Royal images from Bhutan...

Guys, I was looking in my folders for the column on Bhutan that was published on Sunday in the Times of India. It seems to have disappeared. If I can retrieve it from cyber space, I shall post it here... if not... well, a few delectable images will have to do. This is the gorgeous King (K2, for convenience) and his lovely fiancee Jetsun Pema. And the equally gorgeous Queen Mother with her pretty daughter ( mother of an 18 month old baby, would you believe it?). The search for the missing column shall continue tomorrow with renewed fervour. Till then... good night.

'Virgins Only' Club....

Just enjoyed a delightful tea session at home ( walnut-cream-mango cake, courtesy the delicious Ria), with a beautiful and spunky writer named Madhuri Banerjee. Her virgin book is titled, " Losing my virginity and other dumb ideas." More about the book after I read it tonight. It is selling very well.... but it desrves to sell even better. Madhuri took three months to write this one. She's already on to her second one. And she's doing a special book for me as well. All this frenzied writing between looking after her three-year-old (an iPad addict! At 3!!!). Madhuri resembles a Raja Ravi Varma painting - which is what I'd told her when we first met.She's bright, fun and very clever. I have suggested a 'Virgins Only' Facebook Club to her - what do you think? Any takers??

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This appeared in Bombay times today...

Thank God it’s over….!

What’s the bet I don’t have to specify “what’s over” and that everybody reading the heading will know what exactly I’m referring to.For dummies who haven’t got it – it’s the IPL. Call it the law of diminishing returns, but something vital was missing this year. And that something was addiction. Any sport that does not generate passion (“If I don’t watch this match, I’ll die!”), has failed in its main objective, which is to hook loyal fans. And hook them so bad, they are willing to put their lives, wives, husbands, kids, food… even loo breaks , on hold so as not to miss a micro second of the action. The last time cricket generated such frenzy in India was during the World Cup Finals. It has been downhill since then. There was zero hysteria during the IPL Finals. At least in Mumbai ( perhaps because the home town team had crashed out). But that shouldn’t matter all that much to lovers of the game. Well, right after the win, I was at the International airport to collect my daughter. The TV screens were flashing cricket news and showing clips of the awards’ ceremony. Most people were indifferent, asking one another in an idle way, “So, boss… who won?” and not waiting for an answer. Even recent controversies ( Gambhir’s injuries and more) did not light any fires. As to which B-Team will piously play test cricket for the country ( heck! We all know those guys are compromise candidates and sure as hell would rather play for big bucks than Bharat Desh, given the chance), the mighty Board needs to wake up and smell the coffee. To what extent can you flog a game and its star players without fatigue ( physical and psychological ) setting in? If it’s only about the money, more’s the reason to stop and assess the excess-factor which is killing the game. Even those energetic, skimpily -clad Cheerleaders have lost their novelty. Nobody ogles them any longer. Commentators in badly tailored kurtas tried hard to pump up adrenaline levels this year by cutting cheesy jokes and making the format more interactive via Twitter. But ‘illey’, nothing worked to break through the apathy of viewers. Empty stands told their own story. Give us ( and those over- worked cricketers) a break, guys… you’ll be doing cricket a huge favour! Let’s get the mojo back into the Gentleman’s Game before cricket itself dies.
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Ah… the airport scene. Have you noticed one recent phenomenon? The number of wheel chair passengers seems to have gone up dramatically in the last couple of years. Does that mean more invalids are traveling abroad these days? Naah! I have watched perfectly sturdy people demanding the service… and getting it! No, they aren’t senior citizens with any visible health issues. On board, their mobility levels are just fine. And the minute they get out of the terminal building, they forget their ailments and jump out of the wheelchair enthusiastically to greet relatives. So, how come they need assistance only during the long walk from the aircraft to the exit? Airport authorities need to put in a couple of new processes to filter lazy bounders from genuine patients. It certainly looks as if the system is being taken advantage of by people who simply don’t wish to exert themselves! If they are well enough to undertake a hectic tour of Europe without collapsing, they are well enough to walk out on their own like everybody else.Standing outside the terminal, I felt I was at the Olympics for physically challenged people going by the procession of wheelchairs emerging from the exit. Sorry… this is not an insensitive remark. Try queuing up behind a long line of such types during peak hours at immigration counters and tell me you don’t feel like dragging out a few of those privileged, perfectly fit people from their wheelchairs and saying, “Walk the Talk!” Or, stay home.
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Poor Bips may have been unfairly targeted by Customs’ officials, even though she disarmed her tormentors, by giving them a big thumbs up later for doing their job well. But we still need to get our perspectives right. If high- end jewelry attracts a stiff penalty, are designer handbags and shoes less expensive? Most of the Customs’ guys are exceedingly well- informed and brand savvy. They know their Gucci from a Pucci. Perhaps Bips bought her goodies at throwaway prices during a heavily discounted distress sale? Or they were luscious gifts from a besotted admirer??? Lucky girl…. she waltzed away after paying a measly 12k. Ooohhhh – the power of dimples and curves!

