I attended India’s diplomatic reception with the noble intention of navigating the evening with grace and discretion.

The affair was magnificent: Finery, good will, Old Spice.

I entered the hall immediately met with a sight that stirred my well-honed instincts for social catastrophe: A line of distinguished Indian guests standing in solemn formation.

In my defense, the row bore an uncanny resemblance to the sort of official reception line that hosts arrange to greet honored visitors.

Eager to play the part of an esteemed guest, I sprang into action. With great conviction and absolutely no hesitation, I approached the line and shook each of their hands.

Each, in turn, met my firm handshake with varying degrees of confusion, politeness and barely contained amusement.

Some hesitated before reciprocating, others exchanged perplexed glances.

A poor lady, caught entirely off guard, simply accepted my handshake as though I were bestowing upon her some unexpected diplomatic honor.

I proceeded down the line, utterly convinced that I was graciously acknowledging my hosts, while they, no doubt, were wondering what lunatic had just mistaken them for an official welcoming committee.

Their restraint was admirable. But when I reached the last gentleman and turned away, the barely contained chuckles behind me erupted into full, unapologetic mirth.

Reality struck like a cannonball to the gut. These men were not the event’s hosts, nor were they in any way rolling out a proverbial red carpet for my arrival.

They were, in fact, just standing together in peaceful conversation before being accosted by a perspiring little brown man on a handshake crusade.

Perhaps the greatest diplomatic skill is knowing when to keep your hand to yourself. I did not dare look back, but I could feel the ripple of amusement trailing in my wake.

I wished I could charm them with the funniest jest of the evening. If history remembers me at all, it will be for the time I personally greeted an entire room of strangers like a head of state.

A handshake shouldn’t be a crime. Yet there I stood, guilty as charged. I should have just nodded.

As I attempted to salvage my dignity by skulking near the buffet, I overheard one of them whisper, “That’s him — the handshaker.”

Long after the policies are forgotten, they remember the handshake.

My capacity for self-sabotage in many diplomatic receptions is a struggle in which I have been inducted with commendable aplomb.

Some people leave an impression. I leave an incident report.

Once, in an act of misguided redemption, I attended a luncheon at the residence of an ambassador. It should have been a quiet affair, a chance to rehabilitate my standing after a previous misstep.

I had once, through the simple act of asking a single misplaced question, achieved the impressive feat of being unofficially persona non grata at his embassy. That banishment had, mercifully, been reconsidered a year later. And so, when I received the invitation, I convinced myself I was once again in good standing.

The lunch proceeded with an eerie smoothness.

The ambassador, ever the gracious host, beamed at me as though I had never caused diplomatic distress. I allowed myself to hope.

Perhaps the past had been forgotten.

How dare I?

As lunch concluded, the ambassador and “his special guests” gathered for a photograph — a solemn, dignified moment meant to commemorate his people’s resilience and goodwill.

Naturally, in my infinite talent for misreading social cues, I assumed I was to be included in this historic tableau.

With all the confidence of a man who did not belong, I stepped forward, positioning myself at what I believed to be a respectable yet noticeable distance from the ambassador.

It was then that His Excellency, still smiling — always smiling — turned to me and, with a politeness so devastatingly precise that it could have been wielded as a diplomatic weapon, said: “Oh, this is just for the ‘guests’ and my family.”

I felt the eyes upon me. I heard the barely stifled amusement of those around me. I saw — I felt — the ambassador’s suppressed mirth as I, having boldly inserted myself into a moment where I most assuredly did not belong, was quietly but decisively excised from it.

And so, struck by the realization of my own idiocy, I performed what I could only describe as an awkward diplomatic retreat — a slow, unnatural backward shuffle away from the esteemed gathering, my face a perfect replica of a man who had simply forgotten something elsewhere.

The photograph was taken. I, meanwhile, stood at a safe distance, clutching a glass of water as if it were my last remaining ally in this cruel world.

Apparently, nothing unsettles a room full of diplomats like genuine enthusiasm.

Perhaps sincerity isn’t a virtue. It’s just social suicide in slow motion. The only honest gesture in the room — and it was a mistake!

Some men build bridges. I extend a hand where none is needed.

Diplomacy is the art of measured silence, of knowing when to step forward and, more important, when to step aside. The deadliest mistakes are the ones made with good intentions.

Some are doomed to learn this the hard way — with an outstretched hand.