I've been in Bombay/Mumbai 23 years now. I can talk with cops, wiggle my way out of dicey situations and say 'Eka tadyat don beduk rahat hotey' with panache. A resident of this city, there's a certain protocol to weekends and summers when relatives visit. The hillstations, the humongous gate through which nothing but air comes through, the caves and the beaches. I daresay my experience was unique but you aint writing this, you employed, salary payed, friend of mine.
There are people who recall their childhood, the trips they took, their walk in the woods, the epiphany-ies. Then for some what stands out is the horse dung, the evil mausi, senile goat and shaking hands with the little master (no pun intended). I am ofcourse of the latter category.
We must start with
BOJACK HORSEDUNG
There is a certain hill station that you arrive at after 4-5 hours of winding roads. Maachis had been heard 4 times, where the 5th rendition of Chappa Chappa Charkha went
CHHAPPA CHAPPPA*chataaaak!!
An (allegedly) well deserved thappad from my mother who would blame my father's average driving skills down to my distraction.
What greets you after this drive, with a dry tear in your eye, because you are getting just old enough to not cry upon receiving some well deserved disciplining, is horses. Horses and dung. And the smell of dung hanging in the fresh clean air. This smell has attracted many a fathers, maybe a throwback to how their gaav smelled, even if sometimes the gaav was just a city.
We are intimated that cars wont go any further, so you may trek up to the hillstation you have already spent 4 hours getting to, or take a horse.
Horse, not yet.
Soon we are at a cottage where my dad's spread out on the hammock and my mom's humming away to nature, with birds in tow. Thats when arrives someone who's name escapes me but for keeping things contemporary, I call him Bojack Horseman.
So Bojack arrives, Tik TOk Tik Tok up till the entrance of this retreat. He calls out to my father 'Sir, Ghudsawari karengey?'. My dad glances in my direction, deflecting this question in my direction. I was like, Sure, why not.
Now, this was maybe my first horse ride, non pillion style. I was old enough now. I walk up to my horse, brown in color, stationary in stature, apart from the occasional brush of his tail. I had very recently had the opportunity of reading about Rana Sangha and Chetak, Alexander and his horse and about the Black Beauty. So I knew this animal had to be tamed, its spirit owned, by me, its master. I walk up to this horse, look it into its eye. What looks back at me is a cataract laden, gunk filled hazy eye ball. I wait for the haze to clear and see my future in it. If only it had. A pat on its neck will have to do for now.
I was soon seated on the horse, with some help from Bojack ofcourse, my feet in its stirrups, the reigns in my hand. And off we trotted. Tik Tok Tik Tok. If i had my glow in the dark He-man sword down my belt, I would unsheathed it and shouted "TIPUUU SULTAAAAN".
Ok, maybe I did.
As soon as we were around the bend, the horse began to pick up its pace.
TikTokTikTok.
Soon I was feeling like Timur, Genghiz and Babur, all in one. Till the horse started accelerating from TikTOkTikTOk to TABDIK TABDIK TABDIK TABDIK. It soon dawned on me that I had no control over this mad animal and every time it would careen to the edges of the hills of this hill station, I would bodily tilt my self to the opposite side, like on a bike. The reigns were only for holding on for dear life and thanks to the stirrups, I was stuck! I decided that if this mad maniacal horse wanted to take the plunge down the hillside, I was throwing my self off and saving my ass.
But this action is as useful as jumping in your seat when Mario (or Luigi, if you were trying to stand out in the crowd), wasn't going to make the jump between the two plumbing pipes.
I dont know if its ever in recorded history that a 8 year old had a heart attack while riding an old senile horse in the hills of Mahrashtra but I would've been the first.
We got back, my form looking more like the damsel draped over horse back, kidnapped by the gundas rather than TIPUU SULTAAAN. Bojack was soon paid his dues for this terrorising experience and he was on his way. The horse even promptly dropped a deuce, an action that I would soon imitate, but not before I told my father that his attempt to get rid of his son had failed.
I approach my father, my feet going Tik Tok Tik Tok. He's still sprawled on the hammock, basking in the sun. Not for long father, not.for.long.
I approach him, with my mind made up to shake him from his siesta with a traditional and time tested "BHAU!", hands raised above the shoulder in claws, and return the mini heart attack I had just had.
Main ab dabey paun chalne laga. But these dad's have these super senses about their sons seeking revenge, so right when I had sharply inhaled the dung tinged air, my hands half way to the scare crow position, my father opens an eye.
