Some time back Madhur and I went to see a horse show. The school is more than a 100 years old and have a specialized training program for horses and riders, and they barely use the whip. The whip is just used to touch the horse in the flank or the stomach to give them a signal on what they need to do next. The immaculate control, the arrogant snorting of these superior beasts, took me back to the days I used to ride on the beach.
Those days every possible animal was allowed on the beach. Camels, camel tongas, horses and horse tongas. The ‘ghodawalas” with their “retired race horses” were my favorite. They were not really “retired RACE horses” Some were no doubt, but they would never give their beloved steeds to non riders for 10 bucks a few paces. It would most definitely, ruin the “horse’s chaal (stance)”
Neverthless I took to riding like, well ...like a rider does to a saddle! Every evening before it would get too crowded I would jump on my favourite horse, and because I was “baby” I would get more than I paid for. A ride from one end of the beach to another. Soon I was known as a rider and many owners with good and Ahem! genuine retired race horses would give me their horse for an hour, just so that I could ride the horse and exercise it.
Those are moments I hold so close to my heart. The rein in my hand, the wind in my hair, making my eyes water, my heart thumping, the sea crashing on the shore, the sun glaring from the crest of the waves, making the sweating horse gleam even more, the hooves skimming over the water's edge, my thighs in agony from holding on tight on to the saddle, the horse leaping ahead, refusing to slow down, for they know when the person on the saddle can ride or bump around on the saddle causing the horse distress and disgust. I would be barefoot, my ankles resting on rusted stirrups, holding them with my toes, the way the ghodawalas did.
I was fearless, a rebel and ready to die for the glory of it, on horseback! The times I would be on the saddle was the time it was only me and the horse speeding under me, his mane rustling the air, the tail whipping the wind, and many times I was sure of near certain death, but the smile on my face would remain intact, while riding, while preparing to die and for the rest of the evening.
And one day I fell. I FELL?? I fell? I admit to a healthy dose of ego!
Off came the glory and up crept anger. Deep dark anger which coated a red film on my eyes and I went marching up to Shibuddin, who till then had refused to give me his horse to ride. He must have seen me whipping up a good old temper, or maybe it was the moment he was waiting for. But he offered to train me bare back. No saddle, no stirrup. Only the reins and my own thighs. It was excrutiating, painful and I was ready to give up end number of times, had my ego and Shibuddin’s “I knew u would give up”eyes, not stood guard. Once trained to ride bare back you simply cannot fall off the horse, unless the horse himself collapses into a heap. But you have to be fit as a, AAh…. well ….horse!
And then I got married which yet did not deter me. If I die Madhur can remarry, right? But kids,, they stuck up in me a fear of handicapped life and death itself. And once fear sets in, it can eat you up in one mouthful, if, you let it.
So to keep fear at bay I time and again get on the horse, time and again take off at a speed intended to fly, but the heart thumps harder and after each ride I look up to the sky and thank God for letting me get off in one piece.
And ….my ego does not permit me to say this, but my conscience demands it,….. my thighs sing in pain, the knees creak in disgust and the bum!! OMG!!!
Those days every possible animal was allowed on the beach. Camels, camel tongas, horses and horse tongas. The ‘ghodawalas” with their “retired race horses” were my favorite. They were not really “retired RACE horses” Some were no doubt, but they would never give their beloved steeds to non riders for 10 bucks a few paces. It would most definitely, ruin the “horse’s chaal (stance)”
Neverthless I took to riding like, well ...like a rider does to a saddle! Every evening before it would get too crowded I would jump on my favourite horse, and because I was “baby” I would get more than I paid for. A ride from one end of the beach to another. Soon I was known as a rider and many owners with good and Ahem! genuine retired race horses would give me their horse for an hour, just so that I could ride the horse and exercise it.
Those are moments I hold so close to my heart. The rein in my hand, the wind in my hair, making my eyes water, my heart thumping, the sea crashing on the shore, the sun glaring from the crest of the waves, making the sweating horse gleam even more, the hooves skimming over the water's edge, my thighs in agony from holding on tight on to the saddle, the horse leaping ahead, refusing to slow down, for they know when the person on the saddle can ride or bump around on the saddle causing the horse distress and disgust. I would be barefoot, my ankles resting on rusted stirrups, holding them with my toes, the way the ghodawalas did.
I was fearless, a rebel and ready to die for the glory of it, on horseback! The times I would be on the saddle was the time it was only me and the horse speeding under me, his mane rustling the air, the tail whipping the wind, and many times I was sure of near certain death, but the smile on my face would remain intact, while riding, while preparing to die and for the rest of the evening.
And one day I fell. I FELL?? I fell? I admit to a healthy dose of ego!
Off came the glory and up crept anger. Deep dark anger which coated a red film on my eyes and I went marching up to Shibuddin, who till then had refused to give me his horse to ride. He must have seen me whipping up a good old temper, or maybe it was the moment he was waiting for. But he offered to train me bare back. No saddle, no stirrup. Only the reins and my own thighs. It was excrutiating, painful and I was ready to give up end number of times, had my ego and Shibuddin’s “I knew u would give up”eyes, not stood guard. Once trained to ride bare back you simply cannot fall off the horse, unless the horse himself collapses into a heap. But you have to be fit as a, AAh…. well ….horse!
And then I got married which yet did not deter me. If I die Madhur can remarry, right? But kids,, they stuck up in me a fear of handicapped life and death itself. And once fear sets in, it can eat you up in one mouthful, if, you let it.
So to keep fear at bay I time and again get on the horse, time and again take off at a speed intended to fly, but the heart thumps harder and after each ride I look up to the sky and thank God for letting me get off in one piece.
And ….my ego does not permit me to say this, but my conscience demands it,….. my thighs sing in pain, the knees creak in disgust and the bum!! OMG!!!
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