You may find it unbelievable, but it was a tiny potato that spoilt an entire evening of mine.

Some three years ago, when I had just made my debut as a star, I was invited to a formal dinner at one of Bombay’s leading restaurants.

I dread formal dinners. I knew I would not know many of the invitees at this one.

My mother did her best to put me at ease, but I was trembling throughout the drive to the restaurant. “Oh, Mummy, let’s go back,” I said. “How can I eat and speak at the same time and show no sign of nervousness?”

“You have to come out of your shell one day,” said my mother. “Besides, you may have to attend a lot of important functions from now on.”

Luckily I was seated in front of the chief guest and not next to him. I was getting along smoothly, and I thought the guests were quite impressed by me and so was my mother who was looking at me appreciatively.

I finished my soup sooner than the chief guest, who was eating little and talking a lot. The next course—Russian salad—was served to me. It had tiny potatoes in it. I had by now gained some confidence. My knees were no longer shaking and I had started enjoying my dinner.

“Do you like Bombay?” I asked the guest of honor (he was not a Bombay man) and absent-mindedly drove my fork into a potato. To my horror, the potato slipped from under the prongs of my fork, flew from my plate and landed in the chief guest’s soup, splashing some on his expensive suit.

He did not answer my question. He just stared at me. I was so embarrassed I could not even apologise. The only thing I managed to blurt out was, “It was my potato.” What a confession! Of course, every one knew that it was mine. And I worst of all.