Princess Bogan and The Taj Mahal

This is the entirely true story of how a bogan became a princess.

Let me begin. Once upon a time, an average looking bogan and her toad (Dave) boarded an Indian train to Agra to see the Taj Mahal. It must have already been past midnight because its appearance was more pumpkin-ish than Cinderella carriage-like. After settling into our seats, I was more than delighted to witness hardened criminals being lead through our carriage. Rather than handcuffs, their hands were tied with rope and they were surrounded by at least 6 Indian guards with guns. I.kid.you.not.

As fate would have it, the convicts were placed but two feet away from us and I spent the rest of the 3 hour journey to Agra debating whether it would be better to die by strangulation from a felon or by a fatal gun-shot wound.

The next day, sweet little back alley rubbish pigs snorted me awake at exactly 6:15am. Quickly, I clothed myself in my ‘Lady Diana’ outfit.  In 1992, during her visit to Taj Mahal, Lady Diana had worn a very nifty little power suit made up of a purple skirt and a red Dynasty-style jacket. The princess was very ahead of her time with her bold colour blocking. Sadly, there had been no room in my overstuffed backpack for smart-casual business attire, so I chose leggings, an oversized flower shirt and accessorized with dirty ankle and wrist bracelets. Regality at its best. 

Fashion Icons

The Taj Mahal, a marble mausoleum in Agra, Uttar Pradesh, was built by Emperor Shah Jahan in loving memory of his third wife, Mumtaz Mahal . It took 22 years and some 20 thousand workers to construct what is known as ‘the crown of palaces’.  I happen to find this a very touching gesture. This is because I once asked Dave how long he would mourn me if I should die suddenly and his response, (rather too quickly, mind you) was ‘Two weeks….if you’re lucky.’ Obviously, I would be hard pressed to get flowers out of the man upon my death, let alone a two-decade long construction of a tomb. Note to self- do not play the Hypotheticals game with someone who is brutally honest. It will only end in tears when you ask what would happen if you lost a limb. This imagined situation very nearly came true, as we had to pay an arm and a leg to get into the Taj. To compensate, they gave us a free bottle of water and some lovely medical looking booties for our shoes, which made me feel very George Clooney circa ER, pre Ocean’s Eleven fame.

Even at such an early hour, the Taj was already extremely busy. As soon as you walked through the entrance, there was a line of people snapping shots of the cypress-lined reflecting pool leading up to the white, gleaming vision that is the Taj Mahal.  My first thought was ‘Well you’re all facing the wrong way. Hello, the Australian Princess has arrived. Cameras this way ploise.’ Yes, I know, we already have an Aussie princess - that Mary character who married that fella from Copenhagen. Well move over Mary, I’m here to take your throne and will soon be affectionately referred to by the public as ‘Our Mel.’ You know the way Australia tends to do that whenever someone from our country makes it big? Our Nicole, Our Cate, Our Naomi. Except when someone like Russell Crowe goes throwing phones, then we strip him of the ‘Our’ title and relegate him back to New Zealand. Oh heaven’s no, he’s not OURS, he was born in New Zealand.

As for the Taj Mahal itself, well I’m sorry but not even cynical ‘ol me can be sarcastic about seeing one of the great wonders of the world. I mean, it’s a huge bloody great domed building made of hand carved marble, set with precious stones. It’s pretty bloody impressive. I spent a lot of day walking around it with my head pointed upwards and mouth slightly open.

Size matters.

Obviously, I needed to get as many photos of myself in front of the Taj as possible.But then, there were about 50 million other people who had the same idea. It was kind of like an ongoing day of Taj Mahal musical chairs. You sort of stood by a picture perfect spot with a swarm of people at the ready to move in as soon as the flash went off. You had to have your game face on- elbows arched for pushing and shoving, throat cleared ready to squawk out an indignant ‘EXCUSE ME!’ when someone pushed in. A lot of couples had ponyed up the extra cash to be followed by their own personal Indian photographer, being papped like they were Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey in their heyday. It was all very glamourous and it practically made me seeth with jealousy. I only had boring ‘ol Dave, who became less and less responsive to my photographic artistic ideas as the day wore on.

From L to R: Being vain, being vain, being vain & being vain.

After some heavy jostling, I had almost fulfilled my Taj Mahal vanity quota but there was just one last thing to do. Get the Lady Di shot. That is, an imitation of the unforgettable photo of Princess Diana peacefully sitting on a marble bench with the Taj Mahal looming impressively behind her. The photo that would see me shed my suburban bogan persona and join the majestic ranks of kings and queens to become Princess Mel. Clearly, there was a lot riding on this photo. I joined the crowd gathered around what I assumed was the Lady Di seat. After several false starts, I got my turn.

It was heavenly. As soon as my bum touched that cool marble surface, I was transformed. I was a Candle in The Wind.  I felt that for a brief second, I channeled her ladyship. Time stopped and her life passed before my eyes- the bulimia, the rejection from Charles, the feathered 90’s haircut, dancing with John Travolta at the White House. We were one. In reality, I had about two seconds to get the shot before being hustled away and I just had to try as best I could to not awkwardly smile.

Future Elton John song inspirations

Here’s the thing- if you are going to harp on about a particular photo, it’s probably best to Google the thing before attempting to replicate it. I felt that I had that photo ingrained into my memory after seeing it in a Woman’s Weekly magazine as a small child. Clearly my mind needed a small refresher. Why? ‘Cos I sat on the wrong damn seat. 

Perhaps too eager in my quest, I had sat on a seat one row too early. Of course, now Dave is claiming me that he told me that at the time but we all know he’s lying. Princess Mel? Court-bloody-jester and even that’s pushing it. But fear not, I had a back-up. Whenever in doubt, you can always count on Oprah.

Just a couple of strong black women

I nailed that one. She’s not a princess but she’s the bloody Queen of Daytime Television and I’ll settle for that!

P.S Oh look, below are some very fancy buttons. They will connect you to Bogan On A Bus Facebook page, my Twitter, StumbleUpon account or give you an RSS feed to this blog. Don't you want to be closer to the living embodiment of a white Oprah?