My paternal grandfather was a races man. They lived in a chawl in Chinchpokli in Central Bombay. He ran a small timber shop near Arthur Road Jail. The larger neighbourhood was the heartbeat of the city then, and what kept it pumping were the textile mills. (1/n)

And on the western edge of all this, separated from the Haji Ali dargah by a patch of road & another of sea: the Mahalaxmi Race Course. The races were in the air in that part of town. It was as if the timbre of thumping hooves carried on the sea breeze towards the...(2/n)

...wheeling-dealing areas of Lalbaug, Parel, Byculla. Few were the men who could avoid its allure. For Bapuji, in horses and humans alike, what mattered was legacy. What was the colt or filly's lineage? Bloodline would tell him what he needed to know. (3/n)

One of my earliest memories is bounding up the deep stairway of Jain Chawl to see Bapuji, in his loose white kurta-pyjama, sitting on his hardy stool and squinting against the light at the odds offering in the Cole Race Card. (4/n)

All this came back to me in a rush when I read the first draft of this week's @FiftyTwoDotIn story: @iArunJ's deep-dive into the existential crisis of horse racing, especially since it opens with Cole. Do read! Superb research and writing (5/5) https://fiftytwo.in/story/gallops/