Articles > Divine Horses of Rajasthan

Raghuvendra ‘Bonnie’ Singh, Lord of Dundlod, trotted out of his castle at the head of the procession. He was crowned with the saffron-coloured turban of the Rajput warrior and his ancestral sword hung at his side. He was mounted on his trumpeting Marwari stallion Gajraj – whose own noble lineage can be traced back as far as ten generations – and at his right hand rode the English ‘warrior princess,’ known in Rajasthan simply as Ghorawalli (The Horsewoman).

It was like a scene from ‘The Man Who Would Be King’ and, watching from the battlements, I allowed myself a moment to fantasise that I was an English cavalry officer destined also to ride to glory under the Dundlod standard: ‘Victory Follows Virtue.’ “How did you enjoy the canter this morning?” A voice at my shoulder brought me back to reality and I turned to see Bonnie’s father. “Breathtaking,” I hedged. I was quite sure that this veteran horseman, once captain of The Rajasthan Wanderers polo team, was already well aware of my lack of potential as officer material for his household cavalry.

“Riding a Marwari is like looking at the world through the sights of a rifle,” my riding companion had said earlier that morning as we rode out onto the Sheikhawati Plains. As an instructor in the Indian army, Colonel Sarpartap Singh was no stranger to either horses or rifles but, sitting astride a side-winding, snorting black mare by the name of Raat ki Rani (Queen of the Night), I had the feeling that I had somehow placed myself at the wrong end of the barrel.

Raat ki Rani’s wonderful scimitar-shaped ears, curving inwards so that they almost met at the points, did indeed give an unusual perspective to the Indian acacia. But so too did her stomping hooves and the acceleration of an instinctive warhorse that threatened to make me a permanent feature of the desert scene should I relax my hold on the reins.

The warriors of the Rajput caste were renowned for their courage, their lust for conquest and their nobility…and they refined these qualities in their horses. There are stories of entire Rajput clans who rode to certain death in battle rather than retreat – and just as many tales of noble Marwaris who galloped unwaveringly into an impenetrable barrage of enemy fire. Since I was mounted upon a creature that would once have been considered of a loftier caste even than her Rajput riders it was fitting that Raat ki Rani should be out to teach me some respect.

The Marwari was once as much an Indian icon as the one-horned rhinoceros and the Royal Bengal Tiger and, like them, it is now fighting for survival. During the days of the British Raj this princely and perfectly adapted desert breed was shunned in favour of imported polo ponies and European thoroughbreds. A victim of colonial bigotry, the Marwaris quickly slid into disrepute until even their wonderful ears were derided as the mark of a ‘native horse.’ Even today the descendents of once proud warhorses can often be seen hauling hardware carts in the streets of Jaipur.

In 1982 when the producers of The Far Pavilions came to Dundlod they hired Bonnie Singh as coordinator. Afterwards he bought a dozen of the best horses that were used in the film and turned the family fort into a Heritage Hotel as a base for Sheikhawati’s first horse safaris. Later he established Marwari Bloodlines with his partner Francesca Kelly (aka the English ‘warrior princess’ Ghorawalli) to promote a breed that he has described as nothing less than an endangered species.

‘To know and love the Marwari is to re-enter a magical realm of our childhood’ – Francesca wrote in Marwari: Legend of the Indian Horse – ‘a world of castles and heroes, intrigues and passion, grand exploits and dark deeds, and extraordinary mythical horses.’And she could just as easily have been writing of the desert outpost of Dundlod itself.

The fort is accessed through two imposing gateways, overlooked by soaring battlements. In the central courtyard you are greeted by a row of brass cannon and a refreshing welcome in the form of the first of countless cups of cardamom-scented Indian tea. The maze of narrow corridors, regal meeting rooms and disused watchtowers, that allow arrow-slit views towards the shimmering desert, transport the imagination back to more uncertain times.

I had been fortunate enough to coincide my visit with Gangaur festival, the main event in the Rajasthani calendar, and the Sheikhawati Horse Show where I would have a chance to see the Marwaris in action. Gangaur is essentially the Hindu celebration of the marriage of Gan (Lord Shiva) and Gauri (the goddess Parvati). Bejewelled effigies of the divine couple are put on display in the great diwan-khana reception rooms of the mansions, and the shrouded women of the Dholak caste gather to chant their endless litanies. The villagers dress in their finest clothes and the bright saris gleam like neon against the sun-bleached Rajasthani stonework and the desiccated landscape. Young women beg the goddess Gauri to find them a good and loving husband…while married women presumably content themselves with asking for a general improvement in the current one.

The horse show has already become a marketplace for the nomadic traders of the Marasi tribe and the Raikas, whose great camel-drawn wagon trains are still a fixture of Rajasthani highways. Though infinitely smaller than the world famous Pushkar Camel Fair, Sheikhawati is yet to be over-run by tour groups.

The afternoon was filled with show jumping, tent-pegging and hanky-picking – where a galloping rider swings down below his horse to grab a shred of cloth from the ground – tournaments between the Indian Police and the (victorious) Dundlod team. As the sun began to set into the dust of the maidan, richly clothed dancing camels and horses were led out to display talents that still survive from the Natchni – a now extinct dancing strain of the Marwari. Just as tent-pegging dates back to dawn attacks by lancers who lifted the pegs from enemy tents, dancing to wild drum beats was a way of teaching these agile horses evasive footwork and to accustoming them to the clamour of battle.

“If horses don’t run during the festival of Gangaur,” say the Rajasthanis, “when will they run?” and over the course of a week Raat ki Rani took me on many long runs through the Sheikhawati countryside. We trotted through villages where young men paused in their endless games of cricket to wave and dark-eyed girls looked up from their laundry to smile bashfully. We cantered through flocks of posturing peacocks and herds of haughty camels and one unforgettable morning we galloped with a herd of wild nilgai antelope.

Despite my soldierly delusions I never did ride into battle with the Dundlod Cavalry or get to prove my worth as a mounted striker for the Rajasthani Wanderers (or even the Sheikhawati bicycle polo team). I still look back with a feeling of gratitude, however, that throughout all those ‘breath-taking’ morning gallops Queen of the Night had the simple well-bred decency to allow me to retain my rather insecure seat on her back.

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