Isps May Get Access To Cheaper Internet Backbone In Nepal

The invitation card for the reading by I Allan Sealy was for 7 p.m. so, of course, we fetched up at The Oberoi a trendy 15 minutes late, to find we were quite early. And even though it was light outside, the turnover at the bar could best be described as brisk. The sales team from publishing company India Ink had set up a counter to sell the complete repertoire of its titles. This consisted of a wonderful total of three books and two authors: Sealy and Arundhati Roy. Since the reason for the reading was the re-launch of Sealy's classic, The Trotter-nama, there was a considerably larger pile of this on the table.

"We must buy a book," said my wife artlessly, when she found that all the other arriving guests were doing so. Eyeing the Trotter-namas cradled to their chests, she also decided to be infra-dig. "We shall buy a copy of The Everest Hotel," which was duly purchased and kept ready for the author to sign. But of the author there was still no sign, even though the bell had thrice rung to summon everyone from the pre-function area where the cocktails were being served, into the hall where the reading was to take place.

"He is very shy," said an important editor, "maybe he doesn't want to read, after all." "No, no," said a published photographer, "he isn't shy, only reclusive." "At least he isn't offensive, the way most authors from provincial towns are," sniffed someone in a slit skirt, snatching a moment of reprieve from her mobile. "He writes well," said a book critic generously, claiming to have read reviews of all three of the author's books. "Let us hope he reads well too," said a television personality.

He needn't have worried, for despite the somewhat dramatic spotlighting in the darkened hall that ushered him in, Sealy read well, mainly funny passages from his nama, including one that expounded the contents of a gunda nala in horrific detail. Afterwards, there were the obligatory copies to be signed, and the author, neither shy nor reclusive, basked in his own fame while people stood guard over pens loaned to strangers.

The cocktails that had never really dried up, now began afresh, and there was food to accompany it, and of course, everyone talked of books published, unpublished, and in the pipeline. "He should drop his," said one book editor of the forthcoming eponymous works of a magazine editor. "Let me have a look at it first," said an editor from a rival publishing house, "I know how to recognise quality when I see it it is a gift."

Someone pointed out that there was a large fraternity from the book publishing industry: some publishers, and several editors. "It must be," said one of them grimly, "to show us that they can get their authors extravagant launches, while we can only hope for reviews." "Hardly," said an author-in-writing, adding, "I think their criteria for publication is based on the virtues of having a