Urban Legend: Tourist magnet in Mysuru, but in IT city horses not for courses
Time was when riding a tonga and getting to pet a horse in Cubbon Park was the highlight of a kid's day out on Sunday. But that was the eighties. Today, in this IT metropolis, the horse-drawn tonga has virtually disappeared from our roads. Who's got the time to take a tonga ride around the city anyway, bemoans Yusuf Khan, the self-styled sheikh of the tonga drivers from a stable on a side-street off Kalasipalyam, knowing that Sher Ali is probably the last horse he will ever own.
Every morning, Sheikh Yusuf Khan would ride his tonga down to Cubbon Park, where scores of children tugged at their mothers hoping for a ride. They would ride around the park, past Vidhana Soudha, the High Court and the Raj Bhavan. This was Bengaluru in the 1980s and for Khan, the glory days. These quaint two-wheeled, horse-drawn carriages are a rare sight today, lost in the melee of automobile madness to which every city has succumbed.
I met the 58-year-old Yusuf Khan in Kalasipalya on a cloudy evening in May, as I was wandering through the back street and he was winding down for the day, feeding his horses in the makeshift stable while he loaded his carriages with pipes as he talked, breaking off in the middle to negotiate rigorously with a customer. “Kya sahib? Aaj ek hi customer mila hai,” Khan urged, prodding the customer into giving him Rs 500, more than double of what was being offered to him. They sealed the deal at Rs 350 and Khan, who looked a tad disappointed, said, “There was a time when no customer dared to negotiate with us. We got anything we asked for. Beggars can't be choosers, unfortunately.”
Khan gazed into the distance as he recalled his early days in the profession. He was 18 years old when he first learned to train a horse and drive the tonga. Why? “I was hungry,” he said. “I was fed up with being an odd job man. By that age, I had already tried my hand at construction labour, painting and carpentry. When nothing worked, I decided to become a tonga driver instead.”
When he began, the tonga was still a popular mode of transport, with hundreds of carriages making their way through the city streets everyday. “Public transport was scarce, people preferred us to buses,” he said. Today, their number has whittled down to around 200, with a maximum of 30 drivers in the main tonga areas like Kalasipalyam, Malleswaram and Tannery Road.
Tonga rides remain a popular tourist attraction in cities like Mysuru, where the Palace, the Zoo, Chamundi Hills and Kukkarahalli Kere attracting travelers from across the world, for whom riding a horse-drawn carriage is quite the thrill. “Unfortunately, that never worked in Bengaluru,” he said.
“Autos took over our business here and kids lost interest too.” The transition from high-demand to being nearly forgotten - one that Khan has witnessed in full - has not been easy. “All of us started feeling the pinch. People had begun to use tempos to transport large construction materials or when they moved home. Commuters preferred autorickshaws to the slow-paced tonga.” Still, they remained positive, hoping against hope that this was merely a bad phase. Their glory days have gone for good, however and now, theirs is a largely unorganized sector. “We have an association and a union to safeguard our interests, but nobody to call a leader,” Khan remarked. This has been the situation for about five years now, ever since the demise of their leader, Akbar. “Now, we're all nameless faces of an unrecognised group.”
I ask if he has ever considered looking for another job. “I ask myself that question too," he said. “I'm 58-years-old, how long can I possibly go on like this?" Life is unpredictable at best. “On some days, I make some money, but there are several when I don't earn a single rupee. Still, I can't be more thankful for my life.” Khan has fulfilled his duties as a family man. “I have married off my daughters and ensured that my son found a job. They are busy with their lives now.”
What's more, horses are expensive, both to buy and to maintain. His carriage had been obtained for Rs 20,000 in Mysuru and he has, over the years, bought and sold a number of horses. “They need about six kilos of food a day, which costs about Rs 250,” he said. It was necessary to trade them, though, because looking after an aged horse is simply not viable. He bought his current horse around eight years ago (he refuses to tell us how much it cost him). “I manage to take care of him with whatever little I earn,” he said.
Tonga drivers live by a golden rule to ensure their horses are not overworked. “We never take a trip that exceeds 10 kilometres,” he said. Times are hard, but they have their little niche in the transportation business. “Our tongas go through alleys that tempos cannot enter,” he said. “People often demand longer trips, but we refuse. We don't burden our horses.”
He turns to gaze affectionately at his horse, Sher Ali, and it's clear, then, why he has done this for so long - his love for the horses he has owned, especially his first. He doesn't remember his name, only his calm demeanour and his dewey eyes.
He says, with a smile, “I have accomplished what was expected of me and none of it would have been possible without my horses”. He looks pensive for a moment, saying, “I am happy with what life has given me. Still, I know I can't do this for another ten years. If I lose my physical strength, I will look for another job. Maybe....” Yusuf Khan, the last of his name. As tongas fade from our urban space, is he the last holdout, will he be the last tonga driver from Kalasipalyam?
