Kishore Singh: Have moolah, won't try hard

Author is talking about his experience to hobnob with those who commandeer their own private jets

I enjoy the opportunity, every once in a while, to hobnob with those who commandeer their own private jets, but are also prone to whimsy when it comes to their schedules. After all, if you can snap your fingers at the pilot should the desire to have a New York pizza seize you, or the missus want a front seat at the Paris Fashion Week, why should you be anchored to a single spot? Some have literally disappeared on scheduled conversations because they found the city air too polluted, while another balked at the idea of spending any more time than strictly necessary among people, and chose to vanish — to the mountains? the sea? He didn’t say, and having flown the coop, I no longer knew how to ask.

 
That’s because most are guarded about their secrecy and prefer not to disclose their handset numbers, while others leave it to their aides to answer, so you’ve no way of really knowing why someone ditched coffee and a tête-à-tête that you’d been looking forward to, while another might request an unexpected meeting out of schedule, even figuring that you might prefer it on a private jet commute from, say, New Delhi to Mumbai, provided you don’t mind taking a commercial flight back, class no consideration.
 
Mostly though, what intrigues me is why the world’s richest — the creamy one per cent — dress the way they do. Presumably, they’re measured for handmade Armani suits for their boardrooms, or favour Saville Row when negotiating cutthroat acquisitions, but when on vacation it might be easier to mistake them for backpackers. From experience, I’ve learned to tell that the shabbiest person surrounded by a posse of the most elegant attendants is the billionaire hoping not to draw attention and make good his escape incognito.

 

My most recent visitor came flanked by just such an army. One carried a bottle of mineral water, another his coffee, a third seemed along only for the ride or had a function that was not immediately apparent, while numbers four and five with their bulked-up biceps were clearly there to provide security. They were all dressed like advertisements for Hugo Boss or Ermenegildo Zegna, but my guest himself couldn’t have cared less for fashion. His jacket was scuffed at the collar and torn around the cuffs and pockets. His jeans seemed the worse for wear, and his sneakers had surely seen better days. It might have been easy to overlook him but for his obvious charisma — and, of course, the manner in which everyone surrounded him, catering to his every caprice. He, at least, did not seem to mind sharing his private number — but that this was a rarity was apparent from his choosing to scribble it on a scrap of paper rather than proffer a printed visiting card.

 
Nor is it only men who forsake vanity when it comes to dressing up — or down. A Silicon Valley billionairess whose conversations I greatly enjoy is never out of her track pants and sports shoes, preferring a rucksack slung over her back to a purse in her hand, arriving at the glitziest events so apparelled. No wonder she passes under the radar of so many. I know others who’re most at home in faded denim shirts, no matter that it’s a trend that was last visible a decade ago — and then only briefly. There might have been a time when they cared about their appearance, but when you have the moolah, you don’t need to try too hard.