Imagine the history of India told from the point of view of the millions of horses that stormed in from the steppes up north, the horses that died in the ashwamed yagnas of hopeful invaders, the ones who galloped through the bone dry expanse of Persia, shipped by the millions into the ports on the west coast, Panipat, Talikota, Haldighati, the ones who kicked dust in the brigade grounds and the passes of the Khyber. Through the eyes of racehorses and the white horse named Don who thrills us tourists. 


Resting after pulling pilgrim tourists.

Suranga Date, a friend who saw this photograph on Facebook, had these words to add:

They represent
the feet of some
wishing to pray to
the Powerful Benevolent One,
waiting to receive 

some benefits
in their own lifetime.

But unlike 
some representatives,
they are abandoned once
the work is done;
they have 
no subsidized canteens,
so pensions, 
not even free hooves
for self and family,
free water
or even clean lounges.

There's is just
to remain tied
amidst the dirt
while all the yojanas
go full blast
like the AC 
on the other side...


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