An Autobiography of a Horse - Essay

I am an Arabian horse named 'Prince'. I am at present two-and-half years old. I was imported by a famous business man named Ibrahim Munshi.

My jockey Babulal is a good friend of mine. I try to keep his head high on the race ground. But I do not like my master, for he is a proud man. He thinks that because he had paid a heavy sum for my purchase, I am bound to run as the fastest horse in the race. He is concerned more about money than about myself, while other owners of horses caressing their pets and encouraging them by patting on their back, before they appear on the race course ground. Still, I do not dishearten my owner. In the last year's race, I won quite a few that fetched him lakhs of rupees. Still he is not happy.

This year there has so far been only seven race days, in which I took part, and on three consecutive days, I stood first on two occasions. But on the last day of the race, I unfortu­nately met with an accident while taking a turn as I ran fast and my left hind leg was wounded. That prevented me from doing well in that race. The doctor had advised rest for me until my wound was cured.

Now I heard that my master has told the jockey that he would not sell me to anyone for his prestige's sake, but that he was going to shoot me dead, and get rid of me, as I am unable to run like before. I have been passing sleepless nights since I heard this bad news. I know not when my last hour would come. Winning a race gets a horse garlands and trophies, while a wounded race horse has to face death, for no fault of his. What a fate it is!