In short, The Godfather of Kathmandu is yet another product of a writer who has obviously attended classes of some sort on How to Write Novels, who believes in his 1000 words per day regime.
Charming at first, in a caricaturist way, the novel begins to pall when page after page plods painfully through what looks like a Lobsang Rampa bizarro world.
And here and there, there is, admittedly, something of some small worth: a description of a mall rings quite genuine, for example.
But, mostly, a book to give the miss! Or to a Miss? The Missus?