Meeting Prime Ministers: From a Childhood Sighting to a Sambhar Powder Emergency

An outpouring of memories, anecdotal recalling, and tributes surfaced at the recent passing away of a former Prime Minister. Dr Manmohan Singh’s contributions to the liberalisation of the Indian economy three decades back reshaped the global standing of our country. Acknowledgements of this effort tied a mourning nation in grateful nostalgia.

My own brush with power at higher quarters has been sparse. As a child, I recall a sighting of an earlier Prime Minister.

A clutch of boys decided to fete her with joyous greetings, and quite unwittingly, I found myself at the center of their machinations. As the Prime Minister's modest convoy of two Ambassador cars passed our motley group, I, the tiniest amongst us, was propped on the shoulders of the tallest boy and ordered to scream, “Indira Gandhi ki jai”.

I did so. But after the convoy had passed by.

Disappointment was affected in plonking me to the ground unceremoniously. That this group of five silent strapping lads wasn't noticed in the indifferent glow of a flickering streetlight was blamed on a four-year-old. The child's squeal had been considered sufficient to distract the vehicle-borne head of the nation's executive.

It was not till two score years later that I came within touching distance of another of our prime ministers. This time the place and the circumstances were very different.

As a student of architecture at Columbia University in New York City, I moonlighted at the Consulate General of India. My tasks there primarily entailed accompanying visiting dignitaries to the sights of the city. One afternoon, the Counsel, a career diplomat, asked me if I'd like to earn some extra money.

I had heard that the Indian delegation was staying at the Waldorf Astoria. A chance to see New York City's finest hotel during this important event was too tempting to pass up. There was, of course, the financial lure.

Three days later, I was exploring varied facets of the 47-storied midtown Manhattan hotel. Encapsulating an old-world charm, its spaces were the epitome of luxury and prestige. Having studied the history of the city and its buildings, explanations of vocabulary and architectonics came alive for me. I paced up and down the multilevel lobby dwarfed by cavernous expanses of space. Finally, settling in a winged chair in one corner, I viewed the world's rich and powerful clambering up to the lobby from Park Avenue.

It was at half past ten that night when the Prime Minister reached his suite. From my perch in one of the antechambers, a commotion was audible. An entire hierarchy of diplomats suddenly seemed busy. It was then that I was called out and instructed, "Take Mike with the car to this address and bring the packet that's with the concierge there. Do hurry."

The lone south Indian eatery located on Lexington Avenue had shut down for the day. Jackson Heights in Queens with a sizable Indian community and more restaurants was too far. The conundrum seemed addressed when one diplomat contacted a south Indian official in the Tea Board of India who resided a few streets from the hotel.

Our limousine sped across the avenue. Given the late hour, the traffic had thinned. The driver, Mike, perambulated the block while I raced into the building to collect the all-important packet. A few minutes later, I was in the elevator at the Waldorf Astoria, tightly clutching the sambhar powder. Through this endeavour I had allowed myself the surreal sensibility of a mission of national emergency with myself as a saviour. The limousine with a red light atop it and the accompanying chauffeur fueled this spirited indulgence of imagination.

Upon alighting on the floor of the suite, my thoughts were interrupted by a group of American secret service men who were positioned next to the fire escape staircase. Security was at its zenith given that the American President was staying on the floor above.

Before I realised what was happening, a sniffer dog was led from the fire escape staircase and its snout plunged into the sambhar powder.

I looked in horror at what was supposed to be my Prime Minister’s dinner. Before I could protest, the perplexed canine disappeared into the staircase and the packet was thrust back into my hands.

Stupefied, I ambled down the remainder of the corridor in a daze. Once again, the packet was grabbed from me by one of the officials as soon as I entered the suite. I watched it disappear into the kitchen even as I considered recounting what had just transpired.

In the years since, I have not attempted proximity with another head of my nation’s executive. Past experiences as revealed haven’t been memorable for the Prime Minister or for me.

(Rajesh Luthra is an architect in independent practice. Having graduated from Columbia University in New York City, he designs, writes and teaches in New Delhi. This is an opinion piece and the views expressed above are the author’s own. The Quint neither endorses nor is responsible for the same.)