Retrieved via the Wayback Machine. Originally posted by Peter Griffin
My thanks first to my fellow jury members, Altaf Tyrewala, Kalpana Swaminathan, Neeru Nanda, Samit Basu, Sonia Faleiro and Manisha Lakhe, who gave so much of their time to help judge this contest.
And our congratulations to the winners: first place, Misha Singh; second, Annie Zaidi; and in joint third, Pawan Sony, Shiladitya Chakraborty and Anita Vasudeva.
Here are their stories:
First Place
One Dark Night
Misha Singh
I ran like the wind through the dark forest, while the man on my back held on. I did my best to bump him off and return to my warm stable, but the damn fellow was an exceptional rider. This was an epic adventure, he told me, the kind all horses dreamed of being involved in. We going to save the girl, and live happily ever after.
They might live happily ever after, but I was going to have to walk home with two simpering lovers on my back.
The trees parted in front of us, and we saw a herd of red clad, virgin sacrificers of some sort, milling around the edge of a cliff. They were tying the girl, dressed in white naturally, to a stake on wheels. Someone forgot to bring the matches I was amused to see. The man jumped off my back brandishing his sword. “Unhand her you fiends” he roared passionately.
Oh please.
The man flew into the group, hacking this way, dodging that way, thrusting every which way. I spat at a tree and kicked a rock, getting into the spirit of things. The red caped idiots didn’t stand a chance obviously. They were facing the might of true love.
The battle was short and suitably heroic, and the man and girl kissed passionately against the wild backdrop of moonlight and blood. Then, from the pile of wood and rubber tires emerged another girl, also in white. The spare virgin, apparently.
“Come maidens” boomed the man, “my valiant steed will bear us all to safety.”
I stared at him incredulously as they scrambled onto my back.
“Onwards, Black Horse!” he cried
Absolutely! I neighed with excitement and reared up suddenly, dumping all three of them over the cliff.
Oops
Second place
[Untitled]
Annie Zaidi
Vandana often stared at their linked hands. On a shade card, they’d be diagonal extremes. Raghav hated being this dark. That’s why she said it. In bed, she’d whisper ‘black man’. At least once a night.
Raghav would want to smack her. She knew. But he’d tousle her hair instead. “I’m not black. I’m brown.”
She’d smile, “Nobody’s black, that way. Even buffaloes aren’t.”
Horses are, he’d say. He’d let go of her hand.
Vandana would laugh then, to signal that they could forget it. But there was something so mulish about his insistent denial. She’d also laugh because of her inner image: herself sleeping with a black mule.
Vandana had spent the last two years imagining the day Raghav would leave her. If she said ‘black man’ too often, maybe three times a night, he’d leave. If she called him a mule, he’d leave today. But she imagined saying it. In Hindi. Khachchar!
He’d lose it. Then he wouldn’t be able to stay. He’d think he had no option but to leave, now that he’d lost it. Not because of a hurt pride but obstinacy.
Mulish Raghav!
Cats were black too. Dogs too. But he’d always say ‘horses’.
Stupid Raghav! He didn’t even see that she could see how he upset he was. She’d always end up thinking, ‘mule’.
But mules are half-horses too. Only half a donkey. At least half-horse. Half-wild. Half-beautiful. Only half-plodding; only half-predictable.
Like their children could be. Hybrids. More central: half-north; half-south. Half-caste. There was so much untested potential in hybrids.
Not that children were on the agenda. There was no agenda. That was the delicious thing. That, and knowing she could undo it all, with one word.
Joint third place
The Last Black Horse
Pawan Sony
2086. Kaala Ghoda festival. Rashid waits for the parade to begin. He is here to kidnap the Black Horse.
Rasheed is a restaurateur whose fate was made by black horses. He started serving black horse meat curry at his small restaurant at Colaba thirty years ago. The dish became a big rage all over the world and turned Rashid into a culinary king.
But sadly, black horses were not like chickens. They reproduced at a much slower rate. Soon there were hardly any black horses to be found anywhere in the world.
The organizers of the Kaala Ghoda festival got into action to protect the species of their mascot. But they found only one black horse, living a threatened and lonely life in grasslands of Central Africa. They brought it to Mumbai, put it under Z grade protection and took it out only once every year, in a huge parade during the festival. They even got it some white mares. But it didn’t show any interest.
Rashid is here because he has customers who are willing to pay millions of dollars for the privilege of the last Black Horse meal in the world.
He sees The Black Horse coming, surrounded by black cat commandos. Rashid shoots at them and they shoot back as people run to save their lives. Taking advantage of the melee, he tries to mount The Black Horse. But The Horse knows that the future of its species depends on this fight. It kicks him with full force.
And then Rashid uses his biggest weapon- love.
“I know a black mare,” he whispers.
The Black Horse stops. Rashid mounts it and gallops away as the security guards shoot in vain.
That evening, the last Black Horse meal is served
Joint third place
Look
Shiladitya Chakraborty
“Daddy look, a white rabbit.”
“Yes, yes, wonderful. Let’s see, we have the picnic hampers, the bed sheet - there, help me stretch it out on the ground.”
“Daddy, I see a grey elephant.”
“Hmm, water bottles, flasks - something is missing.”
“Daddy, now it’s a black horse.”
He looked up this time. “Oh, no, the umbrellas!”
Joint third place
[Untitled]
Anita Vasudeva
“Shit, I stepped bang into a puddle of black horse piss!” Vir is urban and colloquial, with no real respect for language. But he’s a good bloke and I forgive him a lot. Besides, he was wearing his new suede party shoes and they didn’t look new or suede or party anymore.
“What’s black horse piss?”
“Piss created by a black horse, you dork”
I’m slow. “How do you know? Did you just stand there looking at a black horse pissing and then step into the puddle?”
“It’s thick and smells like horse piss and it’s so dark only a black one could have done it.”
Ok, so I don’t know my horses. I watched him over my beer affectionately. He’s the best kind of guy friend to have - good looking, non-judgemental, creative, not interested in me sexually, great for arguments, doesn’t pile on to my girlfriends, friendly with my boyfriends.umm, sport-obsessed, not great with the English language, tangential and wacky, but, all things considered, good. Tara - perfect, corporate, savvy Tara - was going to detest him. He wasn’t her type at all and she was going to be here all summer. I hate mixing friends. It’s worse than mixing drinks - definately messier. I was dreading this.
Tara walked out of the bathroom, quite oblivious of the combined gloom in the room.
“Shit, I just pissed black horse piss!”
You could have knocked me cold without the beer. “How do you know it’s black horse piss, Tara?”
“It’s thick and smells like horse piss and it’s so dark only a black one could have done it.”
They were married three months later. I got them an engraved statuette of a black horse as a wedding gift.
Comments
Comment by ammani on February 13, 2006 @ 4:35 pm
Loved the stories. Particularly Misha’s. Worthy winner.
Comment by Asmita on February 13, 2006 @ 4:41 pm
Congratulations Misha, Annie, Pawan, Anita & Shiladitya.
Lovely selection of FF. What a treat it is to read them.
A big cheer for the judges too !
:)
Comment by Reeta on February 15, 2006 @ 5:48 pm
Congrats Misha, Annie, Pawan, Shiladitya and Anita. Delightful FF..thoroughly enjoyed reading them.
