Giddy Up

Dear dedicated reader,

Today, I literally rode off into the sunset.

Of course, before doing this, I had to ride through all of Kadod, passing the public bus stand, the bustling vegetable bazaar and most of the back roads where my students live and were blithely playing outside. I made quite a spectacle, being led along at a snail’s pace on a beautiful looking white and brown horse bedecked with tassels and colorful saddle while I held onto its mane for dear life, screaming slightly every time it made an untoward move.

Did I mention this was my first time ever riding a horse?

All the while, I was listening to the agreeable man who had invited me on this expedition talk about his devotion to Islam and the number of people that he has converted to said religion back in London, where he lives permanently and owns a news shop. Unable to get off the horse, or to get him to stop leading it forward or to do anything at all except try and keep my balance atop its back, I merely listened politely and responded with an interested, “Really? That many people??” every so often.

To explain fully, I must rewind to about a week ago when some 7^th standard girls came by the guesthouse in their uniforms to deliver, most unexpectedly, some delicious English chocolates to the American teachers. When we asked them why they were giving them to us (they had never spoken to us previously), they explained that their uncle had just come from London and he wanted to meet us and could they please come back to see us at 6 o’clock that evening?

I agreed and at six o’clock found myself sitting on my front porch steps, surrounded by three twelve year old girls.

“Teacher,” they asked me in Hindi, “Do you wear clothes like these,” they indicated my salwar kameez, “in the US?”

“No,” I replied honestly, “I don’t.” I explained that I usually wear pants and shirts.

“And capris? And skirts?” They asked me curiously. I nodded. They switched backed to Gujarati and chattered away at a pace that I couldn’t follow.

Suddenly, they turned back to me, “And you wear lipstick and make up?” They asked me.

“Sometimes,” I said truthfully. “Not all the time.”

“And you dance?” They asked me.

“Badly,” I admitted.

“Teacher, will you dance now?” They asked eagerly.

“You first!” I smiled.

They looked at me seriously. “We can’t dance right now,” they explained, “because of Ramzan.”

I reined in my smile. “I see,” I said.

They switched topics. “Teacher, can you come to visit our house on Sunday? Our uncle wants to meet you!” House visits being a particular pleasure of ours on the weekend, we agreed and settled on a time.

Sunday rolled in lazily with an uncharacteristic heat after a spell of unrelenting rain which flooded our house and curled the pages of all our carefully kept books. We were working idly on the porch when the girls arrived to escort us to their house.

The mysterious uncle from London turned out to be a thin looking Indian man of medium height and graying hair with an open, accented way of speaking English that made me feel immediately at ease. He explained that he was from Kadod originally and came here every Ramzan to give money to the poor and spend the holiday with his family. His wife, whom he called up so that we could hear her delightfully English accent, was still in London with his three sons, the youngest of which we learned is “unmarried and looking.”

“So,” he said, “if you are interested,” he brandished a picture at us, “you just say the word.” We laughed politely, unsure if he was kidding.

After the passing of the awkward silences that characterize these visits, he asked us if we’d like to see the stables. As this is a particularly heavily populated neighborhood of Kadod, I agreed, unsure of where exactly the stables would be located. It turned out that they were the first floor of the house itself, the living quarters being located only on the second floor. We made our way inside, our eyes adjusting to the dark interior.

Following a trail of stray hay and horse manure, we were led to the back of this garage like structure where we found a beautiful brown and white Arabic horse, peacefully grazing on some feed and looking content. As we vocally admired its shiny coat and impressive build, the Uncle told us in that Indian way that cannot be refused, “You must ride him!”

At first, my knee-jerk reaction was to refuse, as I am accustomed to doing to all unorthodox invitations here.

“But I will walk the horse right around the block, no problem,” he insisted.

My click-whirr refusal jammed and suddenly I thought: why not? He clearly knows what he’s doing and this horse looks friendly enough…

“Sure, okay…” I found myself saying, even as Melissa was giving a polite “No thank you.” She heard my words jar with hers and she looked at me with surprise. I shrugged, just as surprised at myself.

“Great!” He had the men working in the stable saddle up the horse and lead it outside. Getting it over to a small wall which I could stand on top of to hook my foot into the stirrup and then hoist my leg over was a small and lengthy production, by the end of which had gathered a fair-sized crowd of people standing on their porches, idly watching my progress.

Once on, I grasped at the reigns for balance, realizing that I was, in fact, much higher off the ground than I had anticipated previously. The Uncle put the reins firmly in my hands and then took the other end up near the horses mouth in his. As the horse began to move, I screamed slightly and hunched over, grabbing at the saddle.

“Don’t be afraid!” He chastised. “Relax. Sit up straight. Keep your balance.”

He began to lead the horse around the square, and slowly I began to relax a little, but not enough to let go of the saddle.

He began to lead it up the road, away from the house and the enclosed square.

“Uh…” I began to say, realizing we were heading towards the main market area.

“Not to worry!” He replied. “Just relax!”

I suddenly realized that, unable to get down or steer the horse myself, I was completely at his mercy.

We began to make our way out into the main bazaar, and I could see people sitting on their porches, spotting me, and yelling to the rest of the house to come out and gawk. Word travels fast and by the time I reached the main road, there were large clumps of people in front of every house, eyeing me as I went by, some openly laughing, some just staring. I looked down at them, looking petrified as the horse moved ever forward, helplessly watching as the Uncle led me out towards the bus stand where the busy rush hour buses were packed full of onlookers.

The Uncle seemed to have no qualms about taking up the whole of the street by leading my down the middle, despite the fact that we were now on a main thoroughfare and honking, angry traffic was now accumulating behind us. I looked back at some of the honking cars and tried to convey my apologies through my sympathetic look, to show that really I was as unable as they were to do anything about the situation. Forgiveness was not forthcoming in their looks, voices or gestures, which quickly moved from peeved to full out annoyance.

All the while, the Uncle was making small talk about light, breezy topics such as his faith in Islam, the power of Islam to change people and many, many English that he has successfully converted to Islam, most coincidentally through marriage into Muslim families. As a captive audience, I kept up a steady stream of short replies all while trying to keep my balance and hide my terror from the now many onlookers and band of small children following us and shouting “Teacher!” and “Horse!”

By the end, I had gotten the hang of using the reins and was able to steer the horse on my own, though this fact did little to allay my general terror. When we finally arrived back his house, I dismounted with relief and thanked him profusely for going to all the trouble.

“What? No trouble!” He said adamantly. “Now you must come back four or five times between now and when I leave so that you will learn properly. You will have it in no time at all!”

I nodded in as non-committal a manner as I could muster and tried not to think too hard about the questions I’d be getting from the students in school on Monday.

Best,
Cat