A ROYAL PAIN

(Pages from the secret diary of Kate, The Duchess of Cambridge)

Ever since I witnessed a friend’s marriage in Bhatinda, mine appears to be a boring, formal affair. Was that a marriage? No Band, no Baja, no Baraat? Okay there was some music but that was hardly any match for the foot tapping, “Aaj Mere Yaar ki…’. Fine, there was some royal leg shaking at the private bash in the evening. It was no fun, in fact it was funny. Imagine stiff upper lips shaking stiff formal legs? That’s about it. No gaggle of giggly girls hovering around the bride. No bunch of boisterous boys high on beer around the groom. No malevolent matriarchs, no moody uncles, no grumpy aunts. No raging reds, fiery fuchsias or bright blues. It could have been a scene straight out of a black and white movie. It was more like a Mad Hatters tea party. And the prize winning hat was undoubtedly Posh’s. Honestly I was about to laugh aloud, but remembered that royals are not supposed to laugh like commoners. They can only indulge in half smiles.

Though I was seated in Rolls the relatives trundled up in mini buses and reached the venue as if they were on a school picnic. The Brits should take some lessons from Indian royalty. From what I know, their ministers are the new monarchs and their personal jets ferry guests.

My marriage is being labeled as the wedding of the century. Why? Because royalty is a brand just like…umm say- Apple. The buzz around it has to be kept alive. Else it dies a slow death of ignominy. My marriage was an occasion to inject some life in a fading monarchy. Monarchy is the only brand left in a recession hit Britain. Do you know the names of the King of Spain or the King of Norway? No? See, so we Brits keep your interest alive by staging extravagant royal marriages.

The British press is happily singing that Kate Middleton is Kate Simpleton. I might be a simpleton but my goals were clear. Just as smart Indian kids start preparing for the IIT exam from class eight onwards, I set my sights on the Prince even before entering the St Andrews University in Scotland.



Let me confess, this royalty business is a royal pain in the a$$. Had I known, I would never have set my eyes on the Prince. Though Willy was wise enough to marry for love, my father-in-law succumbed to royal pressures by keeping mommy Camilla in a clandestine closet. I was horrified to know that Diana, my late mother-in-law allegedly had to undergo a virginity test thirty summers ago. The stiff upper lip hushed that all was well. However, I refused to undergo any such test. Shouldn’t Royal men also undergo a virginity test? And horror of horrors what if they came out clean? Good Lord that would be such a royal embarrassment!

Anyway, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. After a royal dumping Diana went on a royal romp, threatening the royalty with the prospect of an Arab heir. Imagine a black or a brown King? Royal Catastrophe! The ‘royal stiff upper lip’ stiffened and Diana died mysteriously in a car crash. They say paparazzi killed her.

Not only did I refuse a fertility check, I also refused to utter the word ‘obey’ during my wedding vows. I am a modern woman. A smart one! The fact that I hooked a Royal is proof enough. Let’s see who obeys whom.
As of now my sister Pippa's derriere is creating waves in the British press. And going by the magic of her gait she will be marrying Harry in a few years, perhaps in Bhatinda. The marriage will again be like a breath of fresh air for a stale monarchy which sits uneasily in a democracy.