As a wannabe writer, I was understandably over-the-moon when I discovered that Mr. Rushdie (then, not yet knighted) was going to be present at our New Year bash. I immediately imagined all the conversations I was going to have with him - about writing, about The Satanic Verses, about what it takes to be a published writer and about why I didn't care as much as the rest of the world did for his books.
Unfortunately, cometh the hour of the get-together, Mr. Rushdie didn't seem to care much for our company. Maybe he didn't find Chennai quite conducive to his otherwise ordered life. Maybe he didn't appreciate all the attention his then-partner, Ms. Lakshmi was getting. Maybe he was just too big for our little Ogilvy, Chennai party. Whatever it was, he looked far, far away from a happy camper we were trying our sincerest to help him be.
An hour and a bit after the buzz around him had dissipated, I walked up to him and introduced myself. Sadly, I didn't register one bit on his radar. (I suppose I was too low-flying an object to make any kind of impression.) A few uncomfortable minutes later, I fished out a table napkin and asked him for his autograph. Thankfully, he didn't decline my request. I made some hesitant noises about how much I admired him and such like, but soon realised that my words were lost in the air of indifference he had surrounded himself with. Still, I wasn't totally crushed - at least, I had something to show for my troubles.
The next morning, I looked expectantly at the coveted napkin Mr. Rushdie had signed his name on. What stared back at me was little more than a well-disguised 'S' and a careless 'l' somewhere in the midst of a slapdash doodle - I imagine he was worried I might try and sell it on ebay or something like that. All of which only confirmed the first impression I took away of Mr. Rushdie, as a cynical, highly vainglorious man who didn't care much for humanity. Here's hoping I'm never so scarred by my experiences.
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