What is it worth being the world's greatest media baron without a foothold, if not control, in India, the second largest consumer market outside the western world and I am still out of it.

I have already sunk more than $200 million there. My people tell me the money has been judiciously spent. It has been used, I am told, to buy up India's creative classes -- they must be pricey. It is also being used to sustain a whole media industry in such recessionary times. And yet, what have I got in return?

A warrant from a court in Bombay for ducking summonses in a case filed by one Tooshar Gandhi complaining that someone called Nikki Bedi insulted his grandfather who, I believe, goes by the first name of Mahatma. Now, whywould I want any of my TV channels to insult anybody's grandfather? And you know better than anyone else that I never had anything to do with Nikki anybody. So what choice do I have? Either I present myself in a stinking small-time court in Bombay and seek bail or forget all about visiting India.

As if that was not enough, somebody gets me summoned in New Delhi by a court run by a judge called Prem Kumar who, I am told, is a particularly tough sort. So tough, he has made the going very difficult even for P.V. Narasimha Rao who, until the other day, was that country's prime minister.

Narasimha Rao. That reminds me of something. Of the dream visit we made to India together in 1994. You remember, Anna, the way those media barons fawned and fell all over us? The bureaucracy, the chattering classes. You would remember also that I had done my homework on Narasimha Rao who was then prime minister. My people told me he was not particularly interested in television but crazy about Carlos Saura films. How much timeand effort it took us to retrieve those eight Saura VHS tapes from the archives.

And didn't the old man's eyes light up when I presented him these? But then, what happened? Before we could even get a foot in, his people said India was in the election mode and tricky decisions, such as allowing foreign investment in the media, would have to wait. Now it seems India has been in election mode ever since. Hell, democracies have their faults.

Among them was one gentleman called Deve Gowda whose first name sounded like some sort of a spelling mistake. That, however, wasn't such a problem. My people told me in the south of India (such a complicated country this one) the second name is usually also as good as the first since the initials mainly say who your father was and where you came from. Also, there wasn't great scope for becoming too familiar with him as he did not speak or understand much English.

But he was reasonable. He understood my problem with the Bombay court and the answer was easily found: Iwould fly in in our Gulfstream directly to Delhi, meet him quietly and leave before the magistrates in Bombay got too worked up. I even promised to make a huge investment in some place called Hasan which, my people told me, was his home town or pocket borough.

But he would answer all questions with ``no problem, boss'' and all complaints of delay and bureaucratic hurdles with ``What to do? We are like this only''. What that meant, I don't know. But soon he had lost his job to somebody who, I was promised, happened to be India's most media-friendly prime minister ever. So friendly, indeed, was that fellow called Gujral that he not only allowed my people to hold the inaugural function of my 24-hour news channel on the lawns of his official residence, he even presided over it.

And yet, just three months earlier, in midnight intrigue of the kind not seen even in the Kremlin, his bureaucracy scuttled the one concession I needed from him, the notification allowing Direct-To-Home (DTH) television after which Iand my Star would have ruled the airwaves in India. Forever.

Print is another matter. They say they will never allow a foreigner to buy even a single share in an Indian newspaper because a 1956 Cabinet resolution prohibits it. Now, this isn't quite the United States, so a foreigner can almost never acquire an Indian passport. Except, I believe, if he is a Bangladeshi. Hopeless.

This, Anna, is why I write to you to seek your advice. I am at my wit's end. Last week, my people told me it was a good idea to get myself invited at this breakfast ol' boy Henry (Kissinger) was holding in New York for yet another Indian prime minister, now a fellow called Vajpayee. His English was quite fine and he himself seemed quite all there, but he wouldn't spare more than a minute for me. In fact, exactly as much time as he would spare for the CEO of Hertz, a piddly car rental company. Then I was made to spend 45 minutes with the lady who runs their information ministry. My briefing papers told me her idea of the ideal TVchannel is Discovery. So you can guess how far I would get with her even in 45 minutes!

This, Anna, is a tough one. I have the world all sewed up. I have Tony Blair in my back pocket. He even writes for that rag I own, The Sun. He calls his Italian counterpart Romano Prodi to help me along in my bid to buy Silvio Berlusconi's media empire. Even the mighty Chinese are now reasonable: taking BBC off the air and junking that silly Chris Patten's book was a small price to pay to enter such a large market. Now it seems even the English lumpens have lumped my purchase of Manchester United. New York's Mayor Giuliani loves me. But look at these Indians. And we called the Chinese inscrutable!

I don't know how to handle this one. I hate to lose.

Yours, Rupert

Reply from Anna:

Dear Rupert
,Don't give in so quickly. There may be one option. Forget the media for the moment and buy up Mohun Bagan or East Bengal Club, or probably both. Our people tell us there is no ban on foreigners buying footballclubs. Also, if you read British history, a foothold in Calcutta can take you far. So cheer up and be patient.

Anna

This correspondence is entirely a figment of this writer's imagination. Any resemblance with Rupert or Anna Murdoch's real thoughts is purely coincidental.