Vanessa shakes her head.
‘Then your computer is wrong. Burn it.’
There seems to be almost too much space inside the house. Even without seeing any of the 28 bedrooms, I feel it in the dining room, with its high empty walls and giant table on which the eight places set out for us barely make an impression.
‘D’you eat here even when you’re on your own?’ I ask the Prince.
‘My father told me never to dine alone,’ he replies briskly. ‘If I have no-one to dine with, I go outside and find someone.’
At one end of the gloomy room, tall green electric fans are clustered together, heads bowed like dormant sunflowers. At the other, there is a marble mantelpiece on which is framed a front page of The Times with a photo of Prince Malik tent-pegging in Hyde Park.
‘I was the champion tent-pegger in Pakistan. It is a very difficult thing to do you know.’
With some relish he describes the origins of the sport.
‘When attacking a camp the first wave of horsemen would go in early in the morning and uproot the tent by its pegs, revealing the dazed occupants doing…’ he pauses, ‘whatever they might be doing. Then the next wave of slightly less skilful troops comes in and cuts off their heads.’
At this he rocks with laughter. A man in a turban, with all the aplomb of a maitre de vin, tops up my glass of Pepsi-Cola from a plastic bottle.
As the food is brought round Prince Malik enlarges on his life and reveals a keenly felt regret for the passing of the old ways. He is a countryman, not at all happy in the city. He loves country sports and rides at least twice a day for several hours.
‘I am the last of the dinosaurs, who live like this. Who organize entertainments for the people. The new generation are only interested in becoming technocrats.’
More food issues forth from the Stygian gloom of the kitchen, ending up with a particularly delicious concoction of almond, egg and honey.
‘The honey is off my land. It is very good. Have some more.’ He pushes a bottle of Cotes du Rhone towards me. It’s full of honey, not wine.
In the afternoon, despite the great heat, he insists that we visit the fort in Fatehjang. This is where the local jerga, or council of elders, meets. Recently they dealt with a vendetta that had gone on so long between two families that 13 had been killed on both sides. At the jerga they agreed that there would be no more killings, and, having forsworn further violence on the Holy Koran, the feud was declared to be at an end, with none of the murderers facing trial. Prince Malik shrugs.
‘That is the way it works in the country.’
He insists that, if we are really interested in the rural life, we must come along as his guests to a bull-race in nearby Taxila tomorrow. Of course we can’t say no. He wouldn’t let us.
Day Five : Taxila
Taxila, at the axis of routes connecting Central Asia with Persia and the south, is one of the oldest continuously populated cities on earth. A university was thriving here 2500 years ago and remains of Buddhist temples, monasteries and stupas indicate its importance long before Islam or Christianity were born.
Following a narrow road through olive groves and fields of peanuts, we pull up a low hill until we reach an encampment where the animals are being unloaded from the back of trucks. Stalls selling food and soft drinks have been erected.
To get to the course means negotiating various ridges and ditches, behind, and sometimes alongside, swaying pairs of bulls, led out by owners and supporters to a relentless squealing of pipes and thumping of drums, each group trying to make more noise than their rivals.
There’s such a squeeze that it’s impossible to avoid bull contact. To my relief, they’re smaller than the bulls I had a close encounter with in Pamplona. Of a breed called Dhanni, they have short legs, a distinctive fatty crest curling out from their shoulders and are mostly white with splodgy black markings that look as if someone has thrown a pot of paint at them. Today, each one is turned out in their party best, their ferocity compromised by brightly coloured medallions and favours, ribbons and rosettes, gaudy horn-dressings and fluffy pom-poms. One wretched beast, with a tasselled, silver-trimmed, see-through muslin coat thrown over him, looks as if he’s just stampeded through a lingerie department.
Ahead of the melee I can see the course, a wide stretch of open field, 600 yards long, marked by red flags on tall poles. Beside it and about halfway down the course a truck and trailer have been decked out with red chairs protected by a huge and ornate sun awning. Beneath it sits the unmistakable figure of the Prince.
He’s in ebullient mood, which could be something to do with the presence of two tall, slim, European girls among his guests. He’s already been out riding with them this morning.
With the racing about to begin, we ask if we can film up at the start, where a big crowd is milling around.
The Prince looks doubtful for a moment then barks an order and a man rushes over.
‘He will go with you. He has a gun and speaks English.’
The bulls race in pairs, yoked together with heavy wooden frames called joots, from which the reins run back to a rider, who stands, as best he can, on a small board with a metal base, little more than a glorified tin-lid.
While dozens of people grapple to get the joot onto the two sets of shoulders, the bulls are kicking up the dust as they duck and weave and back up in a desperate attempt to avoid being involved in the racing in any way. Once harnessed, the animals are dragged unceremoniously to the starting line. Outriders heave them into position while the jockey, nervously clutching a flag on a stick, readies himself to spring onto the board the moment the bulls are released. This is where the race is won or lost. The bulls’ desire to get away must be timed exactly with the attachment of the rider to his board. With luck the jockey retains his balance, and the bulls race off with the outriders running alongside to keep them in a straight line, before letting go, slapping the bulls’ hides with a valedictory shout, and leaving the crouched figure to scud across the bumpy, uneven surface like a terrestrial water-skier, hanging on for dear life.
As if this isn’t perilous enough, some enthusiastic teams throw firecrackers to ‘panic’ their bull into even greater speeds.
One team loses control at the start and the bulls make a 90-degree turn and plunge headfirst into the crowd. Two more hurtle off towards a flagpole that Basil has chosen as a photo-position, taking out the flag and almost Basil as well as they race off the course to the freedom of the fresh-cut wheat fields beyond.
Prince Malik says this only confirms that bulls aren’t stupid. They know that their best interest lies in getting rid of their handlers as soon as possible, by any means possible. As he’s explaining this a pair that seemed to be going well take an inexplicable left turn and head straight towards us. Nigel and Pete, filming with their backs to the course, are the last to notice. Grabbing the camera and tripod they dive for cover as Prince Malik roars helpfully.
‘Under the truck! Always under the truck!’
At the end of the day, as the racing is drawing to a close and the heat haze fades to reveal the low, reassuring contours of the Margalla Hills to the north, we’re treated to a meal at a nearby village. It’s laid out in suitably princely style, with dishes of tikkas and masalas in silver salvers on long tables and local specialities of partridge and quail.
‘Now, quail racing,’ the Prince enthuses, ‘that is where the big money goes. You know, small fortunes are won or lost on quail races.’
As ever, I’m not entirely sure where fact and fiction merge in Prince Malik’s stories, but before we can question him further, he shakes hands and apologizes that he must return to the course for the prize-giving.