It's more fun in the 'burbs....

This appeared in Bombay Times...

It’s more fun in the ‘Burbs….!

Heavens!! No self-respecting SOBO resident will ever admit it openly…. but let’s face it. SOBO is on its last legs. It’s all over. Increasingly, those very same snobs who once turned up their noses before deigning to cross the Kemp’s Corner flyover, are waking up to a new and rather annoying reality : the ‘Burbs are rocking! The ‘Burbs are where all the action has shifted. That’s where the big bucks are… and with all that lolly floating around, can glam-sham be far behind? The era of the Suburban Dhamaka began ten years ago. At the time, it was thought to be a freak thing…. some mad people had decided they’d had enough of SOBO slumming – and headed north. People laughed and concluded these guys could no longer afford to stay in the real Mumbai – which was , of course, located in the South. They gloated each time those poor suckers had to trek to their old stomping ground to shop, entertain, eat out in style or party with the ‘right’ crowd at the ‘right’ places. Bandra was the absolute outpost. After Bandra, there was wilderness. The boondocks. Juhu was where the Bollywoodwallahs lived. Andheri was reserved for television types. In between were all these depressing areas filled with non-descript people who didn’t interest anybody. Oh well…. how foolish and comical does all this sound today! No wonder suburbanites are smugly challenging the sniffy SOBO crowd to take a walk on the wild side… leave the safety of their boring homes and check out what’s happening on the other side of that Sea Link.
Apparently, a lot!

South Mumbai wears a pretty deserted look these days. For one, the summer vacations are on. The babalogs with their bachchalogs ( plus maids) have fled for cooler climes. For another, nothing’s really going on, unless you count the IPL matches as big social events. Even the gossip is pretty thanda compared to the red hot developments in the ‘burbs. Going by breathless accounts in newly introduced masala columns( Mumbai Mirror runs a pretty sizzling one), while SOBO snores, the suburbs throb. Most of the splashiest, sexiest soirees are hosted up North. There is a new breed of dedicated , hard partying types that makes sure the music never stops. Most of the high profile hotties commanding premium space on society pages were unknown entities not so long ago. Today, they are the ones being chased by flashbulbs. More restaurants and lounge bars seem to be mushrooming in Yari Road ( wherever that is), than in Colaba. Dozens of boutiques selling top end watches, fashion and jewellery have opted for showrooms in Bhayandar and beyond. For all we know, Bhandup is all set for a make over, and may take over from Bandra as the preferred destination of the upwardly mobile. When that happens, it will be time to move. Preferably, to Bhutan.
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Is it just a coincidence that some of the most creative commercials on television happen to be those promoting various telecom services? Don’t you just love the one featuring Mohan Agashe asking his grandson to locate an old acquaintance from way back when? The smart grandson does what any young person would do these days… gets onto FB. And… bingo! The old man Agashe is looking for, is promptly found, much to Agashe’s delight. What does Agashe do next? He decides to pay his former buddy a surprise visit. There is an old score to settle. When the two come face-to-face, Agashe greets his old rival-in-love…turns to the man’s wife and naughtily plants a kiss on her cheek ! Agashe and grandson scoot before the old man can react, laughing uproariously at the prank. Delightful, human, and original. Get idea , sirji! This one beats even you!
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Au revoir Cannes. Phew! Thank God the maha tamasha is finally over. Let’s hope Bollywood puts up a better show next year, with quality films in place of tired mannequins. And ladies, do declare your borrowed rocks before jumping on that plane. Or else… kahani Minissha ki!

Rajiv Gandhi - StyleBhai!

