Horsing around in Guindy

Guindy in Chennai (then Madras) showcased many colourful racegoers, dreaming to make a killing. That the racehorses took them for a ride when they put their shirts on, relying on a ‘hot tip’ straight from the stable, that is, the horse’s mouth, was the stark reality. A thoroughbred, expected to gallop with thundering hooves and win by a yard, at times would trot, even walk with equine trickery or nonchalance.

Several factors were attributed to a horse’s stellar performance — its pedigree, upkeep and more importantly what was fed into its nosebag. Exercise, including a regular swim in the equine pool, periodic maalish, and the diminutive jockey’s skill in riding the animal from start to finish were called for. A hotshot jockey should be dwarfish, light-weight and remain focused. An interesting equine tit-bit is that race horses love sugar cubes fed by their proud owners whenever they come to the paddock to pat their flanks with proprietorial air.

A gentleman of leisure I knew who never did a day’s honest work but was living on his father-in-law’s legacy had strange habits. He would travel to the bus stand (though he had a diminutive Buck fiat) only by a jutka, a horse-drawn carriage and count the carriages yet to be taken at the stand. That number will be reckoned as a divine signal for him to bet on. The alpaca coat he wore had several pockets, to stuff the money he would win. It was rumoured that if the horse relieved its bladder when it drove him, he would win big money that day. Once, it relieved its bladder and its bowels as well. Wonder of wonders, he won an incredibly huge jackpot that was carried over for weeks. In gratitude, he made a statue of the animal in Italian marble and installed it at the portico of his bungalow. Racing expressions were so much with him that if his corpulent wife was slow in bringing his refreshments, he would holler, ‘Come on, Panja Kalyani. Come on!’ But such cases were one in a million. The ground rule was those animals took one to the cleaners.

The typical punter, with limited liquid cash, would filch the money stashed by the wife in the kitchen and place the bets after setting aside a small contingency fund for the bus/train fare for the ride back home, cursing the animal for ditching him, though in all fairness, there was no covenant between him and the animal for such deliverance. If only the horse could hear the words, it would have kicked his fundament in unbridled fury.

All men staying at Guindy, the venue of the races, may not have racing blood coursing through their arteries. It is bunkum. Once, when I had boarded a train at Guindy, on a Sunday afternoon, my office watchman, a ‘loan’ ranger, whispered conspiratorially to me, ‘Sir, Lady of Shalott would win today, even if it walks.’ I was bemused to be mistaken for a punter. But I comforted myself with the Tamil proverb: ‘Even if one drinks a glass of milk under a palmyra tree, it would be mistaken for toddy!’