Life will end, but not the gallop

Rau mein hai rakhsh-e-umr kahan dekhiye thame

Nai haath bag par hai na pa hai rakaab mein

(Ghalib)

 

The steed of life is in full gallop - who can tell where it might stop? My hands are off the reins, my feet are not in the stirrups.

This verse captures the restless spirit of existence, the truth that life itself is a wild ride no man can master. From the dawn of civilisation, the galloping horse has symbolised courage, power and the ceaseless motion of time. Through myth and history, great steeds have carried their riders across the landscapes of destiny - Rustam's Rakhsh, Alexander's Bucephalus, Jalaluddin's nameless horse and Ranjit Singh's Laili. Each belonged to a different age, yet all were bound by the same rhythm: the crescendo of the gallop.

History forgets faces but remembers the sound of hooves. The gallop of a faithful horse carries more than a warrior; it carries the echo of courage, the breath of loyalty and the pulse of time. Kings and heroes vanish into the dust of history, but their steeds continue to race through legend. It seems that life will end, but not the gallop.

The story begins when the world was young and empires were written in marble and blood. In the court of Philip II of Macedon stood an untamed horse, dark as a storm cloud and fierce as the wind. None could mount it. The king ordered it taken away, but young Alexander stepped forward. He had seen what others had not - the horse was afraid of its own shadow. Turning it toward the sun, he calmed the beast and mounted it with ease. Philip, awed, said, "My son, seek a kingdom equal to yourself; Macedonia is too small for you."

That horse was Bucephalus, and together they rode from Greece to Persia and to the banks of the Indus. When Bucephalus fell near Jhelum after the Battle of the Hydaspes (326 BCE), Alexander, overcome with grief, built a city in his memory - Bucephala. The dust of centuries may have buried that city, but the echo of their bond still resounds through time.

Long before Alexander, Persia had sung of Rustam and his mighty horse Rakhsh. Rustam was the lion of the Shahnameh - his strength legendary, his loyalty unmatched. Rakhsh was his companion through wars and wonders, a creature of fire and lightning. When fate turned cruel and Rustam, deceived, slew his own son, both man and horse later fell together, pierced by sorrow and treachery. Persia wept as for one soul in two bodies. If courage ever took form, it would gallop like Rakhsh - half legend, half flame.

Centuries later, another horse thundered across the stage of history beneath Jalaluddin Khawarzam Shah, the last great ruler of the Khwarazmian Empire. Pursued by Genghis Khan's Mongols, Jalaluddin rode toward the Indus, with death at his heels. Behind him rose a cloud of dust; ahead, a roaring flood. Tightening the reins, he whispered to his horse and plunged into the river. Even Genghis, watching from the cliff, is said to have saluted him in awe, remarking, "A son should be like him." That nameless horse became a symbol of endurance and faith, and legend adds the tender presence of Mehjabeen, the woman who helped the weary king escape. Whether real or imagined, both became part of the story of defiance that would not drown.

Far away and centuries later, another sovereign would risk war and treasure for a horse - Maharaja Ranjit Singh, the Lion of Punjab. Among his many desires, none shone brighter than his longing for a mare named Laili, famed in Peshawar for her beauty and speed. When diplomacy failed, Ranjit Singh sent troops; Laili was finally brought to Lahore in triumph, but at a stupendous cost - both human and financial. The Maharaja went out to greet her, with glistening emotion as he touched her mane. The city celebrated her arrival like that of a queen. To Ranjit Singh, Laili embodied not vanity but reverence - for beauty, loyalty, and love that ennobles power. Through her, the pride of Punjab trotted into immortality. Even the Governor-General of India, Lord William Bentinck, visited Ranjit Singh at Ropar (1831) to see the celebrated mare, besides pursuing a diplomatic initiative.

Four horses, four masters, and four ages of striving - each gallop carries the rhythm of its time. Rustam's Rakhsh stood for valour, Bucephalus for mastery, Jalaluddin's steed for defiance, and Laili for love. Through them runs the same pulse: the will to move forward, to defy stillness, to live beyond flesh and fate.

Perhaps that is why poets and chroniclers are drawn to these steeds - they remind us that though men perish, the will to gallop continues. No one can rein in the horse of time. Youth passes, strength fades, and glory slips away, yet something within keeps racing forward, swift and unstoppable.

Empires crumble, names fade, but somewhere through the mists of history one still hears the echo of hooves - for life will end, but not the gallop.