Apart from the insignificant details there's been nothing happening, really. Oh, well that is if you don't count Vikram Chandra's Sacred Games being launched in the evening. Sunday was peaceful as ever, and spent in the usual fashion. From reading, watching crappy flicks, listening to music and smoking cigarettes nothing else surfaced.
I bet at the launch -- like always, Delhi's literati and gliterati will be all there to attend and show off. Excpected list as usual. After all, who minds chugging free cocktails at the price of sitting through some book reading and publishers talking about their authors. Chandra's supposed to be a cool chap. I'm not saying this cause we both come from the same school. But he has few good books to his name, Love and longing in Bombay (a name I I find cool) and Red Earth.
This is perhaps one of the first times, I'll be meeting him. Most Indian authors are assholes who think a bit too much of themselves, and are pissoffs. One perhaps -- even though he writes really well -- is Upamanyu Chatterjee. Then there's the asshole talk-too-much category -- whose writing style, I loathe -- Chetan Bhagat.
The others may write well, but are lost in there own world. I met Siddharth Chowdhury, author of Patna Roughcut, who seemed as a rare kind. An extremely intelligent fellow, writes brilliantly and has no airs or so.
Anyways, I should be writing my short stories soon.