The king and I

<div class="section0"><div class="Normal"><span style="" font-size:="">I wonder what the man from TASS and the man from Pravda would make of Bhutan''s King Jigme Singye Wangchuk''s move to introduce democracy in his country. The two Russians were among the 30-odd journalists — which included me — who in 1974 had landed up in the Bhutanese capital of Thimpu for the coronation of the </span><br /><br /><span style="" font-size:="">18-year-old Jigme.It was the stuff of global headlines. The coronation of an absolute monarch in an exotic land of lamas and dzongs and yaks, almost hermetically sealed off from the rest of the latter-20th century world. Indeed, the modern world seemed very remote in Bhutan. The road from the border town of Phuentsholing was lined with sentinel banners, a shimmering dazzle of mediaeval chivalry. The deeply forested hills were cloaked in silence, with few signs of human habitation. We reached Thimpu, an unremarkable straggle of a town, dominated by the dark hulk of the dzong, a pagoda-roofed fortress-like structure.</span><br /><br /><span style="" font-size:="">We were billeted in Bhutan''s first and only hotel, which looked like a PWD hostel. Press aides, dressed in the Bhutanese national costume mandatory for all citizens, handed out programmes for the week-long ceremonies. All the journalists began asking questions. About the significance of the rituals, about Bhutan opening up to the outside world. The man from TASS and the man from Pravda also had questions. In each room was a bottle of Black Label and one of Martel. Hov vee getz more ven iss finiss? asked TASS. Yess? asked Pravda. An aide explained that empty bottles should be placed outside the doors and would be replaced by full ones. Goot, said TASS. Da, endorsed Pravda.</span><br /><br /><span style="" font-size:="">There was a knock on my door. It was Comrades TASS and Pravda. Yu hav anyzing emmty? asked TASS. Anyzing? added Pravda hopefully. They were looking for containers, into which they could decant the Black Label and the cognac, leave the empties outside the door, get replenishments, decant those, and so on. Yess? asked TASS. No? asked Pravda. No, I agreed. Sorry but I didn''t have any empty tin, canister, jerry can or even a polythene bag which could be filled with booze. TASS and Pravda looked stricken, as though they''d just been informed that all along Tolstoy had been a CIA mole.</span><br /><br /><span style="" font-size:="">Each day seemed crowded with more events than there were dishes in the 101-course buffet meals — Chinese, </span><br /><br /><span style="" font-size:="">Tibetan, Indian, Conti — laid on for lunch and dinner. The Bhutanese prime minister, Jigme Dorje, had been assassinated 10 years previously in a case never satisfactorily closed, and whispers of dire conspiracies mingled with the chanting of Buddhist litanies. There were other alarums and excursions. The British high commissioner to India tried his hand at archery and ended up sticking an unwary bystander in the leg. The wound, fortunately, was superficial and the incident didn''t mar the proceedings. Or the endless rituals. One handred twanty tu, said TASS. Twanty tree, corrected Pravda. Rituals? I said. Shampain, said TASS and Pravda together. Apparently the press corps had, so far, managed to drink 123 bottles of champagne. TASS and Pravda were keeping count, in between improvising equipment for take-away scotch and brandy.</span><br /><br /><span style="" font-size:="">With Bhutan preparing for democracy, I think of the coronation and of the man from TASS and the man from Pravda. I wonder what they''re doing now that the old dispensation has gone. Democracy has a way of putting paid to a lot of things, from monarchies to Marxism. But if the man from TASS and the man from Pravda were in Bhutan now they wouldn''t have time for such abstract disquisitions. They''d be too busy doing a body count of the bottles of shampain being popped for the new celebrations.</span><br /><br /><br /></div> </div>