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It was 10.30 that night when the Prime Minister reached his suite. The commotion was heard from my seat in a verandah. A whole group of diplomats suddenly seemed busy. Just then I was called and instructed, “Take Mike with the car to this address and get the packet the doorman has. Hurry up.”
The only South Indian eatery on Lexington Avenue was closed for the day. Jackson Heights in Queens was a stone’s throw away, with a larger Indian community and more restaurants. The problem was solved when a diplomat contacted a South Indian official of the Indian Tea Board, who lived a short distance from the hotel.
Our limousine sped across the street. Considering it was late at night, the traffic had reduced. The driver, Mike, circled the block while I ran into the building to pick up all the important packets. A few minutes later, I was in the elevator at the Waldorf Astoria, holding the sambar powder tightly. Through this effort I had allowed myself an unrealistic sensitivity to the mission of national emergency as a protector. The limousine with its red lights overhead and its accompanying chauffeur encouraged this enthusiastic indulgence of the imagination.
Upon landing on the suite floor, my thoughts were interrupted by a group of U.S. Secret Service men stationed next to the fire escape stairs. Due to the residence of the US President on the upper floor, the security arrangements were at their peak.
Before I could understand what was happening, a sniffer dog was taken down the fire escape and its snout was dipped in sambar powder.
I was looking forward with dread to what was going to be my Prime Minister’s dinner. Before I could protest, the surprised dog disappeared up the stairs and the packet was thrust back into my hands.
Stunned, I wandered down the rest of the corridor. Once again, as soon as I entered the suite, an officer snatched the packet from me. I watched it disappear into the kitchen while I tried to recount what had just happened.
In the years since, I have not attempted to get too close to any other head of the executive of my country. As it turns out, past experiences have not been memorable for the Prime Minister or me.
(Rajesh Luthra is an architect in independent practice. After graduating from Columbia University in New York City, he designs, writes and teaches in New Delhi. This is an opinion and the views expressed above are the author’s own. The Quint Neither endorses nor is responsible for it.)
