Diary of a Reluctant Ruler

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“Er, I only know a very little Hindi,” I told Mum, as she handed over a piece of rough handmade paper with the script scrawled across it.

“It’s an invitation to Prince Asaf Dara Akbar and Indira Jahanara’s wedding,” she replied, “They’re the heirs to the Maharaja although India no longer acknowledges its monarchy.”

“Oh wow,” I grinned, looking again at the handmade paper.

It smelt of heat and dust against my fingertips.

“I’m sorry I didn’t give it to you sooner, but I already RSVP’d for you, as it would be rather a blunder to pass it up. It invites James as well, naturally.”

“Why, when is it?” I asked.

“This coming weekend,” she replied.

“Oh, well there goes the skating plans out the window,” I sighed, thinking of how annoyed and jealous Iona was going to be – we’d planned to go as a group, James & I, Jenn and David; Greg, Jonathon, Charlie, Iona, Shona and Katriona. Iona had heard that James had several eligible bachelor friends, and being tired of Henry’s mucking around yet doing nothing about obviously fancying her, had decided to initiate a jealousy plan to kick him into action. Selecting Charlie for her victim had been an easy next step as he had a reputation already in place. But it would have to wait another week, as Charlie wouldn’t turn up if James didn’t.

“My dear, you can skate any day, but going to an Indian wedding is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Besides, maybe you’ll get some ideas.”

Mmm, like curry for the wedding dinner.

Racist.

I think it’s more specific to curry actually.

Curryist.

So that Thursday, having done a reconnaissance mission for clothes which were more suited to heat than our current cold and rainy weather, and having found some appropriate attire to match the dress code – sari and Indian attire, plus head coverings! – we took the nine hour flight from Rous to Calcutta.

“Are we going first class?” James asked, looking at our tickets.

“Well, what else would you go as?” Jade asked.

“Er, economy?” James replied, “It’s cheaper.”

“But not safer,” Jade answered, handing over her gun to security for checks and showing her firearms license. I grimaced at it as she clipped it back into the holster underneath her jacket. Most of the time I tried to forget the fact that she carried it around.

Scary lady.

Frickin awesome lady, more like!

Two hours later, once on the plane, James asked me where everyone else was.

“In economy,” I replied, matching his whisper.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because they’re a security risk apparently,” I said.

“Really?”

“It’s standard procedure,” I nodded.

“Well, I’m not exactly grumbling, but it’s a little eerie,” he mumbled.

“If there’s no one else here, it means I can do this,” I said, and pulled him into kiss.

His skin was warm against my cold fingertips, and I felt myself begin to melt into him as we continued to kiss, first gently, as if in light inquiry, then more passionately, in a need to pursue some arguable point through touch alone.

“Get a room,” Jade said after fifteen minutes.

James snorted, and sadly pulled away, but our fingers remained entwined on his lap, his thumb, feather-light, tracing circles around my palm.

“So, what is there to do in first class?” James asked, gazing at me with that heart-shatteringly mellow look he sometimes had after kissing.

I got a little lost in his eyes before replying, “Allow me to show you your chair’s many astounding features.”

After half an hour of messing around with the reclining option, the built-into-chair-arm radio, heating pads and massage option, we turned to the computer and checked where we were. Still with eight hours to go we settled into watching the cheesy in-flight movie. And then moved on to a second. Ate some lovely (please note sarcasm) airline food which included the compulsory tub of orange juice, bread roll and weird jelly like pudding.

Airline food makes my stomach funny.

Then don’t eat it, stupid.

But I is hungry…

You are hungry, not you is hungry.

I is hungry though.

Then we watched a third movie. Which was so dull that James fell asleep on me. At which point I decided to mess with his hair. Sadly Jade giggled at him when he woke up, so he noticed. Maybe not such a bad thing, as he then began to kiss me into repentance.

We arrived in Calcutta exhausted, washed up quickly in the plane toilet (which needless to say, was a little disgusting though entirely necessary) and then were greeted coming off the plane by the Indian authorities and various leaders. After a number of handshakes and a few blinding flashes from an old-fashioned camera, we were ushered into a 4x4 and driven off again, to a smaller private plane which then took us to New Delhi. Then another 4x4 took us out of the city and towards Agra, where the wedding was being held. The difference in climate was stifling, and my hair begin to curl in the humidity.

“Nearly monsoon season,” the driver assured us, “Not just yet, but it makes the air crackle.”

I simply nodded in agreement, taking only shallow breathes of the hot, sticky air.

“You can see the Taj Mahal there,” the driver pointed out after a while.

It swam a little in the haze which enveloped the horizon, white against a grey-white sky of an impending dusk.

“And this is Agra,” he cried back at us, proud and pleased, as we hit a sudden rush of traffic and noise.

“Namastey, namastey!” cried a little girl, with long straggling black hair, running along the side of the car before the traffic began to move again.

As we stopped at the traffic lights a whole bunch of children swept around the car, offering various souvenirs, one of them commencing to wash the windscreen without being asked.

“Naa, naa!” the driver cried, waving them away.

James shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Ye lo, ye lo, ye lo!” a little boy of four or five tried to push a postcard through the window.

“Nuhi,” I said gently.

“Ye lo, ye lo!” he repeated.

“Ah, haan!” I cried, living up, “Ye leejeeay!”

I pressed some rupees into his hand and rolled up the window before another child could take his place.

“Jaldi karo! Muhjey jaana hogaa!” the driver cried, moving his windscreen wipers to persuade the windscreen-washer away.

The lights changed and we moved on, now into flowing traffic again. I turned the postcard over in my hands - it was a shot of the Taj Mahal, damp from the boy's sweaty palm, a little battered around the edges. It smelt of salt and dirt.

I glanced up at James who looked decidedly uncomfortable, shifting in his seat, and biting his lip.

“Culture shock?” I asked, picking his hand up from his knee.

“Very much so,” he replied, “How can you do it?”

“It sounds harsh, but you get used to it,” I replied, “Plus, we support a lot of charities working with street children, so every time I see them I know that we’re helping them out of this mess. Plus, a lot of them are very decent kids, and most of them quite happy. It’s the girls I worry for.”

“Why?” James asked.

“Brothels,” I replied, calmly.

“Oh,” James swallowed, shaking his head.

“Nearly there!” the driver said in his thick Punjabi accent.

The aftertaste of poverty followed us into the uptown houses and compounds, however beautifully kept and pruned their gardens were. Pushing the thoughts to the back of my mind, we turned left along a high red sandstone wall, and then turned right into a thick wooden gate set into the stone, which opened up onto a vast courtyard of the family’s house. House was not really the right word, as it was such a long, slim but large building, with architecture as fine as bone china in lattices and domes stretching up into the dusky sky, whose sun lingered red upon the trim line of the roofs. An edge of heat still wavered in the air, radiating from the walls, sun-soaked all day. The air still shivered with humidity, and the insects were beginning to hum in the shadows.

We stepped out of the car and were greeted by a house servant, who led us inside as the porters swooped on our bags. Before we went in I snuck a passing comment under my breath to James, “Just remember what Grandmother said, no public displays of affection. We’re not married yet, so they’ll consider it incredibly improper.”

“What about private displays of affection?” James asked, an eyebrow raised.

“Nothing wrong with them if conducted discretely,” I replied, grinning.

“In that case,” James whispered back, “I will be the height of discretion.”

“Remember to take your shoes off at the door,” I told him.

“Yes ma’am.”