Some Indian readers may still revere the Booker prize. Fifteen years ago, it represented the zenith of commercial possibilities for Indian writers working in English — prestige, tens of thousands in foreign currency, a welcome bump in sales, an international audience. There were a couple of obstacles: you had to write something called ‘literary fiction’ and write it well enough to convince inscrutable, whimsical judges. Still, for a time, it seemed like just being Indian was enough. Aravind Adiga won, man, you told yourself. Aravind Adiga.