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But the driver was reluctant. He stepped cautiously from his car and scowled at the dense stands of sissoo and teak. He appeared to be as intimidated by this obscure patch of Indian forest as I had been by the crush of cars that converged recklessly at the traffic circle where we had met an hour earlier.

"Go on," I coaxed.

The horn blast that followed smashed through the woodland tranquillity like squealing tires on suburban asphalt. But no sooner had the sound begun to fade over the forest canopy than it was overrun by a chorus of barking hounds. "It's the Doberman pinschers," I whispered, as if their ruckus was a sign foretold to me by an Indian mystic and not, as it had been, by a middle-aged porter at New Delhi Railway Station. "Find the dogs and she will be close," I said, repeating his cryptic instructions aloud.

Wary of who "she" might be, or perhaps girding himself against an onslaught of salivating hounds, the driver stepped back inside his taxi and closed the door. "When your business with the lady is complete, you will find me waiting," he said. "Please don't be hurried. Price is same."

Among the taxi drivers who swarmed around me that morning trying to hustle guide services, this one seemed to appreciate my sense of off-the-beaten-path adventure. I'd already seen the Red Fort, the presidential palace and Parliament buildings; been thrust unwillingly into gem emporiums and carpet shops; and even toured the Birla Temple twice (the second time because my driver didn't seem to understand my use of the word "no"). This time, I chose a guide carefully and explained my expectations clearly. "I want a unique travel experience," I told the driver. "I want to meet an Indian queen." Now, here we were at the first difficult juncture and he appeared to be abandoning me.

"If you hear me shouting for help, you will come running ... won't you?" I asked.

But the driver would have none of it. "I drive the taxi," he said. "For heroics you must call Mr. Rambo."

I suppressed an urge to update him on American action hero archetypes and instead smiled anxiously, wondering who then would come to my rescue if I should run into difficulties. As I traversed a narrow trail leading deeper into the forest, my thoughts of rescue escalated as the sound of the dogs grew louder. Like infantry lying in wait across a battlefield, they sniped at each crackle and rustle as I made my way along the trail. And then, just when I felt certain they had surrounded me, I saw two hand-painted signs. The first confirmed my fears. It read: "Be Cautious for Hound Dogs!" But the second replaced the fears with delight, as it became clear that everything I'd been told was true. It read: "The Raj House of Oudh. Entrance Strictly Forbidden."

I'd first heard about the Raj House of Oudh and its self-anointed "begum" (the Muslim word for queen) while visiting India some years earlier. Although all Indian royal families had been stripped of their titles in the early 1970s, Wilayat Mahal had become a celebrity of sorts. For more than 13 years, this great-granddaughter of the last ruler of Oudh had taken up residence at the New Delhi Railway Station, squatting imperiously in the VIP lounge just off Platform 1. She attributed her sparse surroundings to a historic injustice -- a grievance stemming back to 1856, when the British annexed the kingdom of Oudh and deposed her ancestor, King Wajid Ali Shah. Today, like all former princely states, Oudh is part of the Indian confederation, and its family palaces have been converted into schools and government offices.

Despite this harsh reality, Mahal had devoted her entire life to preserving her aristocratic heritage. Even in her train station home, a dark room without running water or electricity, she reportedly sat majestically atop a raised platform, wrapped in a black silk sari, while dictating letters to "Elizabeth" at Buckingham Palace and India's prime minister, demanding the return of her ancestral kingdom.

Sometime between my visits to India, the government agreed to move Mahal, her two adult children, 12 Doberman pinschers and five ragged servants to the old hunting lodge about 200 yards from where I now stood. But it was the thought of her in the New Delhi Railway Station -- pain on her face as a crackling loudspeaker trumpeted each train arrival and departure -- that I found so gripping. Mahal's determination to preserve the past while testing the bounds of the present seemed to embody India's underlying conflict. Meeting her, I suspected, would tell me more about this land than any museum or mosque.

"Hello," I shouted toward the lodge, mindful of the warnings on both signs. "I've come to meet the begum of Oudh. Is she home?" There was no answer.

"Hello," I shouted again, this time trying to make my intrusion appear more professional. "I'm a journalist. I'd like to interview the begum. May I come up?"

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