![]() ![]() It seemed so strange that, in one of the wealthiest nations of the world, I was sustained by the very same poverty as in India, and that poverty from all over the developing world was gathering in the basement kitchens of the Baby Bistros and Queen of Tarts bakeries of New York. ![]() Stories worthy of heroic epics or volumes of trickster mythology leapt from the mouths of yellow-cab drivers, from the illegal boys who worked in the bakery near where I lived, who had travelled from Pakistan to Iran to Turkey to Greece to Haiti to Guatemala to Mexico to the United States hidden in a banana truck. Anyone could tell you that a photograph such as the one of my grandfather trussed in a cloak and white wig, watched by bewildered crows, represented the point at which life becomes a novel and a novel becomes a life, but as I sat down to write my second book, it was New York that preoccupied me. ![]()
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