Every December, Jodhpur plays host to some very fine polo, and people
Jodhpur’s airport shares its landing strip with the Indian Air Force. It is what airports of holiday destinations should be: No separate arrival gates, luggage carousels and pick-up points; you saunter from the aircraft, winter late-morning sun on your back, to a two-storey terminal building smothered by the most delightful array of bougainvillea.
By the time I have checked in to the hotel, showered away the lack of sleep and taken myself to the polo ground, the semi-final of the Maharaja of Jodhpur Golden Jubilee Cup is well under way. I had never been one for polo; all I knew was that it had horses, riders, mallets, and a ball. And that, according to some accounts, it originated in Manipur.
But, by the time I walk from the parking lot to the Royal Salute pavilion at the polo ground, I could not take my eyes off the action on the field. I didn’t know who was playing who, what the score was, or who was winning. All I saw—and gaped at—were the magnificent horses thundering down the ground in the mellowing sun of the late afternoon, hooves kicking up dust, riders swinging long mallets, manoeuvring the massive animals after the small ball with the skill of La Liga footballers.
Over the rest of the evening, and the day after, I got a crash course in the rules of polo, and up close to the emotions and events that lends the Jodhpur polo tournament a rather generous touch of class.
Polo, I learn, has half points while counting goals. So, a team can have, say, eight-and-a-half goals. A not-so-complicated formula is used to determine the ‘handicap’ of a team, which is then added (in wholes, halves or both) to the score. Each team comprises four players: Numbers 1 and 2 are forward positions, 3 is the midfielder, and 4 brings up the rear. I learn that infringing on the line of play results in a foul (this is easier said than done because of the frenetic pace of the sport, and the fact that players are not controlling their own movements as much as that of their mounts). Fouls, of course, result in penalties.
It was exciting, very exciting. The commentator repeatedly asking the spectators—including large numbers of locals, and not just the posh, celebrity-type guests—to move away from the edge of the field to avoid being run over by the charging horses; the spectators roaring at each goal, each miss, each foul; a couple of local hounds—accustomed to lolling on the grass on other days—scampering out of the horses’ way on multiple occasions; cameramen furiously switching between cameras or lenses to keep adjusting to the movement and distances before they miss a good shot.
Turn a bend, and we are in a courtyard. Above us, a pillared verandah with arches, and… oh, what colours, what music. Behind the pillars are a group of women dancing the ghoomar—a spellbinding swirl of brilliantly coloured lehengas, tassels and dupattas—as musicians and singers sit behind them on the floor, their voices stirring up the cold winter air as much as the whirl of fabrics.
(This story appears in the 07 February, 2014 issue of Forbes India. To visit our Archives, click here.)