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“Now, you are not allowed to use your mallet with your left hand. But the ball can come on any side. So,” he leaned slightly forward, the horse going fast but not as fast as when they had started.

Samarth moved both their right arms over the horse’s neck in a neat arc and reached their left side — “This is how you swing. Grip your thighs around the horse. Yes, that’s it.

Not too tight. Loosen, yes, perfect. Hold your lower body steady and let your upper body become fluid… ”

She was a good student. She listened, grasped and executed with skill. For a child this young, she had patience for the game. It was so surreal that a sport this fast required immense patience.

“Now swing,” he swung his arm and hers along with him. There was no ball there, and the mallet in his hand was half his usual size. But if there had been both, he was sure the ball would have chucked a few hundred metres.

“Oooooh!” Her awed whisper carried into his chest. He could imagine that round O of her mouth as he got the horse to slow down gradually. Their circumambulation ended and Ava came in sight. She was deep in conversation with Sharan.

“Again, Papa!” Brahmi demanded.

“We’ll ask Mama…”

“She is busy.”

Samarth squinted and kicked up the horse, streaming past, hoping Ava didn’t notice. He checked over his shoulder, she hadn’t, half-turned towards Sharan.

“Yay!!!”

“What we did is wrong,” he informed his daughter. “If Mama said once, then it is once.”

“We’ll say sorry then.”

Samarth wanted to laugh but he held his voice — “Saying sorry doesn’t change a wrong already done. So we must always try to avoid something wrong.”

“But nobody gets hurt in this.”

“I know. This is a small wrong. But if we don’t learn now, our minds keep making it ok to commit bigger wrongs.”

“Let’s do one more wrong and then we’ll stop,” his daughter demanded as they neared Ava. Samarth chuckled, squeezing her to his chest with one hand — “Today’s quota is over.”

“But I want to ride with you!”

“We’ll do it again tomorrow.”

“I don’t have lessons tomorrow.”

“Then we’ll come just to ride. You and I.”

“And to practise mallet swings.”

“That too,” he pressed her mallet into her hand and saw in slow motion her right hand swing over the horse’s head and flick a decent attempt at a neck shot. He was here to hold her lower body steady but the upper swing was good. His chest swelled with pride.

“Well done, baby.”

He trotted the horse to a halt near Ava and her eyes whirled to them. Sharan looked like he was having a serious conversation, which was a rarity. Samarth raised an eyebrow at him. He smiled, lounging back on the fencing.

“Here — one star jockey delivered,” Samarth grabbed Brahmi by the torso and swung her down. “Safe and sound.”

Ava was there to catch her and her mallet. As she ran away, Ava closed in to his thigh, her breath hot on his knee — “My offer is still open, Sam,” she smirked.

“This is the limit now,” he gasped, pushing his dark glasses to the top of his head. Their eyes met under the sun — “In front of my daughter?”

“Look,” she warned, gripping his knee. “You look like a pain to deal with on a daily basis. Be grateful I am offering.”

“And how would you know? I get many offers.”

“Horses and grooms don’t count.”

He bit the insides of his cheeks.

“Do princesses and business heiresses count?”

The matchstick he threw flared in no time.

“Excuse me?”

“Princess of Orissa was the latest,” he grinned.

Her eyes darkened with fire and he kicked up his horse from 0 to 60 to escape her.

It was an ex-polo pony and knew how to do that.

Samarth laughed, hearing some yells from her mingle with the wind.

He galloped down the pen and took the turn and his heart stopped.

Brahmi was on the edge of the pen, practising mallet swings. Down the far end of the field, a chestnut gelding — too young, too green to be out — had slipped its lead. It was galloping. Wild. Its eyes wide, froth lining its mouth. And it was heading straight for Brahmi.

“Brahmi!” He roared. She turned at the noise.

Her mallet froze mid-air.

“ brAHMI, move!” He roared, spurring his horse forward.

The world blurred into wind and dirt. His throat tightened. Every instinct screamed — get to her, get to her, get to her, move Brahmi!

He was too far.

His horse gathered speed, but it wouldn ’ t be enough. The gelding was nearly there.

And then —

A blur darted in from the sideline.

Sharan.

He sprinted, leapt and slammed into Brahmi, pushing her — hard — off the gelding ’ s path. She fell with a shriek.

And the chestnut struck.

A blur of hooves. A sickening crunch. Sharan thudded to the ground.

“ SHARAN!”

The gelding was caught by a groom. Samarth jumped off his saddle before his horse had fully stopped and ran. He dropped to his knees beside his brother. Brahmi was already there, crying, clawing at Sharan ’ s shirt. Ava came running, trying to move him gently, checking for bleeding.

Sharan ’ s face was twisted in pain — but he was grinning. Of course he was.

“ Hey…” he panted, his voice light, “ mini jockey, you didn ’ t… drop the mallet.”

Samarth ’ s hands went into physician mode. He checked Sharan ’ s spine, his ribs, his neck — no bleeding from the nose or ears. No visible signs of head trauma.

Then he reached the arm — left. The way it was bent was… wrong.

“ Can you move this?” Samarth tapped his left bicep. Sharan didn’t realise what he was asking. Panic set in then.

“I didn’t see it…” Brahmi buried her face in Samarth’s side, her eyes on Sharan. He gathered her in with one arm, raising the other — “Appelez une ambulance!”

“En route!”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry…” Brahmi kept murmuring to Samarth.

“What’s to be sorry about?” Sharan panted, his eyes going red. “Solankis are always ready. You have to remember that now,” he tried to pat her knee with his right hand but it remained shaking. Samarth’s panic intensified.

“Samarth…” Ava’s face screwed at that wild shake of his fingers. Samarth smiled tightly up at her — “I know. Why don’t you take Brahmi home?”

“No no no, I want to be here,” his brave little girl fought. It was surreal, even in this moment of terror, to see his daughter stop crying and hold her uncle’s calf tight like she wouldn’t let go. An uncle she had met a few hours ago.

“Bhai,” Sharan squinted, unaware of what was happening. “In my final will, give Brahmi my sketchbook… She can carry on the legacy.”

“Shut up and don’t talk nonsense in front of her.”

He laughed, and the jolt made him half-sit up with a shriek — “Fuuuuck!”

Samarth braced him back to the ground. “Keep lying down.”

“Bhai I can’t feel my arm,” he realised. And Samarth saw the moment the panic set in.

“It’s the shock,” he lied. “Keep steady.”

That made Sharan writhe wildly. He moved and kept trying to lift his left arm, then right. Nothing.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” his eyes widened. And then collapsed shut.