An Irishman's Diary

ROYAL processions are usually jovial occasions. Most of the faceson Dublin's streets attested to this recently as I watched themotorcycles, squad cars and ultimately, Queen Elizabeth's RangeRover, flash past. But as I stood there, I remembered a grisly royalprocession witnessed almost exactly a decade previously on thestreets of the Nepalese capital, Kathmandu.

I had never heard of the Crown Prince Dipendra Shah on the nightof June 1st, 2001 when I crawled into bed in my budget hotel.Outside, the slumbering capital was, as usual, a labyrinth of brick-walled streets and expansive squares. The temples, with theirflickering candles and bathing pools gave way to internet cafes andtravel agencies in an odd marriage of the pre- and post-modern.

This was the Nepal the outside world knew, famous for MountEverest and Gurkha soldiers and, at that time, attracting somenotoriety, as a rebellion by Maoist guerrillas gathered pace in thehills west of the city.

The latter was no doubt troubling the mind of Dipendra's fatherthat night. King Birendra Shah (55), having reigned since 1972, wasviewed as a pragmatic liberal, consenting to multi-party democracy,following mass protests in early 1990. But 11 years on, so muchremained constant: the feeble, short-lived coalition governments,the venal corruption in the cities, the poverty and illiteracy in acountryside that the Maoists were coming to dominate. Closer tohome, he had his authoritarian, conservative military to worryabout. They had an ally in his 53-year old brother, the dour PrinceGyanendra.

However, conversation in the dining hall of the NarayanhithiPalace, a few streets away from me, was turning to another topicthat evening. Prince Dipendra (29) had, by many accounts, maturedinto a rather troubling heir apparent. Contemporaries at Eton in the1980s recalled an often dissolute youth with an aggressive streak.Back in Nepal, he was known to collect automatic weapons.

But worse was his choice of future bride. Devyani Rana belongedto a rival branch of Nepalese royalty and was considered mostunsuitable by Dipendra's mother, Queen Aishwarya.

I was, I believe, already asleep when, rebuked over this matterby his sister, Dipendra stormed off from the crowded dining hall. OnSaturday morning, I tramped downstairs, still yawning, and foundhorror-struck staff and guests ranged around the lobby's television.All Nepal was stultified.

Prince Dipendra, apparently drunk and drugged, had returned tothe dining hall later the previous night, brandishing two of hisweapons (an M-16 rifle and MP5k submachine gun it would lateremerge) and opened fire. He killed nine royals, including hisparents, sister and younger brother before shooting himself. Theshot was not fatal but Nepal's new king was said to be in avegetative state.

By afternoon, I was one of thousands of people lining the eight-mile route from Kathmandu's military hospital to the PashupathinathHindu temple. There, the murdered royals would be laid on stonepyres decked in garlands of marigold and sandalwood.

One by one, their funeral pyres would be lit and their ashes castinto the adjacent Bhagmati River.

Waiting for the royal family's arrival, I scanned the crowdsaround me. Women, clad in saris had smeared their foreheads withfragrant red ash. Many of the men had already shaved their heads ina show of mourning. Knots of police congregated on corners, visorsdrawn.

Then the first mounted soldiers and vehicles passed and a painedmurmur rose from the crowds. Borne on bamboo poles by priests inwhite vests and loin cloths, the bodies were heaped in flowers andjasmine. The face of the Queen Aishywara, destroyed by the gunshots,was replaced with a china mask. The scene made me reflect on howhuman history can sometimes outflank anything fiction has to offer.

There was a wise king with a scheming brother. There was a doomedromance between two antagonistic dynasties. And there was a palacemassacre set against the backdrop of a war whose ultimate outcomewould be the fall of a Royal House. Shakespeare could have exhaustedmany quills writing tragedies about Nepal.

And all these elements collided in a single blood- splattered actone evening. Already the conspiracy theories were flying hard andfast. Wasn't it suspicious, locals were suggesting to me, how PrinceGyanendra just happened to be out of the capital that night? But toaccept the official version of events was to be left no lessmystified. Was it some titanic clash between the ego and id thatculminated in Dipendra's act of familial self destruction? Was itjust a genetically weak brain addled by drink and drugs? By Sundayafternoon, the capital was closing down. Walking back to my hotel, Ihappened upon a surreal sight. So many men had spontaneously shavedtheir heads that little hillocks of black hair ranged acrossKathmandu's empty pavements.

The regicide was now all around the world, dominating newschannels. And while commentators talked of kings who were cabbages,an appalling conundrum presented itself. No equivalent of MagnaCarta, a contract curbing the absolute rule of the monarch, was eversigned in the Himalayas. What if King Dipendra, his throne aventilator, made a full recovery? He was technically above the law.But Nepal would have a mass murderer for a monarch.

Of course, the Divine Right of Killers was never tested. OnMonday afternoon, at the behest of his grandmother, Dipendra'sweekend-long reign ended when he was taken off life support. Iremember walking across a city where gangs of youths held KingBirendra's portrait aloft and waved the Nepalese flag about. Down onRatna Park, it was starting to rain as the Royal Nepalese Army firedoff canons. If the conspiracy theorists were correct, if KingGyanendra had really "set up" the blameless Dipendra and seized thethrone in some fiendishly arcane plot, he would ultimately beNepal's last monarch. By the end of the decade, the Maoists, havingrenounced their "People's War", would form a government and declarea republic.