An unedited version of my story published in the November
2014 edition of Outlook Traveller
The starting gong is
sounded. Sharad’s staccato mumbling drones on in the background “1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-1-2…”
Sitting on my haunches, I feel my heart start to thump - slowly at first and
pounding soon after. My camera’s cross-hair aligned perfectly in front of me,
my hand subconsciously fires shots in rapid succession. The commentator is
narrating second-by-second happenings at a pitch which is getting higher by the
minute, and may soon be heard only by canines. My brain sends me urgent signals
to get up and run, but my legs remain rooted. Sharad’s mumbling has reached a
furious crescendo as he yells “Oh, come on! 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9…faster!!” Through
the viewfinder, I can see the hitherto dot-like man and bullocks run towards
me, growing larger by the second, until I can see details of the bullocks’
ornaments. Sweat pouring down my forehead in rivulets and my palms sweaty, my
eyes widen - fear finally strikes.
“About time,” thinks
my brain, jostling my legs into action. I spring up like a gazelle—fear
endowing me with a surprising nimbleness—and run for dear life, without looking
back. People around me are running too, in all directions. We hear thunderous
applause and much screaming. I stop, look back and wipe my face. The adrenaline
rush makes me return to my spot; I sit on my haunches yet again. Sharad’s hand
fiercely grips the timer, ready to press the button yet again. We both squint
at the horizon, in eager anticipation of the next run.
I was witnessing a Kambala—a
race run by bullocks with their runners, a sport born out of seasonal farming
schedules—with mixed feelings. The animal rights proponent in me told me that I
should be shunning it. The culture enthusiast in me was piqued by the rituals
and the sheer muscle-power involved. Eventually, not wanting an experience coloured
by judgements, as often happens to a person from an alien social context, my
first avatar was vetoed out.
Southern coastal
Karnataka, also known as Tulu-nadu locally, is predominantly a fishing and farming
belt, growing paddy, to be precise. Paddy is harvested October onwards, with
sowing beginning from March, leaving fields cyclically bare between November
and March, when farmers take a break from their hectic schedules, and
apparently often pass time by running their bullocks in the slushy fields. Why
wait for the farming season to pause? Even at the end of a long, tiring day,
they would sprint home together, in anticipation of much-needed rest. A related belief is that the bullocks are
made to run in their fields to thank the gods for keeping them in good health, and
hence, capable of running. Yet another theory is that bullock racing evolved as
a royal pastime, many centuries ago. Whatever the origin, in its current
avatar, Kambala also doubles up as a competitive sport. There are various categories
of races: to qualify, a bullock pair and their runner run together to aim for
the fastest timing, or, two pairs with their runners compete against each other
on parallel tracks. Because the races are held in paddy fields, often in tracks
specifically built for the purpose, they are a long walk away from the nearest
road.
This path, donning a festive look with stalls of food and games, throws
many a curious sight my way. Drums herald the arrival of teams from other
villages, dressed in bright team T-shirts. Their lorries form impromptu dressing
rooms for their bullocks, the stars of the show, being lovingly massaged and painstakingly
ornamented, using mirrors, feathers or coloured rope.
Nearby, a couple of men don the grease-paint, readying themselves for
their dance later in the morning, which symbolises chasing evil away. Families make a day of the festivities, but strangely, most women seem to
disappear before they reach the Kambala track; with such few women spectators,
a lot of the locals are inquisitive about my presence, with many going out of
their way to make me comfortable.
Though Kambala isn’t
as commercialised as you’d expect, it has definitely grown beyond the erstwhile
humble prizes of fruits, coconuts or other farmed goods; cash and gold often
change hands nowadays. Good runners are sought-after and lead a life of
prestige - Sharad, who is timing his brother’s race, has a lot of hopes pinned
on him. These runners—lithe, well-oiled, and sporting jealousy-inducing toned
bodies—power their way through the slush, holding sway over the proceedings
like nobody else.
As I’m speaking to
Sharad, a sudden, deafening trumpet behind me startles me out of my skin.
Amidst peals of laughter from the crowd, I turn around to photograph the
offending musician, who offers me a split-second sheepish grin before solemnly launching
into an upbeat melody accompanied by other assorted trumpets, bugles, and even
a nadaswaram. An intrinsic part of Kambala,
music entertains people during breaks: breaks, because readying these massive water-buffalo,
each weighing a few tonnes, for their run, is no mean feat. In these gaps of almost
ten minutes between races, the bovines are led down the finishing slope towards
the starting point, with much fanfare and music.
Rapid-fire Tulu orchestrates the frenzied activities around the starting
point - words of encouragement to teams readying for their run, soothing words
to buffalo being cooled down post-race by jets of water, and the breathless
words of the previous race’s runner, quickly discussing his performance with
his team. Amidst this cacophony are seemingly grinning buffalo, as a referee
intently takes stock of the bovines’ teeth—yellow, brown, black, sometimes,
missing altogether—and makes a quick decision categorising the animal as junior
or senior.
Only senior buffalo are considered privileged enough for certain races; a
roar from the crowd tells me that one such category, where the runner balances
himself on one leg on a cube of wood tethered to the buffalo’s yoke, is about
to begin. Even as I gape at the acrobatics involved, water gushes up as a jet
through a hole in the block, spraying spectators in the bargain. The jet has
touched one of the many banners tied across the track as height markers,
declaring the team victorious.
As the sun slides
its way to the horizon, peeking occasionally between swaying palm fronds, unnaturally
strong yellow floodlights are pressed into service to simulate daylight. Races
continue well into the relaxed Saturday night. On Sunday afternoon, once the
champions have been crowned, a weary crowd will head home, some jubilant, some dejected,
but all having savoured the Kambala. The triumphant runner and his glittering
trophy will probably be hoisted on the winning team’s shoulders for a boisterous
victory lap around the track. A few runners and buffalo owners will be a couple
of lakhs richer. Yet, somewhere deep down, Kambala remains a village pastime.
If you steer clear of the larger Kambalas, you can travel back in time – where
the bond between the runner and his bullocks is palpable, where competitors
also share camaraderie, and where the entire village turns up decked in their
festive best.
I turn away from the
glare of the floodlights and see them there – three friends running into the
setting sun, words unspoken, yet, in perfect sync; their emotions saying it all
- a friendly slap on the back here, a joyful splash of water there, washing
away the sweat from the day’s toil; the air echoing with their audible
breathing and the heavy thudding of five pairs of legs; Kambala, in its primal
form - nothing more than man and beast enjoying a run.
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