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?"

My willingness to walk the remaining distance to the lodge seemed to incite the dogs. They whimpered and jumped, knocking into one another as they jockeyed for position behind large iron gates. But it wasn't I who had provoked them: Someone was coming out to greet me. Splinters of sunlight fell over the path and I could see it was a boy, maybe 14 or 15 years old. His tunic and turban were frayed and obviously meant for someone much bigger. When he reached me, I noticed he wore gloves and clutched a badly tarnished silver tray.

"I'm really sorry to bother you," I said, suddenly embarrassed by all the honking and yelling. "Would it be possible for me to meet Wilayat Mahal, the begum of Oudh?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he held out his silver tray and said with authority beyond his years: "Petitions for great audience must be in writing."

His cool demeanor made me feel I'd met him before, or perhaps it was the thousands like him across India -- ticket agents, tour guides, hotel clerks and bank tellers -- with the same vacant faces. Was this an expression of good breeding or of great boredom? I was never quite sure.

Using the boy's silver tray as a tabletop, I decided to keep my note simple. "To Whom It May Concern. I am a journalist with an interest in India's royal families. I would like nothing more than to meet Wilayat Mahal and ask her some questions."

Within a few minutes, he returned with Mahal's reply. Written on heavy parchment paper with "The Rulers of Oudh" embossed in gold at the top, it read: "When you are unaware to whom you attend -- We do not refrain 'To Whom It May Concern.'"

Refrain? I read the note several times, trying to make sense of it. But it was the boy's prompt departure that made Mahal's intent painfully clear.

As I walked back to the car, I felt foolish for thinking I could drop in on a queen, even if she didn't really have a kingdom. The taxi driver, although happy to see I had not become dog food, was eager to move on to a more traditional tourist stop -- after which, I suspected, he planned to deliver me like a fatted calf to wolfish carpet and gem merchants. For the moment, however, I put my suspicions aside and showed him Mahal's note.

"She writes to you on paper with gold letters," he said. "To prove you are worthy of her attention, you must seduce her."

My first reaction was to laugh. But then I began to see his point. Right now, she had no reason to talk to me. I was neither important nor sufficiently ingratiating.

Seduction of the queen was a task I felt oddly equipped for. Growing up in Canada, I'd already invested hundreds of hours pledging, saluting, toasting and singing my praises to a monarch. By comparison, this would be a snap. Pulling out my pad and pen, I began crafting another letter. This time, I thoroughly greased the page with words I imagined would make any royal positively weak-kneed.

"As you are the head of one of India's oldest royal houses and greatest kingdoms, I humbly request one hour of your time," I began. As a further inducement, I asked the driver to take me to nearby Malcha Market, where I had the letter typed.

Later, when the same boy answered my call, I couldn't resist bowing slightly before setting the crisp, white page upon his tray. Then I waited. For more than two hours I stood staring at the old lodge, trying to imagine what the queen's life must be like behind its crumbling facade. A little more than a century earlier, Mahal's great-grandfather had lived in a magnificent palace, surrounded by beautiful courtesans, artists and musicians. Perhaps that's what provoked the British annexation in the first place. Oudh was a kingdom in pursuit of sensual pleasures, not sensible ones. Across Asia, it had become renowned for dance and poetry, for opium and exotic perfumes, and for growing the best roses. But Mahal's forest lodge had no gardens. Her servants had to bicycle a half-mile just to fetch water for tea. This was a dismal and decrepit place, in which the Kingdom of Oudh lived on solely in her imagination.

When the boy returned again, he carried two large sheets of paper. As before, the message was cryptic. "We demand no sympathy this regal class of ours," the first page began. "Clinging to the past we may be crushed. The spider web intrigues against the Royal House of Oudh. We are paying the debt of nature and trust to the natural defenses." Her words were like riddles, revealing everything and nothing at the same time. Then I reached the last two lines, and my heart sank. "You have been commended an interview Nov. 26 at 3:30 p.m. sharp. If yes, inform the bearer."

"Nov. 26?" I said, unable to conceal my emotions. "That's in two weeks. I'm leaving India tomorrow morning."

Without a word, the boy turned and walked away. I wanted to go after him, to stop him from delivering this final message, but all I could do was move a few steps closer to the old lodge and wonder about the curious lives of its inhabitants.

When I got back to the taxi, the driver made no inquiries about my last trip into the woods. Instead, he turned the key in the ignition and began navigating his taxi along the narrow road leading out of the forest.

"Now, I will take you to the Birla Temple," he said.