, I really loved Angels and Demons, The Lost Symbol, Inferno, and even Origin. They were thrilling page-turners that kept me hooked late into the night, and they were genuinely enjoyable. But The Da Vinci Code, ironically, the most famous of them all, was an ordeal for me to get through. I’ve tried twice, but it’s unbearably tedious—like wading through a swamp of over-explained puzzles with Langdon dashing around the world.

That’s the problem with formulaic writing: you never know when the same recipe that once worked suddenly becomes insufferable. Brown never changed because the formula sold. And the Amish, too, seem trapped in this “why change when it works” cycle.

I was recently having a conversation with someone online about Dan Brown’s books, and they too agreed—everyone plateaus once they reach that unbearable peak. Only, it doesn’t really work anymore. The writing has become repetitive to the point of being unpalatable. A talented author has found himself stuck in his own formula.

The Rise and Fall of Ashwin Sanghi

In my opinion, Ashwin Sanghi followed the same pattern. His early works—like Chanakya’s Chant, The Sialkot Saga, Keepers of the Kalachakra—were genuinely engaging. He carved a space for himself as the “Indian Dan Brown,” blending science, mythology, and history into thrillers.

But then the books became predictable. Pages of info dumps with fragments of plot scattered in between. The novelty faded, and what remained was a clumsy attempt at repeating the same trick.

I found myself both fascinated and frustrated. Fascinated by his wild theories, hilarious in their own way. Frustrated by how poorly they were strung together into a story.

And while audiences might indulge this for a time, eventually the fatigue sets in. Writers like Amish and Ashwin rode the wave of India’s mythology-and-history boom—especially visible during the lockdown era, when the internet was buzzing with rediscovered heroes and forgotten lore. People were genuinely interested, even if the writing was mid at its best. But that wave has now subsided, and both authors seem stranded, still writing for a past audience that no longer exists.

The Larger Tragedy of Indian Literature

Yet, this isn’t just a problem with these two writers. It’s a larger tragedy of Indian English literature.

On one side, you have the repetitive myth-literature brigade, recycling epics with less and less imagination. On the other side, you have diaspora writers—Jhumpa Lahiri, Arundhati Roy, at times—who write exquisitely but turn India into a colonial museum piece. Their India is often a land of nostalgia, trauma, or dysfunction, written with a Western gaze in mind. Yes, the prose is brilliant, but the India they present is not the India I know. It is an India curated for an audience that looks at us with curiosity, pity, or anthropological interest.

Then comes the third category: the pop authors. Writers like Chetan Bhagat and Durjoy Datta revolutionized Indian publishing by making books cool for a mass audience. They gave young readers stories they could actually relate to, in a market long dominated by elite literary voices.

But they, too, never reinvented themselves. The tropes, the IIT/IIM romances, the melodramas—after a point, it all feels like reruns of the same soap opera.

I, as someone who strongly advocates that no literature is lesser or higher in context, feel bad about myself. Because even when my argument is true subjectively, art, at the end of the day, can still be judged by its quality. And when it becomes overly repetitive, it feels really bland.

Where Are the Balanced Voices?

The real tragedy is what lies in the gap. Where are the writers who balance readability with depth? Who neither pander to Western stereotypes nor drown themselves in repetitive formulas?

They exist, of course, in smaller presses, in translations, in poetry, in regional voices. Like Ghachar Ghochar by Vivek Shanbhag, or The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga, or even newer voices like Harini Nagendra with her Bangalore Detectives Club. They are all here for us to discover.

But they don’t get the same attention, the same glossy marketing, or the same visibility as Amish, Ashwin, Lahiri, or Bhagat.

The problem, then, isn’t just the writers—it’s the entire publishing ecosystem. If it rewards safety over risk, formula over innovation, then authors who once held the promise of breaking new ground end up boxing themselves into repetition until the magic is gone. Meanwhile, younger writers who might offer fresher perspectives rarely get the same chance to shine.

A Reader’s Betrayal

As a reader rooted in India, this definitely feels like a betrayal. I don’t want to see Indian literature stagnate here.

I don’t want another half-baked retelling. I don’t want another info-dump thriller. I don’t want another trauma postcard for the West, or another shallow campus romance.

I want books that speak to the messiness and vibrancy of the India I live in—books that are daring, experimental, heartfelt, and human.

Until then, all I can do is return to the bibliographies, the wild theories, the sparks that once were, and hope that someday Indian publishing dares to grow beyond its formulas.

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