The horse racing at Ascot had been simply wonderful, and King George VI had invited many representatives of the Commonwealth to attend. Other members of the royal family were present, including his daughters Elizabeth and Margaret. Hindu leaders had travelled from India especially for the occasion, and the governors of South Africa and ambassadors from Britain’s other colonies had made the trip as well. Among this fair crowd, there had even been invited a representative of the British Gypsy community. After the first events, the guests had gathered for a glass of orange juice in the gardens next to the racetrack. King George VI meandered among the attendees, proudly escorted by his two daughters. Elizabeth adored horses. Her mind wandered as her father gave a brief word to each member of the Commonwealth he encountered. One day, she would be Queen of England, and she would be hosting races of this kind. One day, she would ascend the imperial throne. She, Elizabeth, would reign over Britain’s vast colonies, even the Indies. Margaret cast a more discreet figure. The guests delighted in the presence of the future queen and her younger sister. My God, it’s her! God Save the Queen, as it shall one day be sung! Margaret knew it all too well; Elizabeth would become queen. Now that her father was king, she was nothing, but she strove to remain indifferent. “Indifferent? Is that what you call it? Smoking cigarettes in dark corners...the people think of you as the black sheep of the royal family. Self-centred is what I’d call it!” whispered Elizabeth, ever the responsible and conscientious daughter. Margaret did not answer, and instead made her way towards the old Gypsy woman. An aura of mystery hung around her; she was reserved, yet smiled warmly. She was the representative of the entire British Gypsy community. Margaret’s father had told her that the woman could read palms. The old Gypsy called to her: “Princess Margaret! How beautiful you are! Come, child, and let me see your hand.” Margaret approached with unfamiliar humility. The old woman bent her knee in a sign of respect to the girl’s royalty. Margaret held out her hand.
“One day, you shall have titles, Princess Margaret!”
“Will I be queen?” asked Margaret.
“Not queen, never queen, but your line will be very great. It is your sister Elizabeth who shall be queen. You shall have love, great love. You shall love with all your heart, and have long life. You shall toil during a terrible war. You shall find love with a soldier.”
“A war?” exclaimed Margaret.
“A very great war.”
“Will England...win?” asked Margaret.
“I do not know. The sun never sets on the British Empire, so it is said. On the British Empire, may the sun never set.”
As they spoke, a Hindu leader was discussing matters of state with George VI. The Indians wanted independence, and to break from the bonds of the Empire. According to the king, a certain lawyer named Gandhi was sowing panic, and disturbing the peace throughout the colony. Such a prospect was out of the question; India would remain British until further notice. Most of the conversations were cheerful, but Elizabeth was growing irked, and wanted to watch another race. The king turned and gave his eldest daughter a wry smile. “Are you looking for someone?” the Hindu leader asked. “No, thank you” the king replied in a courteous tone. The pair exchanged a handshake for the photographers present. It was a symbol; a bond. India was English, and would remain so until...
“Until tonight?” Margaret asked the fortune teller.
“Tonight the sun shall set on London, but it shall rise over the Taj Mahal,” the old seer went on.
“It must be very beautiful there,” Margaret said.
“Ah, there you are, Margaret!” cried the king. “I was looking for you. Up to our old tricks again, are we?”
“Majesty, I was just telling your sweet daughter an old gypsy tale,” said the seer.
“And what tale might that be?” asked the king, curious.
“The legend of Shahnameh! Does your majesty you know it?”
“Do go on.”
“This legend is told in an epic Persian poem, the Shahnameh! It is the story of a great Sassanid king, Bahram V Gor, who learned that the poor people of his kingdom had no way to hear music. He took pity on his people, and asked the king of India to send him ten thousand luris.”
“A fine tale, madam,” smiled the king. “And what, pray tell, are luris?”
“Lute players, good king! When the luris arrived, Bahram V Gor gave each one a bull, a donkey, and a sack of wheat for their sustenance, so that they might perform for the poor without needing to be paid. However, the luris ate and squandered their stipends, and returned home a year later with their cheeks hollow with hunger. Furious at their waste, the king ordered them to pack their bags and to go and wander the earth with their donkeys, taking with them only those belongings they could carry.”
“How interesting!” said King George VI.
“And that is how the Gitano people were born!” added the old woman.
Alan Alfredo Geday