There are horses that create history, there are horses that rewrite it, and then there are horses that alter lives – Ghazal is all three. Born at a nondescript farm and sired by a reigning champion of the indigenous breed out of a competent mare, Ghazal was born into a disturbed cradle. Her mother succumbed to the lethal relapse sourcing from colic – a rogue condition notorious for its remorseless nature that can put down an otherwise healthy horse in a matter of hours. Orphaned at the tender age of two months, Ghazal was nurtured by cow’s milk. Her breeder, an intent horse lover eminent for his extravagant style, got roped into a murder mystery and was forced into exile. He entrusted several of his loyal friends with the adoption of his horses, promising to return to their care once the case was closed. Fate, however, had other plans.
Ghazal fell under the watch of a less affluent and lesser equine-literate individual, who could not nurture her to the prevalent standards. She would find herself locked in an unmarked paddock, where fodder was scarce and grain was a rare extravagance. When she sprouted into a “saral” (a desi term used to describe a yearling), her benefactor got murdered during a dacoity at his outhouse. Terming this innocent animal a jinx, the slain man’s widow dumped her to a horse trader, who saw a potential breeder in the yearling. He bundled her up in a trailer along with six other fresh acquisitions and set out on the nocturnal journey to Thatta. At the Punjab-Sindh border, the trailer crashed into a tractor-trolley laden with sugarcane, killing the driver on the spot and seriously injuring six out of the seven horses. The seventh passenger of the trailer – Ghazal – walked out unscathed. Her new master heeded the omen, and as soon as he reached Thatta, Ghazal was sold – sans any profits – to a young Pir from Badin. The Pir, a political stalwart and esteemed rider, also happened to be a horse dance aficionado and planned to brace her for the controversial sport of horse dancing. Days skimmed into months, and when Ghazal attained the age of 30 months (Dwakk, in the desi equine jargon), she was sent to the academy of the renowned Ustad Malang in Bhakkar, who would gait-train her. The political scenario had embraced volatility, and the Pir’s doorsteps – once frequented by devotees – were now trodden by men from the law enforcement agencies. Wanted by the National Accountability Bureau, this young pir decided to migrate lest he should be thrown behind bars to face the charges of corruption levelled against him. The Federal Investigation Agency froze his bank accounts, the National Accountability Bureau confiscated his properties, and Ustad Malang was allowed to keep Ghazal in lieu of the outstanding debt against her owner. Finding herself in her new abode, Ghazal continued to flirt with the ropes of gait-training, while back “home” in the rural vicinity of Kharian, her breeder struck a compromise with the family of the deceased and returned to his outhouse. Having bargained for truce after three years, he recovered all of his horses – all except one, i.e., Ghazal.
One fine day in February of 2021, he visited me in Lahore and spoke fondly of the filly he had misplaced during the menace of the rivalry. The tale, dotted with lamentable turns of events and frequented by murders, held my attention, and I started fantasising about Ghazal.
After a few weeks, my favourite uncle – himself a devout equestrian and closely acquainted with my recent visitor – related Ghazal’s story to me and mentioned how this horse was grossly misunderstood and that she could work up a miracle in the right pair of hands. Lost in the tale of this tough-lucked filly, I fell asleep at the outhouse and saw Ghazal in my dream. Lanky (borderline malnourished), untrusting, and beaten.
And I fell in love with her.
I woke up to the faint growls of the huqqa and regurgitated my dream to my uncle in a room filled with equine gurus. Some laughed, some smirked, and some teased me. But my uncle nodded silently. Once everyone else had left, I formally requested my uncle’s assistance in the hunt for Ghazal. It took a considerable amount of pleading, but I managed to win his support. He at once made a call to her breeder – the original owner, who listened to the tale with religious sincerity and agreed to intensify his search for her so I could purchase her. My uncle ended the call and uttered some obscenity against the subject of his last call and directed me to get ready. We were going to set off on the quest for Ghazal on our own.
Connecting the dots – from her original owner to the loyal friend, and from the equine trader to the Pir of Badin – it took us 2 months and three days to reach Ustad Malang in Bhakkar. We combed through the lengths and breadths of his facility, but Ghazal was nowhere to be found. It was only after I (with complete confidence) described Ghazal from what I had witnessed in my dream that he confirmed having owned a filly fitting the description – until a week ago when a “stupid expatriate from the Gujrat district” took her away for a price “only a Gujrati could’ve paid for such a useless animal”. Without arguing over the merits of the transaction, I bombarded him with questions regarding the description of the purchaser. Ustad Malang proved less than helpful, but I didn’t require much anyway. My uncle had depleted his entire life playing the dicey sport of tent-pegging and was wellacquainted with every notable equestrian of the province. We sped our way back to Gujrat, making calls for the better part of the journey. None of the contacts confirmed having made the investment, but my uncle had a trump card up his sleeve.
The following morning, we packed ourselves into a motorcade of five vehicles and showed up at the outhouse of Ghazal’s breeder. He had decoded our designs and absented himself from the place. His family offered us a cordial welcome and invited us to their stables. We conducted yet another thorough search, and Ghazal was yet again absent. When I, having warmed the palm of a seemingly compromised stablehand, described the mare to him, he winked at me, and we took a leisurely stroll down the village canal. After providing him with all the assurances and promises of not naming him, this disloyal saees led me to the entrance of a woodland. The door was padlocked, and the perimeter was secured by three layers of barbed wire. And the woods, he whispered, concealed a mare. I emptied my wallet onto his outstretched hand, and he scampered off. My heart was pounding like a fish out of the water, but I could not bring myself to commit the disloyalty of entering the woods alone – this hadn’t been a solo mission. Hence, I made a call to my uncle and urged him to reach my location as fast as he could. Within a matter of minutes, the entire motorcade, led by my uncle and followed by a reluctant son of our absent host, had gathered in front of the padlocked gate.
“Come on, now. Unlock the goddamn thing,” my uncle growled.
The boy sheepishly undid the top button of his shirt and detached a key from his chain. My uncle’s aide snatched it from its owner’s hand and bent down to unlock the door. My heart started beating at an unhealthy rate, and my hands shook visibly. The door was flung open, and we marched into the woods with Herculean confidence. The jungle spanned over an area in excess of a hundred acres, and the vegetation was dense. Humming a love song to distract my jitters, I ploughed myself deep into the eastern end of the wilderness.
However, it didn’t take too long for Ghazal to turn herself in. Lo and behold, there she was, standing at ease beneath a stout oak tree – staring into my eyes like the arrogant son of a spectacled cobra. I beamed at her and offered my closed fist – a signature greeting I practice with all horses. She limped cautiously towards me, her palomino mane caressing her broad forehead and her magnificent tail flowing in the breeze like the words of a melancholy ghazal on guitar. She sniffed at my closed fist, then rubbed her muzzle on it – expressing her consent. Having forgotten all about this world and all else that it might’ve held within at that moment in time, I stepped closer to her and allowed my lips to touch the middle of her forehead.
کون پھر تم کو سراہے گا ہماری مانند،
کون رکھتا ہے، میری جان، ہماری آنکھیں۔۔
So much of the emotion shall inevitably be lost in translation if I were to elaborate on the encounter any further, but I can safely state that she looked exactly the way I had seen her in my febrile daydream – save the wounds on her hind fetlocks and the sorrow in her otherwise mesmerising eyes.
To be continued..