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Winners
First Place
57
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
Misha Singh
Second Place
71
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.
Annie Zaidi
Joint Third Place
77
“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.
Anita Vasudeva
Joint Third Place
89
“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!”
Shiladitya Chakraborty
Joint Third Place
30
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
Pawan Sony
The rest of the shortlist, in no particular order
2
In 1968 we lived for three months in a furnished flat where horse paintings decorated every room, even kitchen and bathrooms. Black horses galloped wildly across the sitting room walls; portraits of horses adorned the bedrooms. Our landlord asked us not to remove the pictures. It was ok.
But I slept badly, dreaming of horses galloping at me, of pounding hooves, snorts, and shrill whinnies. Anand (who never remembered his dreams) was restless. Our child insisted on sleeping in our bed. One night a hairy wet muzzle touched my face. I awoke, heart pounding. My face was sticky with saliva. The smell of horse hung in the air…
I was convinced that the horses watched me all the time, and moved around too. By morning the pictures seemed to have subtly changed. The horse in our bedroom, which had a sneering expression, always looked left, but one day it faced right. Anand seemed uneasy, but then shrugged it off. I was imagining things, he said. Rather than be alone with the paintings, I visited friends during the day.
Anand's parents came for a month, but moved to his brother's place a week later, looking tired and haggard. It was too noisy, they said.
Finally we moved to a painting-free company flat. Our child slept in her own bed. I was content to stay home. We slept dreamlessly, and forgot the horses.
Twenty years later some friends stayed briefly in the horse paintings flat. Curious to see the flat, we visited them. They seemed strained.
“It's the horses,” said our hostess “They give us nightmares. We can't sleep.”
Her husband added, “They move - around.”
“It happened to us too,” I said. Anand nodded.
The painted horses twitched minutely. Car horns whinnied in the street below.
We shivered.
Jane Bhandari
13
Forever
It was 2:30 in the morning when he shouldered past the crowds, making his way to Willis'. The boardwalk was abuzz and would be that way for at least two more months.
The little town with its hot sand and balmy sea formed an irresistible lure for people desperate to flush the winter chill out of their bones.
He was from the hills and had trouble understanding the town's dichotomy, dead winters and over-animated summers. Yet he was no stranger to it. He had spent three summers there. Three summers of flipping meat smoking herb and surfing. But, this summer was different.
He walked into the head shop, past the bongs and the ash trays and the exotic weapons and throngs of shoppers, into the back room.
Willis was ready with his gun. He handed him the picture of the black mare in mid-gallop.
Willis was the best man for portraits.
Forty five minutes, and he walked out with a tape on his shoulder. The black horse was etched out in mid stride, just as she had been in the photograph. He was happy.
He reached his motel room, turned the key, and looked into the warm reality of her eyes. He handed the photograph back to her. She peeled the tape back and looked long and fondly at the fine black horse, alive, agile, and almost immortal. She traced the tattoo on his skin lazily with her fingertips. Their lovemaking was hotly familiar, happy and hopeful.
It was cold and snowing outside when he looked at the graying outline of the tattoo on his shoulder. Three legs were all that remained of the black horse. It had peeled under the harsh summer sun.
He decided he'd have Willis cover it up with that purple dragon next summer.
Paresh Kumar
20
In the twilight, Nazneen quickly walked past the Royal Hamam (bathing room) to reach the maids' quarters. She was wearing the harem guards' uniform. Those unfortunate castrated men.
She quickly changed into her royal robes and hoped that no one had recognized her at the stable. The eldest daughter of the kings favorite wife, there were restrictions on her deportment, dress & behavior that were just too much to bear for the hot blooded 16 year old princess.
She often wished that she had been born male for then she could have roamed the palace grounds freely, conversed, argued or consorted with whomever she chose. She would have had a 100 nubile maidens around to do her bidding. How unfortunate to have been born a girl was her constant grouse in life. And she always felt it the most when she wanted to visit the stables.
The young Madhavan called & beckoned to her even in her sleep. He was so handsome & virile. His smell was intoxicating & better than all the ittars & flowers sprinkled around the harem.
Madhavan could not come into the harem & so she was forced into donning the guards' uniform whenever she could get away for an hour or so without being detected.
She walked into her favorite maid Lalitha's room & saw that Lalitha was trembling on the floor too scared to look up. Nazneen turned right, to stare straight into the Maharani's furious gaze. “Ruin upon the royal family. That is what you have brought upon us, you filthy wretch!” She commanded the guards “Off with Madhavan's Head”
The next morning when the Maharani went to the Hamam, she found the body of her beloved daughter floating with the head of a black stallion.
Karishma Pais
21
Khansaab has been in the Officers' Mess now for 30 years; seen Pilot Officers become Air Commodores, three wars; served Heads of State dinner in their rooms, polished priceless silver trophies…he knows who's posted where, flying what aircraft, commanding which squadron and more.
In his ‘quarters' just behind that colonial building, he tells his wife, as usual, about the happenings of the evening, the conversations in the Bar.
“9 Squadron has come on temporary duty.”
“ Eat.”
“From Halwara. Before that they were in Hindon. Maybe Hashimara. The officers have changed. These days there are girls, too, in uniform.”
“Anyone you know has come?”
“Thakursir is there, but I couldn't see him. Nor Bachusir. Maybe they'll come in tomorrow.”
“Have some more…”
“One strange thing happened….this Flying Officer….Mohapatra…he pointed to that mug in the corner….the one I keep on the top shelf…with the handle like a black horse jumping. He insisted on having a drink in it. Told him it wasn't clean….get it washed, he said.”
“So?”