These are a couple of images from Bhutan. The one with Bhutan's Prime Minister is my favourite ( I am dressed in the traditional Bhutanese Kira) because Lyonchen Jigme Thinkey is such a sweetie! Seriously... he is an erudite, soft spoken, elegant and eloquent scholar. Bhutan is lucky to have him! His session with the delegates was the most fun, especially since he spoke so candidly about his rebellious youth when he sported shoulder length hair and wore jeans.
This was written for a special issue of The Week. It certainly brought back lovely memories of a Prime Minister who cut a fine figure - never mind his slightly loopy politics!

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It helps to be handsome.Seriously handsome. Rajiv Gandhi was seriously handsome. An absolute, drool-worthy hottie. With good looks on that scale, anything he chose to wear would have become a style statement – even a sack cloth. Since there are two Rajiv Gandhis to deal with ( before and after becoming a neta), let’s start with the former and that yummy picture of Rajiv and Sonia gazing lovingly at each other, soon after their simple and stylish wedding. Sonia looks glorious with a curtain of heavy chestnut- coloured hair falling over her slim shoulders. But it is Rajiv who resembles a romantic movie star.Or a dishy Prince. This was at a time when Rajiv was very much a ‘bomber jacket and jeans’ sort of guy – laid back, international and effortlessly trendy. He wore leather and denim like his global contemporaries, his feet fashionably shod in the latest Gucci loafers. Critics never failed to take pot shots at his penchant for all things Italian – loafers included. In fact, he and his cronies were witheringly called the Gucci Gang or the Polo Babalog by detractors, who also pointed out Rajiv’s fondness for pricey, limited edition pens, fancy shades ( aviators, but of course, given his professional training as a pilot), and a watch collection that was the envy of connoisseurs. Yet, there was a charming, throwaway nonchalance to all this. An effortlessness about his appearance that added to the casual appeal. He left the flashbulbs to his younger brother Sanjay, who had rapidly switched gears to the politically correct, Congress-approved uniform of white kurta pajamas by then. Since Rajiv Gandhi shunned the spotlight in those early years, his personal sartorial style made zero impact, which must have suited him just fine. He was being himself – reticent and mild-mannered. Happy to be enjoying life as a young dad of two gorgeous kids and husband to a beautiful woman.
Overnight, Sanjay’s premature death caused Rajiv’s world to come crashing down and nothing remained the same after that – not even his wardrobe. He insisted he “Did it for Mummy,” (joined politics) and it’s fair to conclude he was being honest. But once that crucial decision to jump into the fray was taken , Rajiv Gandhi was a totally transformed man. For starters, he lost the hair on his head in the first year itself. He also lost a great deal of weight. Political life extracted a huge price from this man – emotionally and physically. From this point on, his public appearances became standardized - impeccably tailored white khadi kurta pajamas replaced those macho bomber jackets and jeans of old. The makeover was dramatic, sudden and complete. The only concessions he made to fashion at this stage were revealed in his selection of exquisite, one of a kind cotton angavastrams during summer, and meticulously embroidered Kashmiri shawls in winter. He also began the trend of draping those embroidered beauties in a certain way ( a la Vivekananda and Rabindranath Tagore – with the chador worn under the right arm and flung over the left shoulder). Occasionally, he’d slip into his favourite loafers or wear Ferragamo shoes , especially while traveling. But the trademark , perfectly starched and crisply ironed mid-calf kurtas dominated his wardrobe and were rapidly adopted as the unofficial dress code by his Congress coterie . One can see the trend continuing till today, with Rajiv’s Boys ( well into their sixties, now), still adhering to their late bossman’s original dress code.
It was when Rajiv Gandhi travelled overseas that he wowed the world and the well- cut ‘Bandgalas’ came out in full force – dove grey for morning functions, black for the night. His virgin trip to America, as Prime Minister, had the international press gasping – as much for his winning speech ( the best he ever made), as for his smart, dapper appearance.And yes, he wore a black Bandgala to the White House. Rajiv Gandhi may not have been a style icon in the Bollywood sense of the term. But he did influence an entire generation of young polticians to groom themselves better. Gone was the era of scruffy, paan- chewing netas dressed in shabby, often stained clothes. Gone also were those dreadful pot bellies , crumpled dhotis and discoloured Gandhi topis ( God knows why they were called that, considering Gandhi himself never wore one). If anybody wanted to hang with Rajiv and become a part of his inner circle , it was understood the person had to be well-groomed, polished and attractive. Apart from his Doon School buddies (who also promptly dumped their bespoke Savile Row suits and blazers for the boss-approved khadi gear), even the coquettish ladies in his entourage ( and we are not naming them!), were given a major thumbs up for their ‘ethnic’ fashion sensibilities ( Kanjeevaram sarees , kohl-lined eyes, big bindis and strictly no lipstick).Rajiv Gandhi made desi dressing ‘cool’ by his relaxed, chilled out approach to fashion. His legacy is still evident . Watch those young netas trooping into Parliament – it’s pure R.G. ‘ishstyle’ all the way – down to the designer loafers and prominent pens.
Rajiv Gandhi was the original Mr. Bandgala. Arun Nayar was merely a pretender !

