Together We Ride
To a passer-by who happens to find themself in the mist-covered hills near Ooty on Old Pykara Road early in the morning, the sight of dozens of riders in knee-high breeches and bright red and navy overcoats galloping through the meadows might look like a scene straight out of a Bollywood film set in the days of the British Raj.
But, in fact, the passer-by has stumbled upon a group of dedicated riders: members of the Ooty Hunt Club. This is where I too find myself, astride a frisky horse named Virat.
On one such morning, as I try to keep myself on the saddle and away from the mud, all the while preventing Virat from tripping over any one of the dozens of foxhounds running dangerously near his feet, the red roof of the Hunt Club appears in the far distance. The Master of Foxhounds raises his red-sleeved hand and we all come to a halt. Crossing the Master of Foxhounds is a crime that must be paid off with six beer bottles—as is the mistake of calling the hounds ‘dogs’! These are all part of the little rituals that make up our ride.
The thrill of the trail: during the final gallop, the Master of Foxhounds (in red) is being overtaken by riders. Photo: Defence Services Staff College (DSSC).
he hunt itself is organised in ‘fields’, with the most experienced riders in the first field and the beginners in the last. Riders astride horses that tend to kick or stop randomly without encouragement are assigned the last post, while the Master of Foxhounds leads the group. Photo: Defence Services Staff College (DSSC).
We began in the early hours of the day. The hack ride we call ‘the hunt’, a sobriquet passed down over generations, is facilitated by the Defence Services Staff College (DSSC). It begins either at the Wellington Gymkhana Club or at the sheep farm on the Ooty–Gudalur Road, long before the first rays of the sun, and often wraps up at the Ooty Hunt Club. Once the hunt is over, we dismount, pat our horses and head inside the club for breakfast, while the horses are led back to the stables for their well-deserved morning feed.
Sighting the Hunt Club means one thing: the hunt is ending and, after hours of riding on uneven forest ground and between tea gardens, a delicious English breakfast awaits us. The hunt, despite what the name suggests, today culminates not in the hunting of game but rather in a final gallop across the wide, well-maintained golf course in front of the club, which quickly becomes a muddy mess as dozens of excited horses speed across it, each racing to be first.
The hack ride is not without the occasional additional misadventure. Riders are frequently bucked off or forced to dismount unexpectedly, helmets are knocked off, and every now and then a hound strays away from the riding group. Most of the riders manage to get up, dust themselves off and mount again as others cheer them on.
For me, as a schoolgirl in Wellington, riding with the hunt was the ultimate high point. Long, lazy afternoons with nothing to do prompted tens of us to wolf down our lunches after school and show up at the stables every afternoon and often on chilly mornings as well. I live in Delhi now and visit Ooty only occasionally, but I still have my riding blazer, much faded, and my gloves, worn thin, which I refuse to throw away.
Better together: Riders gather in front of the Ooty Hunt Club post the ride for the pin ceremony: a tradition in which new riders who have completed their first hunt are presented with a metal pin inscribed with the image of a horse (1); the facade of the Ooty Hunt Club (2); young riders having breakfast at the club after the morning hunt (3). Photos: DSSC.
The route of the hack ride crosses some forests, low-lying streams and a few downs, and then follows a narrow route on the fringes of tea gardens, often the small patch between the tea estates and the forests. Considerable logistical effort goes into the ride; the route has to be surveyed, permissions from tea estates and forest department must be taken, ambulances are parked at midway points enroute and the visitor area has to be fenced off. Photos: DSSC.
The Ooty Hunt Club came into being in 1841, as per Club records, founded by Captain Douglas and other officers of the Madras and Bombay armies. The building that houses the club began as a hotel in 1833 and then served briefly as the residence of Lord William Bentinck, the first Governor-general of British India.
Following the passing of the Wildlife Protection Act of 1972, the club and other institutions in the area were quick to abolish hunting, which had long prevailed here. What has continued, though, is the tradition of decking the horses in polished saddles and blinders and riders in long navy and red overcoats, worn over carefully pressed polo shirts and ties.
When the erstwhile British officers first introduced the hunt to the Nilgiris in 1835, the hounds chased the scent and tracks of foxes, rabbits, sambar deer, boars and the occasional tiger while the riders followed with long-rimmed rifles. At that time, Ooty was almost exclusively green, filled with forests, and had excellent weather and pretty cottages—along with some snobbish Britons, earning the hill station the title of ‘Snooty Ooty’ in some memoirs.
The club’s wooden walls are mounted with deer and bison heads, and leopard and cheetah skins, once the spoils of hunters who rode these very hills. Photographs of successful hunts and riders adorn the walls. As the only active hunt club (sans hunting, of course) in the world outside England and Ireland, its old-world charm has been carefully preserved, with large fireplaces, antique furniture, panelled walls and parquet flooring.
