Suketu Mehta was the first famous Indian writerI saw after moving to New York. I was at a monthly South Asian party called Basement Bhangra when I noticed a man dressed older than everyone else walk in. “Aren’t you reading that guy’s book,” my friend asked. I squinted and indeed, it was Mehta, yet to achieve the fame that would accrue as his book went out into the world. In the hope that if I congratulated him I would bank some karma with the cosmos that would subsequently be returned when my novel was published, I went up to him. After thanking me, he took me around the corner into the VIP area and said: “Meet Salman Rushdie.”
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