Frankly, I found this abysmally boring. For those whose cynical outlook on today's writing- internationally speaking; for those who are depressed by the futility of organizational conferences; and especially for those who like to irritate their own irritations -- here is a book they might like. For most readers, the account of an international writers' conference in Bombay is as dull as the conference proved to be for all but a few principals. The executive secretary faced complete disillusionment, as the conference split into opposing camps, as a dream of years back proved illusive, as he accepted the fact of cancer -- and not just a minor digestive upset, as he knew that a young hopeful was not going to take the place of his lost friend. The ""young hopeful"", Jason Cole, suffered his successive defeats, too, as he knew his second novel was as shallow as his first success; as the Indian girl he met and loved committed suicide for her only answer to her problems. But he, at least, reached a crossroads- and, perhaps, took the right turn. As for the others- let's hope the petty bickerings, jealousies and attitudes are not symptomatic of a fatal disease in the body of literature. Even the Indian background fails to rescue an earnest effort to challenge writers to more vital efforts.