A STABLE HAND

Our correspondent gets a wish fulfilled. She skips the ride and works in a horse stable. It’s no horsing around
I was seven when I first went to the Delhi Riding Club on Safdarjung Road, the first of the horseback riding classes my three-year-old brother and I were forced to take because of our parents. We would sluggishly sit on the horses for an hour every morning before school as they watched us from outside the ground with embarrassing enthusiasm.
We clearly didn’t enjoy riding as much as we enjoyed bonding with our horses after the class. The owner of the club—we called her Madam Dumptee Doo (named after a cartoon character she resembled)—would not allow that for more than five minutes. Which is why I always longed to be one of the people who worked at the stable, tending the horses, playing with them. Sixteen years later, I offered to work there for a day for a test drive.  

When I called at the club, Madam Dumptee Doo (Mrs Singh), told me to come “early”. “How early?” I asked, thinking she meant around 11, since that’s what early meant by office standards. “The club opens at 6 am and shuts at 10 am,” she said. I sank back in my chair. I hadn’t woken up before 12 in a long time now and “early” seemed an impossible task. I got myself together and said, “I’ll be there at 7.”
I wasn’t. I woke up at 7 am and reached the club by 8. “You’re late. I will not allow you to work here now,” she said. “I’m sorry. I overslept,” I said, thinking that she would be pleased by my honesty. I was wrong. It only made her angrier. “I used to come here for horse riding when I was a kid,” I said, hoping to earn some brownie points. “What’s your name?” she asked suspiciously. “Ishita Yadav.” She didn’t remember. “My horse’s name was Kuldaina,” I quickly added. “I remember Kuldaina. She passed away,” she said as she got lost in deep thought.  

After the last horse riding class was over, the horses needed to be taken back to their stable so they could be fed. I was made in charge of two horses—Kanchan and Kareena. While Kanchan was a meek, beige-coloured pony, Kareena was tall, dark, beautiful and very arrogant. As I walked them back to their stable, Kareena stooped to graze on some grass. Since I was instructed to not let them eat that, I stopped her. That must have miffed the haughty little thing. She spotted a tomato lying about 20 feet away from us and decided to take advantage of the fact that her caretaker-for-the-day didn’t have a clue about what to do when a horse started acting wild. So she ran. And dragged me with her. Once she was done eating the tomato, she gave me—sprawled on the ground that I was—a look that most unambiguously said, “You don’t know who you’re messing with.”

I got up from the ground and dusted myself. Kanchan gave me an apologetic look. Once they were back in the stable, I got them some hay with some grains to eat. While Kanchan ate quietly, Kareena stamped her foot and swayed her tail as she chomped. After lunch, I was to pet them on their necks and say goodbye. They would soon go to sleep wake up for another riding session in the evening, I was told by the caretaker.
That’s not where my job ended. I now had to clean the stable, pick up the waste and throw it in the dumpster behind the stable. I looked at the leftover food and horse waste lying all over the stable, gulped and asked the owner if I would get a pair of gloves. She laughed scornfully.
I no longer wanted to be horse-whisperer.