If it's a choice between Al Gore and George Bush, I would personally go for young George. It's not that I necessarily prefer his policies; it's just a matter of nepotism. You see, his grandaunt was an old friend of mine. And, in case you didn't know it, his granduncle was Indian -- a Sikh, to be precise. The year was 1981. I was on a flight to Colombo, and this frail old American lady in a wheelchair was wheeled into the seat next to me. After a couple of complimentary champagnes, which she surprised me by knocking back very professionally, we were chatting like old friends. She had obviously been very wealthy at one time, and she told me she had spent her life just travelling around the world, with her various successive husbands. (If I recall correctly, there had been six of them). It was, quite literally, the Lifestyle of the Rich and Famous. In the beginning she had travelled in great style. It was all luxury cruises and swanky hotels: the Ritz in Paris, the Griti Palace in Venice, the Oriental in Bangkok. But then, as time and inflation caught up with her, her standards began to decline. The luxury cruises gave way to discounted Economy-class tickets; the hotels became seedier and seedier. (This time in Bombay, for instance, instead of the Taj, it had been one of those grotty hotels off Colaba Causeway.) Now she was nearly 80, but she had no permanent home of her own. All she did was travel around the world in her wheelchair, living in seedy hotels, where she was a recognised face. A few months at some little hotel in Spain. Then on to another hotel in Sri Lanka. Then on to another in Bali. And so on. Her only family was the staff of these hotels, who knew her, looked after her, and nursed her when she was ill. Her husbands had all fallen by the wayside, divorced or dead, or both. The last of them, she told me, had been an Indian, a Sikh gentleman. He had been the nicest of the lot, but he had died last year. She mentioned a name, and seemed surprised that I didn't recognise it immediately. But he was very famous, she insisted, he was "the King of the Sikhs". She repeated his name, enunciating it very slowly, but it still rang no bell. There was a son somewhere in America, but he didn't want anything to do with her. And there was also a rather famous nephew, she added. Maybe I'd heard of him? He was the head of the CIA, and his name was George Bush. Our flight arrived in Colombo well after midnight. She was planning to take a taxi to her hotel, but I insisted on dropping her. She, very reluctantly, agreed. The hotel turned out to be one of those cheap hippie joints near the seafront. When our taxi entered the driveway, the staff all came running out to greet her, their sarongs flapping in the wind, shouting "Granny coming! Granny coming!" She was delighted. "Of all my families, my Sri Lankan family is the kindest. They really look after me so well," she told me, as we said goodbye. I meant to go and see her sometime, just to check that she was OK. But by the time I got down to it she had obviously moved on to her next destination, her next hotel. I have often thought about her over the years and wondered what became of her. The image that remains in my mind, for some reason, is one of those ghostly ships doomed to circle the world forever. Her nephew, George Bush, of course, later became the President of the United States, on the promise -- soon forgotten, I must add -- of "a kinder, gentler America". And now I wonder where young George Junior stands on that... Well-connected himself, Anvar Alikhan is a genius at chancing upon people with connections! Tell us what you think of this diary
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