When a Marwari stallion and a Nilgai sized each other up

I was riding my horse, Badal, a Marwari stallion, through the teak woodland behind our farm near the hills which separate us from the Ajanta caves that lie within a gorge lined by dark grey basalt. Suddenly, he was startled. He threw back his head in a jerk and then stood still. It was as if he had seen a ghost.

When Badal and I go riding through the woods, we become a single being. I can feel and sense his every muscle through my legs and seat, and I am sure he can do the same for me. I believe that not only can he sense how my body is moving, but also understand what is on my mind and feel my mood.

But this moment, Badal snapped out of it. Whatever he had seen made him completely forget about me astride on his back.

When I looked up to see what he saw, I realised it was as if Badal was looking into a mirror. Across the row of bushes, staring right back, with the same expression of surprise, stood a large male Nilgai.

Seen from the front, he was a spitting image of Badal. The same dark, narrow muzzle, angular bony face, two dagger-like horns that were curved at the base but the razor-sharp ends pointed straight at the sky. The flap-like ears blended in with the leaves. The head was supported by a large grey, muscular neck that got wider towards the base like the stem of a palm tree. The muzzle blocked the white patch on the throat. A tuft of hair on the dewlap was the only thing that looked different from what I imagined Badal to look like from the front.

Badal has a similar dark face with a white forehead patch. Unlike other horses, Marwari horses have short, pointed ears aiming skywards like the horns of the Nilgai. His neck is equally muscular, and when sweaty, the velvety dark coat turns inky blue with the same hue as the Nilgai.

The Nilgai is found only in the Indian subcontinent, and is the largest antelope outside of Africa. Males stand almost 60 inches at the shoulder, the same height as Badal. Their strong necks help them swing their heads with dagger-like horns when the males fight over the right to mate with females. Their social structure is such that the males defend a herd of females and sire all the offspring until a new male defeats them in a duel, and the loser is cast out. These fights get bloody and one such bout blocked our village road for hours, and nobody dared to go close.

The Nilgai made the first move and shifted its stance to show us his broadside. His back muscles resembled a finely polished piece of wooden furniture, and the hindquarters were the size of a tractor’s tyre. And yet, the legs were sinewed and nimble. He had fixed Badal with his eyes. This was when I got worried. In the heat of the moment, if they both got into a fight, I would suffer as collateral damage.

But I had forgotten one thing: Badal was a Marwari horse. For hundreds of years, these brave animals have carried soldiers into battles and fared well in odds much worse than what we had right now. Badal’s ancestors had charged into battles and faced elephants with armoured plates mounted by spear-wielding mahouts. And just like that, he snapped out of it. He nodded, letting me know that he had figured out that the beast in front of us was not a rival to be fended off.

I left the reins loose for him to decide our next move. He turned sideways to show his broadside to the Nilgai. Equally matched in height, weight and muscle, they kept their eyes locked and sized each other up. Slowly, the tension in their bodies dissipated, and they were both inquisitive to know more about this version of themselves that seemed to have appeared from a parallel universe.

The time of the brave Marwari horse is now on the decline. This indigenous breed is considered endangered, and there is a ban on their export to maintain the purity of the bloodlines. Only a few enthusiasts and the Army keep the Marwari horses.

The Nilgai, meanwhile, is having a different twist of fate. Their preferred habitat, the open savannah, is rapidly shrinking across the country, but they have taken well to living on agricultural fields. They are so common in parts of Bihar and Maharashtra, and they damage so many crops that there are proposals to shoot them despite the word “gai” in their name.

The Nilgai and Badal then strutted along parallel to each other for some 50 metres before the Nilgai broke stride and headed into the hills. That day, Badal trotted home with a cheerful spring to his stride, having had the opportunity to show off a glimpse of his brave warrior side.

— The writer is an ecologist and conservationist