Meet Osama's Fifth Wife

Blogdosts, I am feeling super special today. Poochho, kyon? I was just gifted the latest iPad by my son Aditya, who came over for a rawa dosa... and I'm guessing the dosa was soooo yummy, he thought his mother deserved some serious appreciation!
Well... I now have a sexy gizmo that I'm treading carefully around. It is far too sophisticated for me. All those amazing functions... the stuff it's capable of... the only thing it can't do is produce a baby. Perhaps the next generation iPad will be able to reproduce, too! By this time next week, I'll become an expert. Or so I'm convincing myself. The raison d'etre behind this lavish gift , says Aditya, is to free me from the tyranny of old technology. Aditya's timing couldn't have been better - I shall pack my iPad when I leave for London next week. I'll be able to blog and tweet and write my columns idhar se, udhar se. What fun.

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This appeared in The Week.....

Meet Mrs.Osama….

Poor woman. Imagine her predicament. First, she gets married off at age 17, to a man who is 25 years her senior. He also happens to be the most wanted terrorist on earth.She dutifully assumes her role as his fifth wife and produces a daughter Safiya. Then, after spending 12 years with him, she gets shot in the shin by a SEAL during the dramatic American attack on her secret mansion in Abbottabad. An attack that kills her notorious husband, Osama Bin Laden. Oooof! It can’t get any worse. But apparently,the same woman is supposedly singing like a canary these days from her hospital bed in Pakistan and revealing juicy details to Pakistani interrogators about her dead husband’s sex life. We now know from Amal al- Sadah, the Yemeni beauty that her 54- year -old husband needed the assistance of a herbal Viagra to get things going. At the time of stealth attack, Osama was in bed with Amal, his favourite wife. He was fully clad. This is an important factoid. Had he been naked, he would have been arrested but only after putting some clothes on. Apparently, one cannot arrest a naked person.Amal was fully clad as well. Early reports claimed she had screamed out her husband’s name and attacked the raiding party in a fit of rage. It was also said she’d been used as a human shield by Osama to defend himself. All those are mere folk tales… the narrative will keep changing as we go along. Depending on the story teller. But it is Amal’s extraordinary life as the wife of the dreaded Osama bin Laden that will continue to intrigue the world for years to come… even if she decides to write a ‘tell all’ book ( unlikely scenario, if she values her life and the life of her daughter).
Most women would love to know the nature of her relationship with her charismatic husband, now being portrayed as a frail, delusionary fellow , who dyed his grey beard and made comical videos of himself issuing threats to the world, while frequently flubbing his lines. Assuming she was his favourite wife, how did she share her man with the other two wives who also lived in the compound?Did they take turns? Throw lots? Get Osama to pick his nightly bed companion as per his whims? What did Amal talk about to her husband, since she was not allowed to leave the upper floors of their heavily guarded mansion for six long years? Did she not wonder about life outside that compound? Given that there was zero access to information and zero contact with anybody beyond those high walls, what did the poor woman do to amuse herself? No tv, no music, no scrabble, no retail therapy…? Okay, perhaps she kept herself busy cooking those goats the men bought on a daily basis. Even that is doubtful… unless the kitchen was on the upper floors where she lived as a virtual prisoner. Clearly, she couldn’t milk the cows in the compound – that was left to the men ( excluding her husband). She obviously didn’t join him as he paced around the compound after dusk. How many water melons could she have cut up and cleaned( Osama cured his chronic kidney ailment with a water- melon diet). God! Amal’s existence sounds like a living death to any woman of today. As someone joked, “How awful it must have been for Amal to live in a home with mismatched curtains, and lousy table linen.”
Trivialising the issue may be the only way to come to terms with this bizarre situation. Amal may have survived the attack, but as Osama’s widow, she’s a marked woman for life. Even if she does manage to go back to Yemen and start all over again ( she’s just 29, for heaven’s sake), she’ll never be able to live below the radar. Right now, there is a horrible tug- of- war going on between her Pakistani handlers and the Americans, who want free access to her. Amal remains the only real link that can provide credible details about a mysterious mastermind who held the world to ransom for close to a decade. What was life with Osama all about?How much does Amal know about his diabolical plans? Did he confide in her at all? Did she eavesdrop critical conversations between Osama and the couriers ? Can she, for example, give fresh leads on future attacks being planned by Osama? Perhaps, Amal is aware of her own priceless worth – she is invaluable as a resource. But imagine the trauma suffered by her 12- year- old daughter who watched her father being shot ( American version), and her mother getting hit by a bullet. Henceforth, Amal will be forced to raise this troubled pre-teen on her own , as a single mother, never ever being sure of their joint safety. The nightmare has not ended for this young woman. It may just have begun….

