The last Emperor, the most unfortunate Baha-dur Shah Zafar Khan, may have been banished – almost from memory as well. But, the Delhi durbar is alive, kicking and well, forever being swelled by the chattering classes. Most even–ings, just as the sun is getting ready for bed, Khushwant Singh holds court in his book-lined, dimly-lit living room in Sujan Singh Park, a cosy little corner of Lutyens’ Delhi built by his father after whom the set of buildings is named.

It’s a two-shift durbar. The courtiers of the first usually drift in at 5 p.m. for tea, sympathy, advice: the currency of the conversation is often dollops of gossip and jokes. The lights may be dim but the eyes of our beloved nonagenarian last emperor (friend, philosopher, guide and father-confessor) still sparkle, particularly after relishing a juicy bit of gossip. The regulars are women, a large number of whom are journalists and writers – established, aspiring and failed. The first love of Khushwant Singh, whatever else our self-confessed ageing roué terrible may say, is poetry. So, a few of his acolytes wear poetry on their sleeves, if not in their souls.

Shift two begins sharply at 7 p.m. Turning up late for this durbar is a no-no. There he sits, his foot on a moorah (cane stool) lingering over his Scotch. Admirers to this court often bring a bottle: these tokens of homage keep the whiskey flowing for the almost-daily gatherings. The male admirers turn up for this one. Sometimes, the two courts merge. I’m not, alas, a habitué of the Sujan Singh Park court, but the day I was there I was lucky to catch the tail end of one durbar and much of the second. Lord Swaraj Paul had come calling that evening for a drink. And, Rahul Singh (Khushwant Singh’s journalist-writer son) had invited me for the second session.

The Lord was as charming as ever. But the person who caught my attention that night was a woman draped in chiffon and heavy perfume, with all the accoutrements and mannerisms of a Rajput princess. This lady with a husky voice was once married to a Yuvraj. Intriguing about her was the ease with which she moved between all the Khamagani and lingo of Rajput courts (an imagined Rajputana universe now really) and the chaste Urdu and the courtly ways of nawabdom. You now see an increasing number of people who are not to the manor born do these amazing swithcheroos, like quick-change artists.

Who gets to wear the gold payals?
It was quite a traumatic time for the royals when Indira Gandhi took away their privy purses, privileges and perks in 1971. Reduced to being ordinary, like you or me, they could no longer import their Scotch and wines. Most of them reluctantly put away their red number plates, with the names of their respective states. And many went undercover: hiding their political inclinations or French lingerie under khadi. Rajkumari Amrit Kaur was said to have worn only French lingerie beneath her khadi blouses. However, the health minister in Pandit Nehru’s cabinet did this earlier when donning the hand spun poor man’s cloth was a response to Mahatma Gandhi’s call to shun imported fabrics. It was an idealistic statement and not dissimulation.

So, while the royals stayed away from the public glare or reinvented themselves as politicians or businessmen, there was room for the ersatz nobility to move in and colour themselves blue. Now, there is an unspoken writ amongst the true-blues that only one of them can wear gold payals – as a princess from Mewar once told me. The ‘pretenders’ can only wear them if a ‘royal’ has gifted them a pair: otherwise silver will have to do. Nowadays metal is democratic: it’s your bank account size and not your genes that make you a royal.

Things haven’t changed much. The colour – or metal – of plastic money announces your place in the hierarchy of the ‘nobility’ of the day. You don’t need to make a princess sleep on stacked mattresses with a pea underneath them to determine their position in the scheme of things. Just look at their credit cards, beginning with an ordinary colour (blue, green, what-have-you) and moving up through silver, gold and platinum. And yes, there’s even titanium (comes from Greek titans) in between the gold and the platinum.

I am sure there must be something special and secret for the new emperors: something above platinum this side of heaven. After all, even the platinum ones are getting a bit ubiquitous. Perhaps, just as the maharajas of yore seldom carried money on their persons, the new lot ensconced at the tip of the hierarchy mountain does away with their cards. Their Man Friday or Woman Friday as the case may be, follows closely in their wake to handle such mundane things as settling bills.

Those royal coat of arms and crests on homes and on invitation cards have also made a comeback. Interestingly, it wasn’t the real McKoys who first dared. I recall being struck some years ago by JJ Valaya’s invitation card to a fashion show: the elegant card had a crest (gold of course) on it. Soon, others followed – even those beyond the fringe of the world of fashion had a coat of arms not signifying any bit of land but a state of mind, or attitude.

Naturally, the chiffon (a bit covering the head makes it more authentic) and pearls, not to forget the gold payals followed. But just a word of caution for those going down that path: the royals always wore Basra pearls, if they hadn’t yet pawned them. The ‘cultured’ (royals) should only wear the ‘uncultured’ round their necks – not even Mikimoto.