Tunnel Vision

You know that feeling when you’re so engrossed in something that your senses narrow. Every single one of the five that you were born with races into a tunnel, and everything in you is focused on that one activity. Maybe you have not felt that feeling. But you have definitely heard of it.

It is quite possibly the single greatest experience I have had in my life.

Let me set the scene. Sun shining brightly in the big blue Lahori sky. The mud is caked and dark brown, and yet somehow soft enough. The smell of fur and horse. The horses themselves, hair brushed this morning, fur sleek and gleaming in the light of the sun. Hooves polished, tails flicking off flies.

You know what the greatest smell in the world is? Not the smell of post sex sweat, not the sweet smell of chocolate, or the spices of freshly cooked biryani. Not even nihari. The single greatest scent in the world is that of horses. It brings me a sense of nostalgia, that even after all these years of not riding, is unparalleled by anything but playing Pokemon games, old and new.

The sun is bright, shining down heavy. The mud is freshly watered and dark. The stands made of stone, weakly painted, are scratched and rough with dust.

I get on the horse, stirrups clanging slowly, swinging before I plant my feet on the rubber soled steel. My helmet is strapped onto my head, my dark brown leather boots up to my calves. Almost invariably, when I get onto a horse, a smile forms in my heart, my head clears up, my heart becomes light, my body relaxes. It is the most calming thing in the world.

And this time, it has been so long since I was last on one.

I grab a polo stick, from the pile leaning by the gates, and strap my hand on, as my knees squeeze towards one another, urging the horse to go inside. It is so subtle, when done right, this sport. A synergy between man and horse, a sense of self and communication unmatched by most other things.

Of course there are also those barbarians who crudely wave around whips that whistle as they slap the poor horses who have the misfortune to put on their backs these crude humans.

Once the game starts, the ball begins rolling, everything shuts down. Everything shuts out. Everything but the four walls of the arena. I do not remember the story about how the horse crashed into the stone part of one wall, and it crumbled, that was how fast it had been going, a story I remember almost every other time. I remember nothing. I see nothing but the game. The scent of horse and mud, the sound of panting, mine, the horse, the feel of its chest heaving between my legs, the vision, the arena, everything within, limited, eagle vision, the taste of excitement in the air, the feel of the smooth stick in my right hand, the rough leather reins in the other.