Geetanjali Krishna: The demise of the Ikka race

I find that there's nothing more annoying than the prodigal son who bemoans the changes in his home. Early this month, when I visited Mirzapur where I used to live years ago, it so happened that I became the annoyer instead of the annoyee.

Mirzapur is a quaint town in Uttar Pradesh on the banks of the Ganges, not far from Benares. It's steeped in tradition and consequently, when we reached there the day after Dusshera, I was looking forward to the quaint festivities that the region hosts during this time. While the bigger Hindu festivals such as Diwali and Dusshera are celebrated with customary fervour, the festival that steals the show is Bharat Milap. For obscure reasons that even locals don't quite know, the reunion of the victorious Ram with his younger brother Bharat is celebrated through rural fairs, performances and an Ikka race on the G T Road. These traditional horse-drawn carriages with elegant high wheels used to be the equivalent of Rolls Royces on Mirzapur's roads in their heyday. Today, however, they're the last few surviving vestiges of nobility among the aristocracy left in the area. During the time of Bharat Milap, Ikka owners dust out their carriages, bring their trusty steeds out from the stables, and get ready to race.
 

I can never forget the time when I first saw the Ikka race. We drove to Janghiganj, a one-horse town about 14-odd kilometres to Gopiganj, where the race traditionally began. The Ikkas, gleaming in their faded glory, stood on the side. With the traffic not even halting for a minute on the insanely busy highway, the race was flagged off. In the ensuing melee of trucks, horses, cars, motorcycles (most were being ridden by people with heavy bets placed on the race) and an audience that seemed as interested in cheering their favourites as they were in disrupting the pace of their opponents. Racing alongside the Ikkas in our trusty jeep, I saw a driver perilously teetering on the edges of the carriage, giving his horse a swig of alcohol to make him run faster. Meanwhile, a motorcyclist swerved in the path of the leading Ikka, causing the horse to veer off the road. Finally, the crazy race ended in chaos and the prizes and bets exchanged hands - all in the middle of G T Road.

"We must go for the Bharat Milap Ikka race," I said as soon as we reached Mirzapur. To my dismay, I learnt it had been cancelled this year. In the last few years, the race had been getting more and more difficult to organise. The old patrons are fast disappearing, and for the first time this year, nobody came forward to present the winner's purse. "These customs are becoming irrelevant," said our driver Raju Shukla, who's related to some of the organisers of the race, when I bemoaned the end of such a wondrous spectacle. "Why would an erstwhile nobleman continue to maintain his Ikka and horses only to take them out once a year at Bharat Milap?" I could see his point, but still suggested maybe the organisers could approach new people for financial support. Shukla shook his head: "Most of the Ikkas are at least 50 years old and falling apart. The horses, too, have either died or are well past their prime now. Even if we arranged the winner's purse, there's hardly anyone left to race now..."

Shukla couldn't quite understand why I was so sad about the demise of the Ikka Race. "We've cars now, what use are Ikkas anymore?" he questioned. But I could hear the thunder of those faded Ikkas on their singular day of glory. And I knew that whether locals remembered it or not, I'd always remember the day the Ikkas hung up their wheels for the last time.