Riding Barranca (28 page)

Tent Stable

On the way from the Jaipur Airport to the Alsisair Havali, we witness the excitement of the wedding festivities outside the Rambagh Palace. The grand event will take place here later
this evening. Reportedly, Nepalese and Indian royalty will be in attendance, along with Hollywood and Bollywood stars, and the writer William Dalrymple, whose book,
Nine Lives: In Search of the Sacred in Modern India,
I am currently reading.

We missed the royal procession that took place earlier that day, but apparently, as the golden vintage chariot moved along, accompanied by decorated elephants, horses, and musicians, lightbulbs flashing at the prince unnerved him so that he was barely able to raise his arm to give the royal salute. The photographers were pushed back to protect him. There is still a crowd of security men and journalists by the front gate—the glorious palace all lit up in the distance.

Ayler appears around ten that night with a beautiful young woman he met in Goa. Kavita Chhabra is of Indian descent, but she was raised in England. She is fluent in Hindi and astonishes the hotel porters as she is still dressed for the beach in short-shorts and a scanty tank top. It is great to see Ayler after this week off on his own, and we quickly begin to catch up on our news.

After an hour of morning yoga on the rooftop terrace, we head to the Gem Palace. The décor here has not been changed for generations—dark wood paneling and glass cabinets. There is a wonderful assortment of affordable jewelry, as well as some astounding pieces. The owner's son, Samir, is a tall, twenty-eight-year-old, in training to take over the business when his father retires. Samir quickly makes friends with Ayler and Kavita, who agree to meet up with him later that night. The owner of the shop graciously invites us up to their rooftop terrace to share some lunch, and it is one of the best
meals we have while in India. It makes a difference eating fresh, homemade, vegetarian food.

The following morning we rush to get into the queue for the elephant ride up to the Amber Fort with its impressive golden-yellow walls running for miles across the hills. We stand in line for half-an-hour before we are able to clamber up into the crude metal palanquin set onto the back of our elephant. There are two of us in each basket. But our trek uphill, crushing side-to-side is quite uncomfortable. I continue to smash into Lizbeth the entire way.

After our tour, we head to the Raj Palace Hotel, one of the older and more elegant places in Jaipur. Ayler and Kavita treat us to lunch, and then say that they have a surprise for us. It isn't long before we get it out of them—Samir and his cousin, Sadat, have two horses over at the Jaipur Polo Club, and we are going to be able to ride them that afternoon—
what luck.

Our amiable driver takes us over to the club where the recently wed prince had his accident five years ago. Everywhere we go we have excellent drivers and guides, but the driving in India is certainly an art form. Most of the roads are difficult, to say the least. Cars are constantly passing trucks in both directions with motorbikes weaving in and out (often with a male driver and wife in back with a child wedged in between). Cows wander about on the roads and passing vehicles head straight at each other only to swerve back into their own proper lanes moments before colliding.

The sky is already darkening as we walk across the massive playing field with Samir and Sadat. We are stopped by an official who says that we are not allowed to walk across
the grass. “Rules must be obeyed,” he tells us. This is the first time in India that we have heard of any rules. Certainly there are few regulations when it comes to the highway, where artful chaos reigns.

We heed the instructions and walk around the periphery, then find our way back to the encampment of tent stables where the horses are kept. Two horses are brought out, one a black Marwari mare called Chirmi, which means
joyful
in Hindi, and the other, a large grey polo pony, who was originally given the name Maximus, but it was such a difficult word for the grooms to say, they changed it to Mr. John.

I take the Marwari and on mounting notice that the stirrups are very short, and there is no hole-punch available, so there is no way to lengthen the leathers. I make the best of it with my legs cranked up, and begin by walking the mare around the ring where many of the polo ponies are being exercised at a brisk canter. Lizbeth mounts the grey and looks comfortable enough. I try to remember the rules for riding in a ring—isn't it left shoulder to left? Yes, but here in India, where they drive on the opposite side of the road, it is right to right. We quickly get the hang of it.

Chirmi has a nice soft mouth, and she is full of energy. I wonder how her canter will feel, but let her walk out some of her edginess before I move her forward. With the other riders flying by all around me, we get into a nice smooth lope. I keep changing directions, but it's more difficult to get her into a canter using her left lead. The grooms instruct me to put both heels on her side and make a
click-click
sound, and she should respond. Later, when the grooms hop on (one of them in flip-flops), they go flying about the ring.