Rascalams - mind it!

I am back from Beautiful Bhutan - refreshed, energised and ready to climb Mount Everest! Yesssss.... I feasted my eyes on the world's most majestic peak yet one more time this morning on our return flight from Paro to Kathmandu , on to Delhi and finally back to Mumbai.This time I didn't waste even a micro-second taking pictures - I just gobbled up the vistas greedily... there was Kanchenjunga. And look - wasn't that Nandadevi? The Himalayas on the Indian side are far more impressive than the range as seen from Nepal or Bhutan, mainly because what's offered is a panoramic view that stretches for over a hundred kilometres. I saw glaciers and pastures, rivulets and ravines... I forgot we had woken up at 4.30 a.m. to catch the flight. It was well worth the torture of being seriously sleep deprived, as most of us were , after 4 intense days of readings and discussions. The final day - a retreat in Paro - turned out to be the icing on the cake. Actor Madhavan was clearly the star of this Lit Fest, literally and figuratively. More at a later date - once I upload the pictures. Maddy's included! ********
I had totally forgotten all about this column, when a phone call from Soli Sorabjee ( how I love and admire this outstanding gentleman) startled me in distant Thimpu. He called to chuckle over the contents and said he hadn't enjoyed such a hearty laugh in a long, long time! His solution to this vexing issue? "Why not design a chastity belt for men, and let the wife keep the key?" Ummmmm... because Sir, it's not all that difficult for serial offenders like DSK to make DUPLICATE keys!
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This appeared in Asian Age...


