And would they have named him Tutu-kamen if he knew how to pirouette...

It happened while scrolling Yahoo [forgive me if I leave out the ! mark, am feeling particularly sombre at this moment]. I saw this, and smiled at the inexplicable beauty [visions of pomogranates cracking open and jade lakes a-lapping by burntly silhouetted palm trees, swaying amidst twining stars] that I can't help but see on hearing that Cambodia has crowned an ex-ballet dancer their King.

Norodom Sihanouk, former King of Cambodia and the Leotard's pop, abdicated: the old man, who spends his time being an ambassador for his country to Europe, composing music, and being the conductor of his own jazz band, claimed ill health. Now his son, Norodom Sihamoni [the Leotard], chosen by religious and political leaders, blessed by buddhist monks, carried on a litter, smiled upon by his parents, blown at with conch shells... Now Norodom Sihamoni is King.

An ex-ballet dancer, an Oriental Bojangles. Sprucer though. And buddhist.

A King that dances. 3 days of celebration ensues, and the Cambodian people, at least on the surface, are happy.

And I would give anything to know exactly why Norodom is king.

He looks the part, well enough. Handsome, in a fresh-faced way... pale yellow hands joined in a cheerful greeting to the monks, smiling while being escorted by a little man balancing a very large gold umbrella.

[Grander than your average raindrop-protector, you do realize: goldy, fringy, and yes- Large.]

Is it because his father loves jazz?...

I have heard of kings being sculptors, architects, foodies, painters, musicians, yoga enthusiasts... but a dancer?

*smiles softly*

But isnt it a gorgeous thought though? If you will-

An empty long hall, pillars edging the marble floor, their tops gleaming with gilt work in ruby and emerald. It is night, spiced, with cries and murmurs that float across from the distant city... the King is alone till he snaps his fingers, or gestures, but it is here in this hall that he wanders when he thinks about his upcoming birthday, his aging father, and what it would be like to be jailed for yelling out on his coronation "Evil China! EVIL CHINAA!!"... music plays [He must have music, I cannot see this new king without music], and he?

He does not wait for an Anna- his eyes suddenly gleam. He shrugs off his gold-cuffed coat, takes a deep breath and leaps forward, diving into the cold welcoming space that twirls around him as he flies and hops and spins and stops and points, the marble floor snapping at his ankles.... servants running, sober-faced, to make sure its Tchaikovsky, Mozart, Gershwin and Greig, with the volume just so, over the surround sound...

Makes sense, actually. While the Cambodians fall asleep fitfully, worrying over economic growth, pollution, and voodoo chickens that cluck SARScastically [Ahem, mea culpa, I apologise..couldnt help it]...their King dances, his lean yellow wrinkling body shimmering in the moonlight, pirouetting in his pyjamas.

A delicate film of timing shines on his upper lip, his breath comes in defined inandouts, the silk clings to his upper back like a young, tenderly-loving grass beetle, till he rips it off, arcing in the middle of Carmen- He dances the rain, the elephants, the education crisis... and the children smile in their slumber and dream waltzing buddhas.

Shiva dances, when happy..when a tad peeved. What less could a king do?