At a warm, laughter-filled evening of tete-a-tea hosted by the Prabha Khaitan Foundation in association with Sanskriti Sagar and FICCI flo Kolkata, Tharoor sat flanked by his sisters — Shobha and Smita — as the trio opened a window into the family’s memories of his political beginnings. What emerged was a portrait not just of a politician, but of a son and sibling negotiating life’s most defining crossroads.

For the family, the moment Tharoor said he wanted to contest an election was not just surprising — it was unsettling. A four-term MP today, he was then a first-time aspirant whose decision shook the household’s sense of stability.

“It unnerved, stressed and disturbed us,” Shobha, who had organised Tharoor's debut campaign, admitted, recalling the heavy atmosphere at home. Their mother was, in her words, “deeply unhappy.” A career diplomat of global standing entering India’s “muddy” politics felt to her like a step into danger.

“You are a scholar, an intellectual, a highly successful diplomat. You will come back and people will spoil your name,” she warned.

Tharoor chuckled while recounting the memory. “And she was right too, wasn’t she?” he quipped, drawing instant laughter — before gently slipping back into his earnest view of politics. Having watched Indian Prime Ministers from close quarters during his UN years, he firmly believed that “politics is the way you can make a difference to the lives of people in a democracy.”

It was this conviction he had used to counter his mother’s fears. As Shobha recounted, Tharoor had argued that if people like him stayed away from politics, “young, bright, intelligent, caring people who love the country will never join politics.”

"I remember Shashi saying that when I come back to India, I want to make a difference.
He joined the United Nations to make a difference. He came back into politics also to make a difference," adds Smita, who is currently based in her favourite Indian city, Kolkata.

Today, he sees that leap as an act not of calculated strategy, but of youthful innocence.

“I joined politics partially out of sheer ignorance,” he said. Leaving India at 19, when even the voting age was 21, meant he had never cast a vote — let alone witnessed the frenzy of an Indian election firsthand. “All the books I read gave a macro view — like seeing the forest but not knowing the trees.”

The plunge, he said, was less a choice and more a swirl of circumstance.

Inside GD Birla Sabhaghar, where fans — especially women — surged towards him for selfies and autographs, Tharoor turned reflective. His easy comfort with women in public spaces, he said, owes itself to the women who raised him and stood by him.

“Growing up with women around me made me very sensitive from a young age,” he said. “I never absorbed the patriarchy, male chauvinism or misogyny that I sometimes see around in India.”

He credited not just his sisters but also his father — “incredibly liberal for his generation” — for creating a home where academic choices and personal freedom were never policed.

In that sense, the political Tharoor — articulate, liberal, unapologetically individualistic — is inseparable from the personal Tharoor the family helped shape. And on that Kolkata stage, the politician and the family man briefly merged, offering a rare, intimate glimpse into the making of a public figure.