“He looks exactly ….exactly like Wing Commander Apte, the officer who gave that mug to the Mess. And no one, since Apte died, has ever asked for it. You remember Apte? Died in the crash here? Was going around with Golesir's daughter. How bitterly she cried, poor girl. They got her married to someone from the Army, I think. They called him Pat. Forget the surname.”
“What??? I was an ayah in the Military Hospital then. Gole's daughter delivered a baby just six months after the wedding, you know. She joined him after a year. He was in a field area, came only on chutti. I remember the name of the husband….Sunny Mohapatra.”
For once, Khansaab was speechless
sjaywant
51
In one of the lesser-known legends, it once happened that the animals of the Chinese Zodiac had had enough of the adjectival abuse they were subject to. Snake was particularly bitter about being referred to as Treacherous Snake.
Dragon's protest was a matter of form because there was something grand about being addressed as Fire-breathing Dragon.
Black Sheep, Greedy Pig, Mangy Dog and Snivelly Rat (along with Treacherous Snake) were the leaders, though there was no one to whom they could complain. Dark Horse and Mighty Ox were aristocratically aloof which annoyed the others.
Animals like Rabbit didn't have any adjectives they wanted to lose. In fact, they'd have gladly exchanged their anonymity for notoriety.
That New Year, the animals decided to go to an old woman who, naturally, lived in a cave on an island in the middle of a misty lake way up North. After many arduous adventures they arrived at last at the old woman's door—if a cave can be said to have a door.
The woman, annoyed at having been woken up, came out brandishing a lethal weapon unknown to man or beast, which she instantly flung at them. The Animals retreated, cowering. When they turned around, the woman had gone.
But their burdensome adjectives, golden, red and emerald, lay like prize pelts and the Animals slowly came back and started picking them up.
That is how Dark Horse became Black Horse, and Greedy Pig was now Fire-breathing Pig. Snivelly and Treacherous exchanged titles, and Rabbit became Mighty. No one was really happy, of course, except perhaps Horse, who, though he missed the mystery of being a Dark Horse, was quite content with being a neutral Black
Sridala Swami
79
I expect him at four. I must do something before then. My creditors have no decency. They've snatched all my heirlooms save this. The white pieces are carved from ivory, the black ones from ebony heartwood – jet-black, textured finely...polished. The dark squares on the board are intricately grained red sandalwood. Its lustrous reddish-purple offsets ebony. The cream boxwood squares sport warmer brown-red tones, their smooth texture matching ivory. However, the stars are the kings – their filigreed crowns epitomize artistry – and the knights – the tilt of their heads, their fine napes, the details of their mane...incomparable. A perfect collectible: antique; good condition; intact; exquisite and rare. (Ivory trade banned, ebony declared endangered and red sandalwood's for royalty!)
But would it be worth their pains to confiscate my last heirloom? Replacing the kings or knights in a decorative set ruins it, slashes its value and drives away buyers. That swine has seen it once, long ago. Anything missing he would recall. An ill-matching white piece he would've noticed; lighter colours reveal detail visibly. But black, you have to notice intricacy. So the ebony horse went into a grocery tin.
When he arrived, he perfunctorily checked whether I could repay my debts, knowing I couldn't. I said no and inevitably, he said he'd accept the set. I willingly took out the board and all the pieces, ignoring one black horse. “You didn't put this,” he started, then peered at it.
“It doesn't match,” I explained. He asked about the original. “I don't know. When I inherited it, it was missing.” He stared. He didn't believe me, but what could he do? In fact, he was less likely to attempt selling it, knowing there may be, in this house, a missing black horse.
Aurogeeta Das
87
I wanna know where you got the idea.
For this stunt? From you! Remember the little pen?
Course I remember the little pen! What did you do with it?
Good thing about it was, it was so small that it fit neatly in my hand. So I held it like that across my desk, nib poking out just so, touching Pastakia's dress. Nice big blots!
Yeah, yeah. And who's getting flak for it? Me!
You? Why?
Because Mrs P's got a bee in her damned bonnet, she thinks only Parsi boys use fountain pens!
Well, Jumbo, I'm sorry! But what happened?
She called my mum and screamed, y'know? Called me 'ganda dikra'. And she went on about a horse, know anything about that?
A horse? Where'd that come from?
OK, let's do this. You spoiled her dress?
Ink-blotted it, yeah.
You got a look at those blots, I mean a really close look?
Well, I suppose so ...
Any of them look like a horse? Rorshach and all that?
It's possible, I guess. But what're you getting at?
See, her daughter has equinophobia ...
Lemme guess, fear of horses?
... yeah, a bad case. When Mrs P got home that day, the daughter took one look at her and got a rash like you wouldn't believe. Vomited, had a fit.
So the little girl got a rash. So I'm sorry. So what'm I supposed to do?
Little? That's got nothing to do with anything!
What d'you mean?
"She fell backwards on the coffee table, smashed it. Grabbed the curtains for support, pulled them off, the rod flew through the air ...
What're you saying? You mean ..."""
... yeah. That bizarre story you read in the paper. That was P's husband. Funeral's tomorrow.
Dilip D'Souza
90
Once during a psychiatric counselling session, Manav turned into a fine black stallion. Dr. Vaidkar immediately hiked his fees and resolved to help Manav adjust to his new social condition. News spread and both doctor and patient spent the following days on front pages and primetimes.
When the media barrage grew to a minimum, Manav's family took him back in and set him to work on the farm as a beast of burden with a weekly respite for continued counselling paid for in advance from his earlier savings account. Animal Welfare groups and Human Rights activists fought unsuccessfully for jurisdiction of the case but eventually gave it up as a hopeless attempt.
Now and then a stray media person looking for a story still lands up at the farm but Manav's father tells them quite simply that nothing has really changed. “My son is still very much human,” he says. “He is just being taken for a ride.”
Shiladitya Chakraborty
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