One of the benefits of spending 22 years in the armed forces is that you can conjure up an anecdote almost at will. I find this attribute very helpful in a social gathering wherein starry eyed pretty women listen very attentively to my fiction-based-on-truth tales. It is indeed unfortunate that no HR Head seems to have been impressed by my story telling ability so far………..
This one goes back about 8 years to a time when I was posted to Defence Staff College in the salubrious climes of Coonur near Ooty. It is amazing how responsible and mature adult males can quickly regress to behaving like teenage rowdies when placed together in a group. Perhaps it’s that exclusive masculine bonding wherein males come to their actual mental level; as explained by the popular saying that men will always be boys! Or maybe it’s the resonance of masculine hormones in company of each other that lowers the overall IQ level…
As a part of this regression effect, I developed an insane passion to learn horse riding. This overriding (no pun intended) passion overcame all rational thoughts and sane warnings. Mothers who have seen their boys often loose their brains in obviously stupid pursuits will vouch for the fact that once bitten by the masculine bug, no boy will heed to any amount of reasoning or restrictions. So, right at the beginning of the term, yours truly announced from the ramparts of his drawing room that he will be taking up horse riding. My wife pleaded and cajoled, begged and threatened in equal measures, but then, masculine pride ……..I could envisage myself galloping away, mane flying, the thud thud of hooves, cool wind on my face on the green slops of Ooty. After all, don’t the westerns depict the hero doing the same gracefully and effortlessly?
So the home budget was adjusted and my wife’s lipstick money diverted to acquire white breeches, new tee shirt, riding boots, pith hat, gloves and riding crop – the works. Unfortunately in India, they don’t allow you to carry the trusty old colt six shooter in a low slung holster! And the College did not allow the novices to wear jingling spurs … but so what? A bit of adjustment here and there to chase my dream was fine by me.
The fateful day dawned – the entire household was in turmoil since the master-turned- cowboy of the house was to court the first equine (making others canine?) love of his life! My wife got up early and watched me as I strutted around in those high heeled riding boots feeling the master of the Universe. She was decent enough to see me off at the door to see me and tell me to have a good time.
I reported to the riding school half an hour before time to choose a handsome looking mount. The new riding shoes squeaked, the hat and gloves gave off that off-the-shelf smell while the old hands at riding looked on indulgently and even had the decency to wish the imposter-me good luck. The first shock came when I had to mount the horse – to my horror and chagrin; I discovered that when I raised my foot with great difficulty to place it in the stirrup, the horse had this wicked and uncanny knack to step forward. Damn – this never happens to Clint Eastwood in the movies! After a couple of unsuccessful attempts, I could slowly feel my ego floating earthwards. However a timely advise from the riding instructor saved the day and I managed to haul myself up on the saddle.
Reins in hand, feet in stirrup – from my regal perch I surveyed the mortal world below. Our group started walking towards the enclosed riding area. At last cowboy Nadeem was in his rightful place, one hand on the thigh, other holding the reins, back erect. Who said that dreams and fantasies cannot be converted into reality?
Once inside the riding area, I was introduced to trot – a gentle run by the horse where the rider gracefully rises and sits backs in consonance with the horse’s motion. Ha! there seemed to be something wrong with my horse – when I rose the horse went down and vice versa. So I spent a jarring 15 minutes trotting. The gluteals got sore; the inner thighs chafed against the horse-saddle combine and got scraped. The charm of horse riding was fading fast. But two factors kept me at it – sheer, stupid masculine pride and off course the ‘selection and maintenance of aim’ bit drilled into us as armed forces office.
After warming up, we were taken to the open filed for ‘advanced riding’. You know, there are various descriptions of being hurled in the air and falling. The protagonist in most books float in the air, have the time and presence of mind to note the details of surroundings and the exact position of the antagonist. He breaks his fall gracefully and executes his next move to defeat his opponent. Movies tend to show the same situation in slow motion with the hero triumphant in the end. In my humble opinion, this is all hogwash. One moment you are on the horse all hoity-toity and the next, you are sprawled in an undignified heap in the nullah struggling to decipher what happened. I could feel the ice cold water and muck. The horse threw me off and bolted. Thankfully nothing was broken except my pride. My riding was not over as yet – as per traditions, I had to catch the horse and get it back to the school. The next 3 hours were spent walking in swishy cold boots trying to seduce the horse in letting me pick up the reins so that I could lead it back.
Hungry, wet, smelling of slime and streaked with mud, I struggled home. The sparking white breaches had taken a curious hue of black – green and brown; the shoes were muddy and the helmet broken. It was a weary ex cowboy who rang the bell of his domain to be greeted by the lady of the house. My wife inspected me from head to toe and said poker faced “What happened cowboy? The horses not behaving today?” Till date, I have not forgiven her for that remark.