Royal Run-In

I was busy chatting with someone else when a spokesperson cut in and said, ‘‘Allow me to present Srikanta Datta Narasimha Rao Wadiyar, His Highness the Maharaja of Mysore.’’

Thankfully, I was to refer to the 51-year-old as ‘Your Highness’. He offered me a big hearty handshake and asked me to come along with him—into a room full of saris.

‘‘This is my collection for tonight’s showing,’’ said the proud maharaja, imploring me to check out one of those luscious silk numbers. I did a double take at the collection. I’d never met a maharaja before, much less one who moonlighted as a fashion designer. And a politician, I found out later. The maharaja stood on a Congress ticket in Mysore and lost by a margin of 15,000 votes.

While I gathered my dropped jaw, he described his satrangi (seven-coloured) and athrangi (eight-coloured) saris, explaining that the motifs on them were all symbols of the royal family of Mysore.

‘‘How do you like the Spanish music we’ve picked for the show?’’ he asked.

I bobbed my head in a silent nod, knowing fully well that the song on the loudspeaker was Kandisa by Indian Ocean. But there was something wrong. I didn’t seem to remember Vedic mantras being part of the melody. Noticing my bewilderment, he explained that there was a ceremonial puja taking place in the adjoining room.

The maharaja is as superstitious as they come and wears a ring on each finger, ‘‘all for good luck’’. He kept fiddling around with them and chanting to himself.

Strolling out of the ballroom, there was that creepy feeling of being followed. I swung around colliding into a couple of rifle-toting guards, who were as astonished by the close encounter as I was.

‘‘They’re for my safety, Veerappan’s threatened to kidnap me,’’ the maharaja drawled nonchalantly. According to official records, he’s worth around Rs 1,500 crore. I wondered what anyone would pay for me if I happened to be kidnapped along with him.

And as we spent time together, the maharaja, I realised, was a very well-informed person. Over a cup of tea, he talked passionately about his plans to convert all his palaces into hotels.

An authority on Mysore’s glorious past, he loved to stress his ‘‘descent from the Indo-Aryans and the Krishnavanshi Rajputs of Dwaraka.’’

That evening, he chose to wear black balloon pants with a white blazer and red waistband. ‘‘Save a place for me, I’m coming to sit next to you,’’ he said, just as his fashion show was about to start.

As the models started walking on the ramp, he pointed out several, claiming to have ‘‘made them’’. ‘‘They were nothing before they came to me, now look at them,’’ he said proudly.

I mentioned that he should come to Mumbai to show his collection. ‘‘Find me a sponsor, and I promise I’ll design a beautiful outfit for you,’’ he said.

Evidently, he’d taken an avuncular liking towards me. Afterwards at the bar, the white wine drinker offered me an extremely tall stool, right in the middle of a circle of journalists. I sat there, sticking out like a sore thumb, with every other member of my group giving me curious, amused looks.

The rest of my evening was exciting in its own right. A colleague went missing, an inebriated man spilt his curd rice on me, and the buzz of friendly banter was all around. But sundown was not half as eventful as spending a day getting up close with royalty.