I knew it was difficult, for an Australian to blend in an Indian family. I’m just too different for them.’ She’d say. While they would sip on their port, I would read my favourite poems from Gitanjali, an English translation of which got published a few years back in 1912.īut Molly’s sadness persisted. Jean Reno, we would retire to the opulent mahogany-lined lounge by the fireplace. In the evening after we stuffed ourselves with an exquisite ten-course meal crafted by the French Chef M. We would stroll the manicured lawns on a chilly moonlit night, rode up to the lake in their Landau, had breakfast together devouring on mouthwatering croissants with strawberries from local farms and sipping on tea from the nearby estates. In a short while, I became a constant companion of the royal couple. I think in me she found a link that connected the two countries in some way. Molly became interested when she learned that I had been to Australia (in February when I visited the University of Sydney for work). The couple loved each other dearly and it was clear that the Maharaja would do just about anything to please her and keep her safe. Ostracised by the colonial government and having survived a poisoning attempt as soon as she came to India, she was clearly disillusioned as to what it means to marry a monarch. Molly was probably the melancholiest queen that one could ever imagine. But the most remarkable of all guests was the Maharaja and his Australian Maharani, Molly Fink.
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A retired Colonel Bradley Cooper and young his wife, Lord and Lady Gaga, a young Turkish reporter Rami Malek, a particularly shy Greek painter Banksyus and an American movie actress Dona Trump. I slowly got acquainted with the other guests. Given its purchasing power, I knew I won’t be starving at least. Having found no way to get back to 2020, I’ve decided to accept the new life in old time.įortunately, the fifteen thousand rupees I withdrew from the ATM had transformed to pound sterling of colonial times.
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It’s been two months that I’ve been living in 1915. At least in its indulgent coziness, I will be reminded of something familiar: the Tajness that I’m used to. I came back to the room and climbed onto the bed. Welcoming Maharaja and Maharani of Pudukottai.’ ‘Can you find me Ritesh, the General Manager please?’ ‘1915 Memsahib’ The orderly answered with the expected expression. He looked puzzled but answered anyway ‘Sylk’s Hotel, Memsahib!’ I took a deep breath, fully knowing how insane the next question would sound: He wasn’t wearing the usual Taj attire but flashed the same bright smile and bowed down rather strangely, The same lush green lawn, the same white cottages with red roofs overlooking the breathtakingly picturesque, misty Nilgiri hills.
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This is as if all the antiques have suddenly become brand new. That’s when I looked around and noticed the changes. I looked for the hotel phone on the nightstand but it wasn’t there either. ‘What time is it?’ I reached out for my cellphone, but it wasn’t there.
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So I was kind of surprised to hear this much activity this early in sleepy Ooty. It’s the quaint, self-pampering holiday I always dreamt of but never had. Truth be told, getting stuck in a place as pretty and plush as the Savoy is not nearly as punishing as I made it out to be to my boss. When I checked into the Savoy Ooty in late March, I, like most people, didn’t anticipate the sudden lockdown. And I thought, still sleepy, ‘What happened to social distancing?’ I woke up to the sound of galloping horses and marching feet.