Under Tent

Most of the other horses have been put away by the time we finish up. We all feel exuberant, having had another exciting ride on the last day of our trip. As we leave, the sun is setting on one side of the field, and the moon is rising on the other. Tomorrow, it will be a full moon, another cause for celebration, honoring all the female goddesses in the Hindu religion.

We have had a wonderful trip, but later, heading back to Massachusetts, I think—
some of the best experiences are not always planned and paid for—some of the best rides are waiting for us at home.

Wintering Barranca

Barranca is already growing a thick winter coat so I take him out slowly through the bare back woods—no more cherry-colored euonymus, no golden splendor, but the seasonal change has its own rewards. One can see deeper into the forest.

Wearing my hard hat, my ears are cold, but it is still enjoyable, enlivening, as the fresh, cold air clears my lungs. I wrap my long coat around my thighs for warmth. It feels great having a solid horse between my legs. Big, thick flakes begin to fall.
First snow descends most silent.

As we ride the familiar paths, I see a blue rubber glove by the side of the trail and wonder what it's doing there. Has it floated to this spot like one of those burst helium balloons? Or was a hunter wearing it to gut a stag?

I ride down to my mother-in-law's house and wave at her through the window. She seems happy to see me on my mount
in the falling snow. Soon, we will all be enjoying Christmas Eve together, including Arizona Muse's one-year-old Nikko and hundred-and-one-year-old Emily Rose—much cause for celebration!

Barranca seems glad to be free of the corral. The horses must find this season of hanging around rather dull. Often, they stand at the bottom of the paddock and look in the direction of the lower field. They seem to embody patience.

Frisky

I buy a shooting-star hydrangea for my mother-in-law. While driving it up Rose Hill, the full moon appears through the woods—magnificent. How Em would enjoying seeing that, as she is a lover of all cosmic events, but she is snug in her chair and not going anywhere. When she sees the plant I have brought her, she says simply,
“Star.”

Today is the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. The sky is dark by early evening. The lunar eclipse will occur
sometime between one and three in the morning. If I were a bit braver and if it wasn't so cold, I would be tempted to take Barranca out for a ride, but it is frigid and windy.

At 1:30
A.M.,
I put on my heavy coat and double hat and wander down to the corral, giving the horses some treats. I wonder if they are aware that something unusual is going on in the heavens. This kind of eclipse only happens once every four-hundred-and-fifty years. On the other side of the world, all the planets are lined up on either side of the sun forming a chalice. What are we about to receive?

I think about my mother and the freezing distance of space. She is no longer with us but
the earth remembers
—good memories are still warm within me and have not been erased.

Thank you for being honestly passionate, for remaining steadfast, marrying this man, leaping into an unknown world—the cold, often hostile, uninviting North. Thank you for giving birth to the four of us, each a reopening of the caesarian wound. Thank you for being a doting mother when we were babies and could not get too much of your love. Thank you for making a fire each night beneath the painting of the wave-crashing ocean, reading us books, listening to my own early efforts. Thank you for taking us on family vacations, for not smothering us or hovering too closely—giving us freedom, being there when we were hurt— your mad dash to the hospital when I got burned from the exploding Chris Craft. Thank you for the magical Christmases, the stockings and gifts beneath our tinsel-laden tree. Thank you for teaching us manners, no easy task. Thank you for putting up with Oconomowoc so that we could enjoy our extended family. Thank you for not divorcing Popi, for adoring the man he was, even when he was infuriating. Thank you for our wonderful homes, raising us in places of order and beauty. Thank you for
remaining so attractive yourself, for greeting our father with a hug and a kiss. Thank you for showing us emotion—letting us know that love is not easy, but that it is always worth it.

Standing out in the freezing cold, Barranca licks my hands, and I rub his neck and forehead. I wait until the moon is completely covered. Light clouds and snowy air bluster by, obscuring clarity so I don't witness the fireball-red surrounding the moon that might be visible elsewhere. The horses seem to prefer standing out in the cold rather than cozying up in their stalls. But I am now ready for a hot, deep tub, with lavender oil brought all the way from Varanasi.