Julia, who sits at an outdoor table with a sign that says PSYCHIC READING AND PALMISTRY, has been watching me each day as I walk past her to the subway in this Brooklyn neighborhood. When I finally stop at her table, she tightens her head scarf and gives me a big smile. “How much for a palm reading?” I ask. “We will talk about money later, darling,” she says, grabbing my hand with delight. Behind her is a shop full of Indian paraphernalia — a Ganesha idol, incense sticks and OM signs, along with Tibetan scrolls of the Buddha. It strikes me that an American psychic in New York City must regard it as a coup to be seen in public with an Indian customer like me — the same rush that a white basketball trainer would get if LeBron James stopped by for a lesson.

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My new friend Aravind Adiga gets his palm read in New York City. He has a forecast or two about the fate of the West, which is all fine and good, except that I was never fond of Nature and Scientific American when I lived in India. There were racier magazines to read from the West, and TIME magazine wasn’t one of them. Also, I always felt guilty when I went against my father’s directions about which days were auspicious for travel or weren’t. I think Aravind has a valuable lesson to offer to Julia, no doubt, but he also seems to be in denial about his love life.