[Like every aspect of life here,
dog racing was violently interrupted by the partition in 1947, which divided
Punjab and forced Sikh landowners to choose between living in the Muslim state
of Pakistan, and possibly being forced to convert, or parting with vast tracts
of land that were now under the new state.]
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Trainers lined-up their
greyhounds in Faridkot, in
There were greyhounds from
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FARIDKOT, India — A column of
4-by-4s turned off a dusty road in rural Punjab last week, past ox carts and
farmworkers holding sickles, and came to a stop in an unmarked field. Servants
circled around to the backs of the vehicles and unloaded, ever so carefully,
the animals everyone had come to see.
There were greyhounds from Canada Ireland England United States
Dogs
are a big deal in this part of Punjab , about 20 miles from the border with Pakistan
One of the most prominent
among them, Kushaldeep Singh Dhillon, was scanning the track for a glimpse of a
17-month-old brindle bitch
named Baby Doll. This was complicated, at times, by the number of young men
coming by to bend down and touch his feet.
“All the big families are into dogs,” said Mr. Dhillon, who is
known as Kiki. “You import the best dog. You have the best handler. It’s not
the horse competing, or the dog competing. It’s the man’s name competing.”
Mr. Dhillon estimates the cost of a top greyhound at
half-a-million rupees, or about $7,500. This is a fraction of what he will pay
for a Marwari stallion, a Perazzi shotgun or a big-game hunt in South Africa
“Very few families have been left with all this, I’ll be very
frank,” he said. “This is a bit of an expensive thing, the dogs, the upkeep.”
The trainers arrive first, laying thick blankets on the ground
for the greyhounds, which bruise easily. Then come the dogs’ owners,
recognizable by their quilted vests and Gucci sunglasses, walking at the head
of V-shaped formations of cousins, like geese.
Many wealthy families here own
chains of gas stations in the United States Canada Modesto
Like every aspect of life here,
dog racing was violently interrupted by the partition in 1947, which divided
Punjab and forced Sikh landowners to choose between living in the Muslim state
of Pakistan, and possibly being forced to convert, or parting with vast tracts
of land that were now under the new state.
Those who chose India had to
contend with a government intent on land redistribution; in 1972, new laws
banned ownership of plots of irrigated land exceeding seven hectares — about 17
acres — and, to add insult to injury, outlawed hunting. Greyhounds, as a
result, can be legally raced only using a mechanical lure, in this case a
bedraggled dead rabbit affixed to a dinner plate.
Mr. Dhillon’s 95-year-old uncle, Karam Singh Dhillon, ran the
hounds with the maharajah of Faridkot as a young man, and could recall the
king’s horsemen galloping into the fields and planting red pennants to denote
the presence of a rabbit.
The older Mr. Dhillon had agreed to attend Monday’s race out of
affection for the dogs, but when asked his opinion, grimaced as if he had just
eaten a lemon.
“This is a nonsense thing,” he said. “It is not a race.”
He acknowledged that hunting was being phased out in many
places, including England
Feudal ways have clung
stubbornly here, nevertheless, in part because a family’s land can be
registered piecemeal, or under multiple names — the younger Mr. Dhillon reckons
his family controls more than 300 acres, though exact figures are understood to
be confidential. Meanwhile, old-line landowning families dominate party
politics (Punjab ’s most popular politician, the
former chief minister Capt. Amarinder Singh, was the heir to the former
princely state of Patiala
Even without the benefit of
elected office, the scions of old families serve as a kind of shadow
government. Mr. Dhillon is an excellent example. Though he lost his most recent
parliamentary election, he still spends several hours a day receiving
petitioners who wait on his terrace, bringing him their problems and
occasionally asking him to settle disputes. They refer to him as “sardar,” akin
to “chieftain.”
“Communism was never a hit in North India ,” he said. Mr. Dhillon’s
family owns interstate buses and trades in liquor, but he spends most of his
time on politics. He has four cellphones, two of which are in the possession of
his personal secretary, and they ring approximately every five minutes,
including when he is on horseback.
“The main job for politicians is not to make laws, the main job
is to go to social functions,” he said, a little wearily. “There are all these
deaths.”
Dog races offer some relief from this routine. A man turns a
crank, the dead rabbit scoots down the track on a wire andtwo dogs shoot out at a full gallop, their
spines flexing like springs. Dust rises around the men along the track: farmers
with deeply lined faces; New Jersey gas station moguls; one princeling in
aviator sunglasses who described himself happily as “that type of guy, you give
me $100,000, I guarantee within two, three days, I am spending every penny.”
Mr. Dhillon, seated beside a race official, was fretting a bit
over his dogs. His favorite, Messi, though “bloody fast,” had apparently lost
enthusiasm when he realized the rabbit was mechanical. He blamed his trainers
for overexerting Messi’s sister, Smarty, which he considers “the fastest bitch
in Punjab ,” and instructed them to raise
the body weight of a third sibling, Ronaldo, by seven pounds.
In the end, Monday’s top prizes went to the dogs belonging to
Punjabis living in North America ; one of them, an electrical engineer, lives outside Detroit West Virginia Ireland
“They are like glass, you never know when they will crack,” he
said. “You put all this effort into them and after two races they bloody crash.”
Anyway, there was plenty to look forward to. The authorities in
some areas of Punjab have categorized wild boar as vermin. This allows hunters drive
the boars into fields of sugar cane, send a pack of hounds to flush them out,
and wait on the periphery with shotguns. A friend who had come for the dog
races offered, as he left, to send over a pair of gray partridges, and Mr.
Dhillon’s face brightened.
“Give me a pair of white
peacocks,” he said. “I’d love to have them wandering around.”
