It’s amazing, invigorating, to be in a room full of South Asians who “get it,” who get me. The lunatic fringe, the rebels, the visionaries, who’ve all chosen the rickety, uncertain career path of journalism. Some have hit it big, but more often than not, it’s a group of starving artists, of poets and detectives and free thinkers, who are living outside the typical desi confines of “doctor,” “lawyer,” and “engineer.”

It’s a secret society, a club, where dues are paid with carpal tunnal, with a crick in your neck from shouldering a phone, and tape recorders and rolodexes are your very best friends.