“But memsahib, you must watch for a flare of the eye or the chewing of its tusks, for that tells you that he is about to turn and come for you. This is called ‘jinking,’ and it is very dangerous, you must watch for that at every instant. If by great bad fortune you lose your spear” (I thought all in all this was highly likely) “you must not dismount to retrieve it unless you can be completely and absolutely certain that the pig is gone.” The shikari stood watching me try to find the spear’s balance and to work out a way of carrying the thing so it didn’t slice the gelding’s legs to ribbons; with an almost imperceptible sigh and shrug of his shoulders, he went back to his work.

The maharaja divided us into pairs, which I supposed was to lessen the severity of a collision or a stray spear. I thought he would put me with another inexperienced rider and thus dismiss the incompetents from his mind, but to my surprise he chose me for his partner. After the first flush of pleasure, it occurred to me that he was all but guaranteeing that he have the day to himself. I firmed my grip on the shaft, and determined at least to remain in the saddle.

We made our way down the road towards some hills. As we rode, I began to get a feel for the spear’s movements; I could even see the reason for allowing the pig so close: Were the shaft any longer, it would be impossible to manoeuvre it with any precision at all. In the end, I decided it must be like jousting; given the chance, I’d simply count on the horse to run me over the pig, bracing the spear like an eight-foot-long skewer.

With my eyes closed, praying fervently.