Bobbitt all these rascalams, I say! Too many of them floating around the world doing bad- bad things to good- good women. Look at that fellow Dominique Kahn-Strauss ( does he waltz, or what?). Can’t keep his business inside his pants! Aiyoooo! So much shame he is bringing to his family… all his wives and childrens. Man has no face to show in public1 And he is coming from such a top class background, that to. Just think – how many people become IMF chiefs? You are knowing anyone? I am not knowing. What a powerful job controlling which country to give how much money to and all that. Presidents and Prime Ministers of countries come with begging bowl to his door. And he simply doesn’t care! I ask you, Sir, when you are attacking that poor servant girl…. sorry, chamber maid, are you not behaving same-to-same as our Shiney Ahuja?Proper thinking and good brain went where at that time?? Same question we are asking Shiney - see what happened to him? Jail and all. Still his wife is standing by him. Your wife also, no? But yours is third or fourth wife. Poor Shiney only has one – he may not get another after this.You are also in jail, my friend! But, believe me foreign jails are far, far better than Indian jails. You must be getting good food… meat, chicken, fish and all that. Bed to sleep on. also. Many, many Indians won’t mind being in American jails for that reason only. Better to eat in a prison than starve outside and on top of that have to listen to big-big lectures about freedom and how great India is because of that freedom. All useless talk, I say. First, keep stomach filled, then enjoy fruits of freedom. Okay… some things we are fully knowing and understanding about your type of problem. It is also happening in this part of the world, baba… how men can be different- different from place to place? Anatomy same, brain same, thinking same. See a woman – and jump on her. If she is working for you, then, no problem Like you can use laptop anytime, she also can be used anytime. Whyfor pretend to be a sadhu, all holy and pure, when the truth is fully known to all? But even with this much understanding, it is not proper for you to have done what you did in that costly hotel room. Coming out nanga in front of stranger-lady? Then forcing her to do all that …. Chhee chhee stuff! Not thinking for one minute of your wife and children before doing badmaashi! We call such men total idiots in India. Why? Because smart men know when to do all this physical stuff and when not to. Arrey baba – you could not wait or what?
Now you are saying it is Sarkozy’s fault. Where is Sarkozy in all this scandal nonsense? He is busy making his beautiful wife pregnant. Timing for conceiving is also first class. Election baby is good for vote catching. Sarkozy is a smart chap, that way.France people like to know that their Presidents are manly fellows capable of keeping woman happy in the bedroom. Several women, several bedrooms. All French Presidents are like that only! One mistress here… another one there… two-three wives in between. Nothing new. You should have waited to become President first… then you could have raped or whatever you call it, women right and left, without a care in the world. Your wife – what is her good name? Haan… Annie, no? She has said politicians must know how to seduce. Lucky man, you are ! How many wives are so understanding? So far , at least, Annie is like Shiney’s wife , not Arnie’s wife. Look at that uppity Maria Shriver and how she is acting! That too after twenty -five years of marriage. Women are also similar types about such matters. I think so they feel jealous. After that they feel they must get badla. No need for badla-wadla…no point. Arnie and you can have a frank talk about this sex matter. Also, invite Tiger Woods for a discussion. See … all three of you are big shots – famous , rich, influential. Still you are getting into trouble in America. That way, Italian people are not so strict. See how they are giving chances to their President! Berlusconi is a rascalam of all rascalams. He is boasting openly about those small-small girls he pays so much money for bunga bunga business. Nobody bothering too much for that – in Rome, do the Romans, they are saying. He is not in jail. But you are.
Tch , tch, tch! Everything khallas for you, now. Naukri gone, friends gone, future gone. American judge saying maybe fifteen to twenty years in jail if guilty. That means, life also gone. You are saying world hates you because you are a Jew. American public saying you are racist. Poor maid is saying nothing so far. But because she is a Black woman, you are in even more trouble. God knows how many more women will now start telling the whole world that you raped them here and there – in the office, in the car park, in an elevator, maybe even in an airplane bathroom. How you will keep your izzat and show face to family? In India, we believe in Karma. Maybe you did many sins in last life? Many more in this life also. Now your only hope is for your next life. If those guards in Riker’s Island Correction Centre can be manaoed, khilaoed and pilaoed ( like we do here), you may survive – more time spent in hospital, less time in11x13 cell. At least do one thing, boss – keep your business out of sight. Or else , bheja gaya, aur ‘woh’ bhi ! Bobbitt ka naam suna hai aapne? Women are saying loudly-loudly that is what men like you deserve - mind it!

Thimpu Lit Fest rocks!

It all starts with a spectacular view of the Emperor of the Himalayas - Mt. Everest in all its glory, as dawn breaks over what is by far the most imposing range of mountains in the world. The immensely skilled pilots of Druk Air ( Bhutan's national airline) point out the range ( Kanchenjunga, too) as the plane flies enviously close to it.What an introduction to a destination! As we landed in Paro ( Bhutan's international airport), after a two and a half hour flight from Delhi, it does occur to me that one tiny pilot error, and we might have lost a significant number of contemporary Indian writers ( there were so many on the flight!).
I cannot begin to tell you how enchanting this mountain kingdom is - starting with the stunningly beautiful Queen Mother, Ashi Dorji Wangmo Wangchuk, and the young, devastatingly handsome King, Jigme Dorji. We are lucky to be here during this most auspicious season, and especially on the day when King Jigme announced his engagement to a beauteous local princess. I met them at a dinner hosted by our erudite, charming and efficient Ambassador\ author Pawan Varma( the force behind the Lit Fest, evocatively titled 'Mountain Echoes')at his 70- acre, thickly wooded official residence ( it has its own golf course). Perhaps it was an impromptu visit by His Majesty, but as soon as guests were told he'd be arriving shortly with his bride-to-be, the atmosphere changed dramatically! I was told he doesn't like being photographed, but when I asked, he posed most sportingly with his lovely fiancee. I shall share pics on my return... I took a few of the Queen Mum ( who has written two splendid books on Bhutan), and who was with her young daughter ( a Harvard graduate ) - who has also written a book on Bhutan ( its constitution), explaining it to kids! What an extraordinarily good looking royal family.... and for all that, so down to earth, gracious and kind. No wonder their people adore them. And are so proud to be Bhutanese.