Aarsha - The Legend of the 'Khillari Bull - Mukund Vetal

Only a handful of villages host a fair for the festival of Ram Navami, and in our Shirur taluka, the grandest of them all is likely the one in Kendur. Village fairs, or , invariably feature a wrestling arena and a folk theatre performance. A select few also host bullock cart races. In Kendur, the cart races were paramount, for this was the home of the Patil family’s famed —a racing cart renowned throughout the Pune district. Its lead bull was a champion in his own right, a source of immense pride for the village, and the beloved talisman of all its people. His name was Aarsha. His coat was as white as pure milk. He was tall and powerfully built, with a majestic hump and the sharp, pointed horns characteristic of the Khillari breed. He was virile and vibrant, and his gait was one of regal confidence. His presence was so striking that passersby on the road would instinctively stop to admire his magnificent form. Bhikaji Patil had acquired him specifically for racing from the Khursundi village market in Sangli district, a testament to Patil's keen eye for fine animals. This was a risky venture; market bulls often turn out to be rogueish and aggressive. Handling such a prime bull requires one to be prepared for anything. Such animals can be exceedingly fierce or utterly unreliable, unsettled by the change in their environment—a new village, a new tether, new people. Some bulls feign calmness only to suddenly gore a person with their horns or deliver a crippling kick. But Aarsha, upon arriving at the Patil’s stable, displayed none of these vices. Children could approach him without fear, and women could pass right under his belly. He adored having his great hump scratched; anyone who did so instantly became his friend. But the moment he was yoked to the racing cart, he was a different creature altogether. He would summon every ounce of his strength and run with such explosive power that the first-prize seal was invariably stamped in his name.

The Day of the Race

Today, on Ram Navami, his procession wound through every lane of the village, accompanied by the festive music of the and . As the champion cart and its champion bull, Aarsha, made their way, people emerged from their homes to gaze upon them, completely mesmerised. There’s an old saying, "The bull belongs to the Patil, but the glory belongs to the Kotwal." In this case, the bull belonged to the Patil, but the entire village shared the glory. For an entire decade—a full twelve years—he had done nothing but win. He was not a common sight. He was kept in a private enclosure, where he was attended to with great care. The village women would look at him, circle their hands over his form to absorb any evil eye, and crack their knuckles against their temples, a ritual to ward off any ill will. He had truly become one of their own. The procession, with all its pomp and music, finally arrived before the Rama temple. The family’s cattle-hand stepped forward and pressed down on Aarsha's hump, and the great bull knelt, bowing before the deity. Turmeric was sprinkled on his back, a coconut was circled over him and offered to the god, and then, to the sound of music, the champion headed towards the racing track. Onlookers and guests would gape in awe, saying, “Today, this Nandi will surely win the race. It’s as certain as a line carved in stone!” At the base of the racing ghat, the champion cart took its place of honor, poised to run. A chant rose from the crowd: “Aarsha! Aarsha! Aarsha!” They cheered his name, their voices a wave of encouragement. Everyone strained, standing on tiptoes and craning their necks, desperate to catch a glimpse of him. Aarsha was the , the lead bull on the right. Yoked beside him was Painjanya, a spirited but slightly lesser bull. Behind them were two more bulls, the , who provided support from the central yoke. A short distance ahead of the cart, a skilled young rider sat astride a horse, ready to spur it on. The whistle blew. Aarsha surged forward, breaking into a four-legged gallop. Painjanya matched his stride, giving crucial support. It was a known fact that any bull yoked beside Aarsha as a would inevitably fall behind. For this reason, a cloth () was draped over Painjanya’s back beforehand—a practice known as —acknowledging that he would be outpaced but honoring his effort. The cart flew like the wind, fueled by the roar of thousands of spectators. The animals, invigorated by the noise, ran with all their heart. The horse in front set a blistering pace, but the rider’s job was to control its speed, not just unleash it. With both hands raised in the air, he would shout at the top of his lungs, urging the horse on. It was a death-defying performance. With his hands off the reins, the rider’s body was completely detached from the horse, yet he had to maintain his seat through the jarring, thunderous gallop—a feat of incredible balance. Halfway up the track, a man standing by the side would whip the saffron turban from his head and, with astonishing accuracy, toss it so that it landed perfectly on the horn of one of the rear bulls. The turban would catch in the horn, one end unfurling and streaming behind like a saffron ribbon against the sky, creating a spectacle as dazzling as a flash of lightning. The crowd’s attention would be torn between the charging cart and this brilliant saffron streamer in the air. The horse reached the finish line; in a flash, the cart followed. The flag dropped. A wave of exhilaration swept through the judges and the villagers. “He’s done it! Aarsha has won the race in seconds!” Of course, hundreds of other carts would run after the champion, but every cart owner knew that no one could match the time set by Aarsha. And so it was. Aarsha had won the day's race. The entire village erupted in a victory celebration. Drums, trumpets, and cymbals created a deafening, joyous rhythm. Sacks of red powder were thrown into the air as the victory procession began. The night passed into dawn before Aarsha’s celebration finally ended.  