This private, members-only institution now has approximately 900 members from around the region and beyond. On any given morning, you might see an old army veteran sipping coffee on one of the open balconies; the members include serving and retired officers from the DSSC in Wellington, planters, local businesspeople and other affluent residents. Younger riders are often descendants of older members. Becoming a member of the club requires going through a nomination process that can take several months.
Yuvika Katoch, a 19-year-old rider who frequents the hunts, laughs as she recalls the high points. ‘During Covid-19, schools were shut and we had so much time on our hands, riding just became our thing to do. There’s such a bond between us all who did. I still remember how 20 of us would carpool in Sehgal Uncle’s car, like seals piled on top of each other. Or how we would stand at the Memorial [the central roundabout] at 5 in the morning, shivering, just trying to find a lift because no parent wanted the tedious job of dropping 20 kids off for riding.’ The tradition continues, even as people move in and out of the hill station.
Why is riding still relevant, I ask her. ‘It’s exciting to be part of such an old tradition. Imagine, hundreds of years ago, people rode in the same hills and tea gardens that we do, and celebrated at the same club that we do.’
When I ask if she has any lingering moral doubts about what the Hunt Club used to represent, her answer reflects the sentiment of most riders who have ridden alongside us. ‘About what we do? I don’t think so. Mostly because we’ve cut out the bad or immoral part from the whole thing. If there’s anything that I think is wrong now, it’s just the heads of the animals hanging on the walls. I just think it sends a bad message.’
Like many old British clubs in India, this one is full of memorabilia. In the erstwhile Mixed Bar, the walls are adorned with lists dating back to 1845, featuring past ‘Masters’ of the Ootacamund Hunt, along with the names of winners of the Ladies Point-to-Point races and the Peter Pan Cup (further details are unavailable, regarding this prize), which was gifted to the Ootacamund Hunt by South Indian planters.
An aerial view of this part of the Nilgiris shows how much the region, established as the Nilgiri Biosphere Reserve in 1986, has changed (1). Once verdant, it is filled with human settlements alongside large stretches of pristine forest and tea plantations (2), and, alas, open garbage dumps like this one (3), close to Ooty. Photos: Hemant Meena (1), Timothy Gonsalves (2), Anand Osuri (3).
Alongside are framed photos from the popular Hunt Ball. Sangeetha Shinde, editor, author and founder of the Nilgiri community magazine Inside43, grew up in Wellington and returned recently. She remembers attending the ball back in the ’70s, when her father was posted in Wellington as a medical specialist at the army hospital. She has fond memories of the Mink Band, who performed at the event. ‘The Hunt Ball used to happen almost annually. It was a big deal. People really dressed up for it. It was one of the events of the season.’
She adds, ‘People went out on a ride across the forest and the hills, then they came back. No animal was ever harmed and that tradition of riding out together, that legacy, is what remains of the hunt club. I understand [that hunting] was a feature of the time, but it was a colonial legacy that continued for way too long in my opinion.’
‘The real fun of life is astride a horse—just don’t get behind one,’ jokes Patil Saheb; saheb is the term used to refer to a riding instructor at the army stables. Although he has broken a record number of ribs being kicked by horses, like other members of the club, he still delights in the thrill of the ride.
Mohanta Saheb, a riding instructor at the Ooty Hunt Club, rides out (1); young riders assembled in front of the sheep farm early in the morning, awaiting the start of the official hack ride (2); the author, while still a school student in Ooty, astride a horse on a hack ride (3). Photos: DSSC (1, 2), Shailender Arya (3).
Back at the hunt, the Master of Foxhounds lowers his hand and signals us to move. The final gallop is the only time during the hunt that the riders are allowed to overtake him. I can feel the strain in my hands as I try to keep Virat under control, tugging on the reins. Like most other horses, he is excited to gallop. But we must wait for our chance.
And when we begin to gallop, I let the reins loose and raise my body above the saddle. The gallop across the golf course lasts all of twenty seconds, but astride the horse, it feels much longer. The wind whips into my eyes, curving around the edge of my goggles, making them water. From the corner of my eye, I see friends, family and members of the club gathered to watch.
Some of them are armed with high-speed cameras, capturing the horses in full flight. For them, it is a day to photograph the riders and well-decked horses, the shola trees and the downs of the Nilgiris serving as a backdrop. This is the beautiful landscape we know and continue to love.
Note from Sky Islands: If you would like to read more about hunting memorabilia and the culture around it, please read our Kodai Chronicle article, here.