Equestrian pusuits

 Have You Ever Ridden a Horse?

Well, I always wanted to—but alas, the opportunity has never quite galloped my way.

To be clear, I’ve been around horses. I often visited the Poonawalla Stud Farm in Pune—an oasis of elegance and snorts. I admired those magnificent animals, studied their posture and gait, fed them hay, and even took grainy photographs on a box camera. I had also been to the races at the Pune Racecourse several times, where I watched with rapt attention as jockeys—tiny, fearless daredevils—galloped across the turf with style—and at full throttle.

All that—the stud farm, the racecourse, the thundering hooves, the cheering crowds—was deeply etched in my head. I could practically feel the wind in my face as I imagined myself galloping astride a powerful steed.

There was just one small problem- I had never actually ridden a horse.

Which, as it turns out, puts me in good company. According to recent surveys, nearly 90% of people worldwide have never ridden a horse

I did, however, ride a pony. Just once. And I do not intend to repeat the experience

Let me start at the beginning.

This was in the early 1980s, when I was a young master at The Bishop’s School, Pune. My colleagues and fellow adventurers were Alan Seymour and Michael Gomes (who would later become my brother-in-law, but that’s another tale). Life was simple, money was tight, and our appetite for adventure was unlimited.

During one break, the three of us set off to Panchgani, a charming hill station in Maharashtra. It’s the sort of place that families still throng to for the cool weather, hot corn on the cob, and endless selfies with the same five scenic spots. After a fun-filled day, we clambered into a rickety state transport bus and made our way to Mahabaleshwar—a hill station that’s part postcard, part strawberry farm, and part open-air carnival.

We roamed around Mapro Gardens, sampled strawberries that tasted like sugar had surrendered, and ended the day at Venna Lake. The lakefront was buzzing—swings, snack stalls, a mini Ferris wheel, and of course, pony rides.

Now, we had a choice: spend our last few rupees on a quiet boat ride… or look cool on a pony ride.Naturally, we chose to look cool.

After a bit of haggling with two shrewd boys who ran the pony business like seasoned CEOs, I paid ₹2 for a 15-minute trot around the lake. I was led to a rather unimpressed grey pony who looked like he’d seen better days.

As I mounted the beast, I saw kids—children!—being led around on their ponies by handlers. A voice in my head scoffed: You’ve been to the races. You’ve seen jockeys in action. You know horses. And so, in a surge of unearned confidence, I asked to go off on my own. The boys looked at me with a mix of amusement and mischief.

“Are you sure?” one of them asked, reins in hand.“Of course,” I said, puffing my chest. “No problem at all.”

Famous last words.

The moment they let go, my pony bolted. Not trotted, not ambled—bolted. As if it had heard the starting pistol and decided that this was the Derby of its life.

Those racecourse memories kicked in. I remembered how jockeys leaned forward, gripped the reins, and bobbed rhythmically in the saddle. I tried the same.

It turns out that galloping gracefully is a skill—and I had none of it.

We zig-zagged past people, narrowly missed a food cart, and headed alarmingly close to the lake. I held on for dear life, my dignity bouncing somewhere behind me. I was about to compose my last words when the pony skidded to a stop.

The two boys came jogging up, grinning widely. Apparently, this was a thing. As soon as a clueless tourist asked to ride solo, they’d give the pony a discreet tail twist—a surefire way to send it sprinting. Instead of 15 minutes, your ride would last 5. You’d be too shaken to complain. They’d pocket the money and move on to the next victim. Genius.

I dismounted, weak-kneed and defeated. A few people laughed. Some clapped in amusement . I paid up and slunk away, the hero of a very short and very bumpy equestrian saga.

My friends, of course, laughed till they wheezed. I made them swear never to repeat the story to anyone.

Naturally, I’m telling all of you now.

I am older and a bit wiser. Above all ,  time heals embarrassment… and turns trauma into terrific storytelling.