The Horse Ride

My mother’s strength was one of her defining characteristics, and one she intentionally tried to pass on to her children. An experience when I was four years old comes to mind.

We were vacationing in the mountains of Srinagar, the capital of Kashmir, staying in large tents. Late mornings we would go sightseeing on rented horses accompanied by their owners, who walked beside us. Most children rode with their parents, but I refused to get on a horse unless I could ride alone, acting humiliated and pouting to get my way. My father indulged me, which made me feel very special—like a grown-up.

One evening at bedtime, my father told my 2-year-old sister, Shakti, and me that the next morning he was going away for a few days, and in his absence, he wanted us to behave for our mother. I innocently asked if I could accompany him. That was impossible, he told me, because it was several days’ journey on horseback in deep snow—not a safe journey for a child.

Rationally, it was clear that joining my father on the trip was not an option. But, in my 4-year-old bravado, I decided to be obstinate and insisted on going along. I understood that it was wrong to make such a demand, and I knew I was being a pest, but I would not back down. 

To pacify me, my mother said, “Alright, Daddy has to leave very early in the morning. So, if you want to go, you must go to sleep immediately.” 

“You’re lying,” I pouted. “You want us to go to sleep so that Daddy can leave without us in the morning.”

“No, I promise to wake you up in the morning,” my mother assured me.

Even though I was certain she would not wake me, it seemed that this was a good way to save face. Soon, my sister and I were sound asleep.

When the first rays of sunshine struck our tent the next morning, I was wide awake and promptly woke little Shakti. As expected, my dad’s bed was empty. 

Patiently, our mother explained that Daddy had left at four in the morning. I was furious. Several times, my mother tried to explain that where he had gone was not a place for children, and that someday, when I was older, I would be able to make the trip. But, by this time, that was no longer the issue. I was inconsolable, but not because my dad had left. My mother had tricked me—and I knew it, yet I fell for her trick. My self-image was bruised.

I went outside, held one of the tent ropes, and sobbed my heart out. Shakti, who always wanted to do whatever I was doing, came along and started to cry too. I knew Shakti didn’t know why she was crying, but I was delighted to have some company.

My mother offered me every enticement she could think of to stop crying, but it was to no avail. I would only become more obstinate and sob even harder. 

Finally, she asked me what she would have to do to make up for her deception. During my extended period of crying, I had worked out my exit strategy, and I was ready with my answer. Without uttering a word, I pointed at the next mountain peak beyond the valley. My mother knew exactly what I wanted.

Several times during our vacation, I had expressed a desire to go to that peak for a picnic—by myself. It was a demand that was totally unacceptable. Now I saw an opportunity to press my advantage, though I fully expected to be rebuffed as usual.

I have no idea why I wanted to go to that peak, nor do I have any idea what came over my mother at that moment. To my utter surprise, she agreed to this outlandish request. Instantly, I stopped crying, as did Shakti. She was not to get anything in the bargain, but Shakti had no idea why she was crying in the first place. 

As my mother instructed one of the horse owners about my desired trip, his face expressed surprise and unwillingness. It was obvious he did not want to take the responsibility. I tried to intervene and say that I was grown up and could take care of myself, but he brushed it aside without even looking at me. My mother persisted. He wanted assurance that I would obey his instructions. Meekly, I consented.

Without a word, my guide lifted me onto the horse, and we started off. The rest of our group were still in their tents—a disappointment, because I had hoped for a hero’s sendoff. 

The ride to the far hillside was uneventful. There was silence between me and the guide. When we arrived, I ate my lunch. Then, the guide said it was time to begin the return journey. I resisted, wanting to stay on the mountain longer. He looked at the dark clouds on the horizon and shook his head.

On our way back down the trail, we saw a family on horseback coming up. This was our first human encounter, and I was delighted. Finally, someone could admire my adventure! When they learned I was traveling without my parents, they were incredulous. Obviously suspicious, they even tried to send a young man with us to make sure I made it home safely. I was horrified, and protested almost hysterically. Fortunately, the guide spoke up and assured them I would be okay, and we moved on.