A Hero's Instinct

This was his final procession, in his twelfth year. Aarsha would never be yoked to a racing cart or a plough again. He had run enough. He had earned immense fame. Now, he was to live out his days in comfort and rest in his own stable. And so, Aarsha was cared for, just as the Patil family lovingly cared for all their animals. One monsoon, an incident occurred that would pass into legend. The old cattle-hand had come into the village for his meal when a torrential downpour began. He was determined to return to the farmstead in the fields, but the family insisted he stay the night. Reluctantly, he did. That very night, thieves descended upon the farm. They untied the choicest young bull, Painjanya, Aarsha’s racing partner. The other animals, startled by the intruders, panicked and strained at their tethers. But the ropes, tied with multiple knots to prevent escape, held fast. But Aarsha, who was usually the calmest of all, did something extraordinary. He repeatedly charged at the thieves. In the frantic struggle, the wooden pegs of his two tethers were ripped from the ground, and he broke free. By then, the thieves had vanished with Painjanya. The loyal animal likely searched for his companion, but finding no trace, Aarsha headed straight for the village. He stood before the main gate of the family’s (mansion), which was closed because of the rain, and began to ram his head against the heavy wooden doors. Those inside heard the loud, rhythmic thudding and thought they were being attacked by robbers. They armed themselves and cautiously opened the gate, only to find Aarsha standing there. “Aarsha! How did you get here in the middle of the night? What trouble has befallen you?” they exclaimed, seeing the uprooted pegs and ropes still dangling from his neck. The children rushed to him, throwing their arms around his neck in a loving embrace. When they brought a lamp closer, they saw that one of the wooden pegs had gashed his leg, which was bleeding profusely. They quickly applied turmeric to the wound. Then, Aarsha turned and began walking back towards the farm. A few men, armed with sticks and axes, followed him. The night was pitch black, but Aarsha navigated the path like an expert. As they neared the farmstead, the other bulls began to bellow and paw the ground, their wide eyes and twitching ears revealing their terror. The men called out to each animal by name, calming them with familiar sounds. It was then that someone noticed the space. Painjanya was gone. “Brother! Where is Painjanya? The thieves have taken him!” Realising the thieves couldn’t have crossed the flooded stream yet, they all ran towards it. The stream was raging, deep and wide. As they approached, they heard a bull bellow. It was him. The old cattle-hand, crying “My Painjanya!”, rushed to the bull and hugged him, sobbing uncontrollably. The magnificent, mute animal began to lick him, expressing its gratitude in the only way it knew how. It is a perfect example of a truth known to all farmers: in a farmer’s life, the affection for his animals is often deeper than that for any human. - Mukund Vetal 9689150844 (This article is the translated version of the original article आरशा written by Mukund Vetal published in the Sahitya Chaprak Diwali Ank 2025 )

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