Supreme knowledge of the female came to me, of all the places in the world, in San Antonio, Texas. It came at the most unexpected of moments. And it came in the form of Rosie.
I was visiting friends for the Labor Day weekend. It was an unusually pleasant morning so my friend suggested that we go for some outdoor activity. Therefore, he, my 10-year-old son Ray, and I decided to go to a riding camp in the hill country of San Antonio. I had never ridden a horse so it seemed like an activity worth attempting.
I had imagined beautiful green flat land with acres and acres of wild grass, tall trees in the distance, and a backdrop of lush mountains.
In such a setting I would be riding Black Beauty to my heart’s content. I visualized myself as a youthful Clint Eastwood in The Good, The Bad and The Ugly—chewing on a cigar, eyes squinting in the bright sunlight. With the cool breeze blowing through my hair, I could vividly conjure an image of myself sitting atop my majestic steed, reins in my masculine hands, and looking out into the far horizon.
The reality was quite different. The riding camp was in a densely forested area. A few cacti seemed to have sprung up strategically along the track and gave it an apologetic Wild West look. The riding track was a mere few feet wide and it twisted and turned through the thick foliage. The side of the track, if you can call it that, was lined by overgrown shrubs and bushes.
I hope it’s not poison ivy, was the alarming thought that crossed my mind.
Our riding instructor, an ex-corporate lawyer, she told
us later, introduced us to our horses. My friend got the strong and handsome Anglo-Arabian, called Brando. Ray, much to his delight, got the distinguished looking Shire horse, very appropriately named Gandalf.
And I got to mount Rosie, a dumpy and plain Shetland pony.
“Wait a minute!” I blurted out to the riding instructor prior to befriending Rosie. “Why do I get to ride the pony?”
“The other man is too heavy and Ray too light for Rosie,” came the curt reply that did not invite any retort. I could have approved of the instructor’s ability to learn names of her customers as swiftly as the names of the horses.
However, I still felt a bit cheated, and frankly embarrassed, that my masculinity aligned best with this pony. I visualized Clint Eastwood smirking at my predicament. However, Rosie was going to teach me otherwise.
Rosie was difficult from the get go. That did not surprise me. She did not and would not care about my gentle or firm endearments. It took me almost ten minutes to successfully mount her, whereas my compadres were on their steeds, looking gallant, in half that time. I had to cajole Rosie to hold still just to get my foot into the stirrup. It was hard to then swing my other leg across because she would keep lowering her head to partake of the hay in front of her.
“You must be firm! Let her know who the boss is!” emanated from the ex-lawyer-turned-riding instructor. I came close to strangling her (the instructor) with the rein that looped around Rosie’s neck.
And then we were off. “Is this a canter?” I asked excitedly, feeling the cool air tousle my long hair. “No, silly, it’s a slow trot,” chuckled the instructor. “This space is too restricted for a canter or a gallop.” I stood corrected.
As we proceeded with the “slow trot,” I started understanding the ins and outs of Rosie. If I wanted her to turn left then I would sweetly tug on the opposite side, and vice versa. If she would stop in her tracks to start munching on green leafy vegetables then I would firmly poke my ankles into her sides and she would speed up. If I held the reins straight ahead without tugging at her neck then she would get into a gentle trotting rhythm almost bordering on a canter. And thus she and I became a unit enjoying the ebb and flow of the tide. It was then that I realized that although I held her reins I really had no control over her. She was my rider, effectively, and she was directing me!
When I reached enlightenment, Rosie, with me still situated on top, was literally sandwiched between Brando in the front and Gandalf in the rear. And right then Brando let out a volley of excrement. Right in Rosie’s face! I got splattered a tad bit. Rosie didn’t seem to mind at all. I let it pass, as macho, horse riding men don’t react to a wee bit of horse dump on their clothes.
After my first horse (pony) ride I got a photograph taken with Rosie for posterity’s sake. I hugged her and then thanked her profusely for helping me understand the female species.
Today as I fondly went down memory lane while looking at the photograph of myself riding Rosie, I couldn’t help but acknowledge the female as a creature of beauty and mystery. She is also a creature that nurtures. All my life I have been surrounded by females wanting to nurture me. The (s)mothering started off with my own mother. She felt a bit robbed of divine femininity because she was quite prepared for a baby girl but a third boy popped out instead. She might have been less disappointed had prenatal ultrasound been around then. In her crusade against fate she nurtured me a bit more determinedly, at times, while I was a baby, by dressing me up in pink and letting me play with dolls. My school years were spent studying and understanding various girls, as friends, and college years were spent fathoming young women, also as friends. While in the latter phase in Karachi, one particularly strong willed young lady directed me into companionship, and then later into husbandhood and fatherhood. However, having somewhat of an independent streak, letting the female direct me was not completely understood for another ten years. It was a good realization to let the female lead given her innate sense of what lies ahead.
The epiphany came after almost four decades of my life.It came when I realized that I had been on a quest to determine the path to happiness. And it came once I realized that sustainable happiness was related to understanding the female.
It was only after meeting and riding Rosie that I was able to articulate the above.
I wish at least one Rosie for every man in his lifetime.
