Though this encounter with MAK Pataudi happened a good two decades ago, I realize that my memory of this meeting needs no jogging. It's just as fresh in my mind as if happened only a few years ago.
Yes, that was the personality of the man. Arresting. Formidable. Regal. But there's no way you could meet the man and leave without a lasting impression about him and the very definite aristocratic aura about him. I had accompanied the then New Delhi YMCA President Sydney Rebeiro to meet the Nawab of Pataudi and get him to preside over some function at the YMCA. Though always an ardent cricket fan, I, however, knew little about Pataudi's cricketing career, except of course the fact that he was the youngest cricket captain ever, and the perfect gentleman cricketer in a very gentleman's game
Of course all my plans to greet with a nice warm hug were put paid when Pataudi walked into the expansive lawns in his beautiful Tughlak Road residence, and greeted me with a very respectful Namaste. But far from being disappointed, I realized that gesture from him went his personality. He evoked awe and reverence, but clearly he wasn't someone you could high-five or hug... he had this air about him, a very majestic one if you will, and he kept his distance. Formal, quite so, though not unfriendly at all.But he was no less gracious or hospitable for that.for that. Within minutes we had an array of delectable eats laid out for us, and he played the ever gracious host, cajoling us to partake of the spread. Apart from his striking personality and the delightful goodies, I still remember how brilliant a conversationalist he was. Soft-spoken, serious, and eclectic in his choice of subjects.
A few years later I was to visit the Pataudi household again. This time to interview his glamorous wife Sharmila Tagore. Sharmila proved to be an equally gracious hostess, devastatingly charming, and very dignified. During this interview, Pataudi kept flitting in and out of the tastefully decorated drawing room, where Sharmila and I were sitting, and I saw in the glances that Sharmila and the Nawab exchanged every so often that theirs was a love that had truly endured.
The other memory that's etched in my memory is that the Nawab with his western outlook and education was on both the occasions attired in a crisp white kurta and pyjama. And though he oozed royalty from every angle, he carried his lineage very easily, effortlessly and naturally. No greater proof there could have been of the true blue blood that he was.
We're sure to have the chhote nawab entertaining us for many years, but we'll miss the old world charm and grace that Tiger Pataudi was the epitome of.
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