We had barely reached the bottom of the hill when it started to rain. The guide led us under the cover of a tree. I wanted to keep moving, but the guide refused. I had no choice but to wait, listening to the pitter-patter of raindrops falling on the tree leaves.

I must have dozed off, because the next thing I remember is seeing our tent come into view up above us along the narrow trail. The sun was shining brightly. I noticed my mother’s exceedingly worried expression as she stood near the tent, looking down the trail that would bring us home. 

As I turned the last corner and came face-to-face with her, I asked, “Why are you crying?” She did not answer, but quickly wiped her tears with her sari and began to jump up and down with excitement. The guide helped me dismount, and my mother hugged me repeatedly. She looked at my face as if to make sure she was embracing her own son, and then she wiped her tears again before embracing me some more. It was a few moments before she could collect herself. I could not comprehend what all the fuss was about.  

Then she asked me to thank the guide. I turned around and looked up into his eyes, and I thanked him. I was struck by how different he looked from this perspective. During the trip, I had only viewed him from where I sat on top of the pony. All I had seen were his shoulders under the cover of a rough, brown jacket, and the top of his head covered by a round, black-and-brown, native Kashmiri cap. 

Standing on the ground now, all of a sudden I was small and he was tall and muscular. For the first time, I noticed his face, which was narrow and handsome. He was not as old as I had thought. In a split second he was no longer my guide; he had become a giant of a man.

Without a word, he reached over, and with both hands lifted me high over his head. I could again see him from above. I detected a proud smile on his face, as if to say, “Well done, partner.” The tension between us was gone.

* * *

I never thought much about that day until years later, when my own children were that age. Looking at them, I would often ask myself, Would I send my four-year-old child alone with a stranger for an all-day horse ride in an unfamiliar land—or anywhere, for that matter? It was unimaginable. I would wonder what steel nerves it took for my mother to allow her eldest son to have such an experience, especially since her first baby had died at the age of one. The only answer I could come up with was that it was a different era (the 1930s) and a different place (India) and it may not be fair to compare the two situations.

She explained that, after I left on the ride, she was doing okay until our neighbors from the other tents came out and started questioning her wisdom. She got a good scolding from one person, and that was when she realized what a blunder she had committed. The darkest thoughts assailed her: “What if he does not return? What if he falls off the horse? What if he falls into the steep valley? What if the horseman abducts my child?” She said she cried all afternoon, could not eat a single bite, and kept her eyes fixed on the trail.

There was a silence. Then I asked her, “Why did you allow me to go? What was on your mind?” 

She laughed a nervous laugh, as if it was too painful for her to talk about. Then she looked straight into my eyes. Her gentle expression froze like steel, and her eyes narrowed. With quiet firmness, she said, “I did not want you to grow up being afraid of anything.”

She was savoring her victory.

Postscript: On Memories

When we take a photograph, we capture a moment. When we look at the snapshot later, we see the details of that moment. Each time we view the captured moment again, we may see new details that we failed to notice before. 

The same is true of our memories. We may notice some details only when we review a memory at a later date. During my horse ride at the age of four, I did not notice the color of the guide’s hat or coat, but I could clearly see those details later as I looked at the events in my memory. 

Yet, some details hide in the maze of our memories and become evident only when circumstances help to reveal them. For many years, I could vividly recall the image of the tree under which the guide and I took shelter that day in the rain. I could recall the luscious green leaves up above, and the ground littered with multicolored leaves and an array of fallen fruits. I could remember the pitter-patter of the rain. However, as much as I tried, I could not recall what type of fruit tree it was. What bothered me was that, as a child, I knew what kind of tree it was, but now I could not remember.

Then, one day in the fall of 2007, I joined my friends Bob Doenges and Sophie Oppenheimer for dinner in London. It was quite late by the time we lazily finished our main course. Most of the customers at the boutique restaurant had left by the time we were served our dessert—cashew parfait decorated with two halves of a fresh fig. 

I could not take my eyes off of the pink stamens in the green halves of the figs. I was  mesmerized, because in that moment I was four years old again, looking at the stamens of the fallen anjeers (figs) on the ground, and I realized that I must have dozed off under the anjeer tree while still sitting on the horse. 

Voila—almost seven decades later, the memory was reawakened.