Ghost Train to the Eastern Star

What was touching about the Durga puja was that it marked the cycle of life and death, it celebrated rebirth, and so everything that happened here in the blazing sun of the fort, the ringing of bells and gongs and the Durga chants, mattered to this broken young man who was a living symbol of how the mother goddess could help.

The priests applied powder to his forehead, tied a sacred thread to his wrist, flicked water, and passed out sweets, all this to the shrieks of the chants and the sound of flutes and gongs.

"Durga Mata ki jai!"

The prince was led to a gilded chair under a white cotton canopy near the temple, the portly maharajah beside him, the maharani in purple silks, the retainers with trays of sweets, the priests and the hundreds, perhaps thousands of worshipers tumbling over one another for a glimpse of their semi-divine king.

I was standing behind the canopy, trying to keep my bare feet on the cooler, shaded part of the bricks. The yuvraj signaled that he wanted water. The heat was like a glittering hammer. I watched him make a great effort to hold the glass and tip it and drink. He was clearly in bad shape, yet he was determined to complete this act without help, and when at last he was led away, looking frail, determination was more evident in his movements. He was a man with inner strength; I felt that he had come a long way and that his willpower would take him further; in the course of this fragrant and harmonious ceremony his posture had become resolute and more certain.

There is something about the presence of royalty—it is a throbbing in the air, a vibrancy, a buzz—that sets people's pulses racing. Probably it is not much different from the excitement on the red carpet on Oscar night, but it is heightened by the religious fervor associated with ancient royalty. It was obvious here at the fort, with all the Jodhpur royals on view, looking pious and protective as the delighted people watched them—a kind of rapture inspired by the big reliable-looking maharajah, his lovely queen, his wounded son, the image of the mother goddess smeared with ritual paste, flames leaping from oil lamps, and the powerful chiming of gongs and bells.

I stayed in the hotel part of the Umaid Bhawan, hardly believing my luck at being a guest at such a place. I made a tour of the Jodhpur bazaar and the antique shops, looking for treasures and trying to sort the real from the fake. But it hardly mattered; what I liked best in an Indian market was simply walking from stall to stall, from shop to shop, threading my way among the plodding camels and the rickshaws and the browsing cows in a city where nothing looked modern.

A few days later, more regal vibrations set the Umaid Palace buzzing: heightened activity, lots of breathless movement, a briskness I had not seen before. After lunch, I saw a long red carpet being unrolled.

"Prince Charles is leaving," one of the carpet rollers said, kneeling on the polished marble floor of the outer lobby, straightening the edges of the thing.

I wanted to have a good look at Prince Charles's new wife, so I lingered by the great arch of the palace entrance.

"May I help you, sar?" It was a security man.

"I'm waiting for Prince Charles. I want to say hello." The security man had a badge and a truncheon. I added, "I met him once."

I took my place at the very end of a line of people who were saying goodbye: butlers, cleaners, chowkidars, sweepers, syces, hotel staff, secretaries, menials, and me.

All the hotel guests had gathered for the farewell; all the attendees of the water conservation conference were there too. I searched their faces and spotted the grouchy woman from the train. She was small, troll-like, round-shouldered, across the room. She did not see me until the prince approached my line, and when our eyes met I winked at her. Ha! She darkened in a way that I had come to recognize. I remembered how she had barked the word "audacious" into her cell phone.

The prince and the duchess made their way down the line, thanking each person, and when my turn came I said, "Paul Theroux. You came to the premiere of the film of my book The Mosquito Coast in London twenty years ago. I'm sure you don't remember."

"Of course I remember," he said, smiling and snatching at my hand. He had a high pink color and thinning hair, a correctness of posture, and the frustrated smirk of someone who believed he had never been taken seriously enough. He looked boyish and slightly sheepish rather than princely.