Absent-minded coincidence or Destiny?

Photograph by Preeti Verma Lal

Ha! The absent-minded coincidence: Everyman, the horses and the journey! I have never ridden horses - the closest I came to was a mule, I in pinafores and pigtails, the mule old and cantankerous - but I said yes. Yes, I would travel with the Relief Riders. Friends were appalled when they heard I was packing for the trip. "It wouldn't be a Tuscany, why are you going?" "Like Everyman I want to be pulled out of the dreariness…" I retorted rather philosophically. Honestly, it was angst that I wanted to vanquish out of my Being. I defied friends and the ogre at the threshold and chose to partake in the caper.

Call it absent-minded coincidence. Call it a foible of Fate. Or, tag it as Life's eccentricity. In the darkness and disquiet of one angst-ridden night I had finished reading about horses and Joseph Campbell. I picked up the spellings: Shetland, Przewalski, Appaloosa, Falabella horses; I connected with Campbell's Everyman who, while living his mundane life, is pulled out - by Destiny or Choice - into an adventure whose ending he does not know at the beginning.

Let me admit, I felt like an Everyman that night, raring to slough off ordinariness. But horses? And Destiny? Where were they? I smirked. Before I could eat my words, on the Net I stumbled upon the profile of a man called Alexander Souri, who had worked on the special effects of the The Matrix and X-Men and was now organizing an adventure plus relief ride; he was picking up horse-riders to toggle between being wayfarers and messiahs through the sandy terrains of Rajasthan. The itinerary was fascinating: for 15 days the riders would live in ancient forts and pitch tents in the desert, they would indulge in adventure and also spread happiness through medical camps and distribution of relief amongst unlamented villages along the route.

Ha! The absent-minded coincidence: Everyman, the horses and the journey! I have never ridden horses - the closest I came to was a mule, I in pinafores and pigtails, the mule old and cantankerous - but I said yes. Yes, I would travel with the Relief Riders. Friends were appalled when they heard I was packing for the trip. "It wouldn't be a Tuscany, why are you going?" "Like Everyman I want to be pulled out of the dreariness…" I retorted rather philosophically. Honestly, it was angst that I wanted to vanquish out of my Being. I defied friends and the ogre at the threshold and chose to partake in the caper.

The ride began one October morning from the Imperial Hotel in New Delhi, the riders from the US and France including a horse-whisperer, a photographer, a lawyer, an interior decorator, an ayurveda doctor and Souri, the founder director of Relief Riders International (www.reliefridersinternational.com). In the mini bus, the conversation flowed in Tamil, French, Hindi and accented English, the tales bumping from boyfriends to French literature, unruly kids to Shetland ponies and after six hours we were inside the dusty village of Mukundgarh.

At the 200-year old Mukundgarh Fort, the large ancient door creaked boisterously before opening its doors to us, the drums resonated, the bells clanged and fuchsia garlands sat smug around everyone's neck. The Fort is imposing with lime doors, turquoise chandeliers and frescoes all over its sunburned walls. In its courtyard sits an ancient cannon, like an old maid regaling visitors with stories of the lost grandeur. After a refreshing cup of tea, we headed for the stable that abuts the Fort's sturdy walls. The Marwari horses were munching on fresh grass and jaggery and oh! they were so gorgeous. They were all mares, their skin borrowing from the russet of a potato, the white of snowflakes and the gray of twilight; their bodies taut and their rumps like planets. I forgot all about the Falabella's and touched the sweat on the Marwaris; I also saw the horseshoe that the farriers had nailed in.

The next morning, the Riders, led by Souri, trotted around the dusty village, its ancient havelis fraught with frescoes. I was travelling in an open jeep, shooting the vibrant images - the cinnamon hoopoe puffing its neck, the melons on the sand, the hay stacked in incredible rhythm and the pathways flanked by mud mounds and thorns. The Riders tried their mounts, punting dust and a lot of exhilaration for the villagers, children ran after the horses and curious eyes followed us everywhere.

With the horses tried and tested it was time to begin the ride in earnest, a caravan that would comprise cooks, tents, stablehands, camel carts and most importantly, relief supplies that the Riders were to distribute along the way. I chose to jump into a camel cart for the 21-mile ride to Khirod village. But who would have thought that hopping into a camel cart would be such an arduous proposition. I put my right foot on the wooden protuberance, slipped and nearly fell. Next time, the camel wriggled and I was back on the ground. Another try: I put my foot on the wood and had to be pulled into the cart.

Well, the camel walks slowly. Okay, I am being polite about the slow pace; think of two paces between which you can tell a fable. That's slow and it took us hours to reach Khirod. In between, the cart went wayward, we got lost and had to send an SOS for a rescue vehicle. But I wasn't rattled; I listened to the rich guttural songs of the cart rider and ran into a garden to pick up marigold and dry gourd for a loofah. I was loving this life with strangers and so further away from symmetry.

And when we reached the campsite, all the bruises, the lost miles and hours were forgotten. There was no electricity, the cellphones lay dead and the tents were pitched in the middle of nowhere. But there was a caravan with flush toilet, water was being boiled in gigantic pots and the smell of delicious food was wafting in the air. There was bonfire and there was camaraderie. I walked barefoot on the silken sand, it was all so pristine; nobody was vending a masquerade there.

Every morning after sumptuous breakfast, the horses were saddled, the tents dismantled and the Riders preened in their boots and breeches got ready for another day, another 20 miles of ride through various villages. One day when we stopped in Lohargal, little did 15 families beyond poverty line know that their lives would be changed forever by a man who had seen a dream and flown thousands of miles from Massachusetts. When Souri distributed livestock, the old man blessed and the bells clanged again.

At the Khirod and Danta medical camps hundreds turned up for free medical check-up and medicine. "India is my father's country and this ride is a tribute to him. I also wanted to give back, to pay heaven for its blessings," says Souri. Happiness was interspersed in the itinerary and it brought children of Kochor village within its fold when they got new toys and other educational materials.

The ride was getting interesting each day; we stayed in tents like Neanderthals and then like royalty in ancient forts. One night in Kochor village, the clouds growled and the sandstorm nearly blew our tents away. If marauding blue bulls threw in that fear factor, the traditional dancers and the fire-eaters made the evenings unforgettable. The jeep made a habit of getting stuck in the stubborn sand and we twitched our backs pushing it out.

I spent eight days with sand and strangers as companions. I was unfazed when I got lost in a nameless village, I saw friendship grow through conversations and laughter, when my Nike broke its seams I happily tied them with long dry grass. And when an unknown wrinkled woman at the medical camp offered to wipe my smudged kajal with her grimy dupatta, I cried and held her hand. That moment I knew I had followed bliss.

Like Campbell's Everyman I don't know the end of this journey. But when I saw luminous dust in the darkness of the desert, I buried my angst. That moment, from the startled sky there fell a star and I made a wish…. (But that's between me and a handful of sunshine that I brought home…)

Published in Swagat magazine, January 2005.

Contact: Preeti@deepblueink.com