"Bada time lag gaya? Jao, andar butter chicken rakkha hai"
Oh. Butter chicken. I ran the rest of the way.
TABDIK TABDIK TABDIK.
There are people who recall their childhood, the trips they took, their walk in the woods, the epiphany-ies. Then for some what stands out is the horse dung, the evil mausi, senile goat and shaking hands with the little master (no pun intended). I am ofcourse of the latter category.
We must start with
BOJACK HORSEDUNG
There is a certain hill station that you arrive at after 4-5 hours of winding roads. Maachis had been heard 4 times, where the 5th rendition of Chappa Chappa Charkha went
CHHAPPA CHAPPPA*chataaaak!!
An (allegedly) well deserved thappad from my mother who would blame my father's average driving skills down to my distraction.
What greets you after this drive, with a dry tear in your eye, because you are getting just old enough to not cry upon receiving some well deserved disciplining, is horses. Horses and dung. And the smell of dung hanging in the fresh clean air. This smell has attracted many a fathers, maybe a throwback to how their gaav smelled, even if sometimes the gaav was just a city.
We are intimated that cars wont go any further, so you may trek up to the hillstation you have already spent 4 hours getting to, or take a horse.
Horse, not yet.
Soon we are at a cottage where my dad's spread out on the hammock and my mom's humming away to nature, with birds in tow. Thats when arrives someone who's name escapes me but for keeping things contemporary, I call him Bojack Horseman.
So Bojack arrives, Tik TOk Tik Tok up till the entrance of this retreat. He calls out to my father 'Sir, Ghudsawari karengey?'. My dad glances in my direction, deflecting this question in my direction. I was like, Sure, why not.
Now, this was maybe my first horse ride, non pillion style. I was old enough now. I walk up to my horse, brown in color, stationary in stature, apart from the occasional brush of his tail. I had very recently had the opportunity of reading about Rana Sangha and Chetak, Alexander and his horse and about the Black Beauty. So I knew this animal had to be tamed, its spirit owned, by me, its master. I walk up to this horse, look it into its eye. What looks back at me is a cataract laden, gunk filled hazy eye ball. I wait for the haze to clear and see my future in it. If only it had. A pat on its neck will have to do for now.
Here's an ECU of the the horse's eye
I was soon seated on the horse, with some help from Bojack ofcourse, my feet in its stirrups, the reigns in my hand. And off we trotted. Tik Tok Tik Tok. If i had my glow in the dark He-man sword down my belt, I would unsheathed it and shouted "TIPUUU SULTAAAAN".
Ok, maybe I did.
What I thought I looked like.
As soon as we were around the bend, the horse began to pick up its pace.
TikTokTikTok.
Soon I was feeling like Timur, Genghiz and Babur, all in one. Till the horse started accelerating from TikTOkTikTOk to TABDIK TABDIK TABDIK TABDIK. It soon dawned on me that I had no control over this mad animal and every time it would careen to the edges of the hills of this hill station, I would bodily tilt my self to the opposite side, like on a bike. The reigns were only for holding on for dear life and thanks to the stirrups, I was stuck! I decided that if this mad maniacal horse wanted to take the plunge down the hillside, I was throwing my self off and saving my ass.
But this action is as useful as jumping in your seat when Mario (or Luigi, if you were trying to stand out in the crowd), wasn't going to make the jump between the two plumbing pipes.
I dont know if its ever in recorded history that a 8 year old had a heart attack while riding an old senile horse in the hills of Mahrashtra but I would've been the first.
We got back, my form looking more like the damsel draped over horse back, kidnapped by the gundas rather than TIPUU SULTAAAN. Bojack was soon paid his dues for this terrorising experience and he was on his way. The horse even promptly dropped a deuce, an action that I would soon imitate, but not before I told my father that his attempt to get rid of his son had failed.
What I looked like to Bojack. Which is a bakra on a horse. Horses are freakishly tough to draw.
I approach my father, my feet going Tik Tok Tik Tok. He's still sprawled on the hammock, basking in the sun. Not for long father, not.for.long.
I approach him, with my mind made up to shake him from his siesta with a traditional and time tested "BHAU!", hands raised above the shoulder in claws, and return the mini heart attack I had just had.
Main ab dabey paun chalne laga. But these dad's have these super senses about their sons seeking revenge, so right when I had sharply inhaled the dung tinged air, my hands half way to the scare crow position, my father opens an eye.
"Bada time lag gaya? Jao, andar butter chicken rakkha hai"
Oh. Butter chicken. I ran the rest of the way.
TABDIK TABDIK TABDIK.
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