Good breeding at the chukkars

The Taj-Raffles Polo Cup final takes place amidst much elegance, but it wouldn't hurt anyone to cheer a little.

Last weekend the lawns of the gracious Rambagh Palace hotel twinkled with lights, glasses, diamonds, the radiance of Rajmata Gayatri Devi and other lesser royals, and those tall pole-like outdoor heaters which don't really work unless you actually wrap your arms around them "" not on a freezing January night in Rajasthan.

Not that anyone had time to admit to being cold: the public relations people were all a-twitter, the foreign media rushed around in suits and ties, socialites imported from Delhi gave each other the once-over (and, after a few drinks, the many times over); and everyone tucked into the impressive spread laid out from one end of the garden to the other.

The Rajmata was heard discussing match scores with all the avidness of a woman whose late husband (Sawai Man Singh II) was a luminary in the polo world.

Jaipur was breathless: it's the Polo Season, after all, and nothing gets well-bred knickers in a twist like polo "" expensive and good-looking, this is a game for aristocrats.

Hence the Taj-Raffles Grand Polo Ball, prelude to the next day's Taj-Raffles Polo Cup final match between the Army reds and the Piramal blues at the Rambagh Polo Grounds adjacent to the Palace.

So what's all the excitement about? It all comes down to history, as usual. Polo is said to be the world's oldest mallet-and-ball game, born 2,500 years ago on the steppes of Central Asia, and avidly played in Persia, where it was known as 'chaugan' "" a noble game used to train and test soldiers in speed, strength and nerve.

It spread to Turkey, India, and Tibet, where it got the name 'polo' from 'pulu', the willow root from which the ball is made. Genghis Khan brought polo to Afghanistan, and his bloodthirsty descendant Timur the Lame gave it his own special touch, playing the game with the heads of the enemy.

In India it was always the game of kings and warriors. Emperor Akbar, a big fan, held night games with a slow-burning ball, and stuck gold to the end of his mallet.

The Jaipur and Jodhpur royals spearheaded the game; in the 1930s the Jaipur team under Sawai Man Singh was considered by some to be the greatest polo team ever.

After the Second World War the Jodhpur-Jaipur combine was victorious at the World Cup at Deauville in 1956. Maharaja Prem Singh resurrected polo in Calcutta and won the Arjuna Award for polo in the 1960s.

In the meantime NDA spawned a great generation of Army polo players who defeated the fearsome Jaipur team at the Indian Polo Association championship in 1961.

The Army then dominated the game until Arvind Singh Mewar of Udaipur took things into his hands in 1987, training a bright young royal crew who took the game by storm.

Since then corporate houses have entered the fray, sponsoring professional polo players like Lokendra Singh, putting money into this expensive sport in return for publicity and glamour-by-association with their royal patrons.

It's thanks to them that we're sitting in the press box on January 23 to watch the Taj-Raffles Polo Cup.

There's yards of chiffon, bouquets of perfume, many large dark glasses on royal noses, some beige hair, at least one dandy. The chief guest Rajmata Gayatri Devi has arrived in a vintage car.

The afternoon is sunny, the field pleasingly green and panoramic (200 yards wide, 300 long). The Army band plays a jolly tune, and eight players ride out on eight magnificent horses with shining flanks and perfectly groomed tails, to salute the stands.

A smartly dressed gent blows a blast on a trumpet announcing the start of four chukkars; the mounted umpire throws the ball in, and they're off in a whirl of dust and tails and sticks, the horses flying across the field at full gallop and the players marking each other so closely that it's a surprise they don't collide and fall over with a great snapping of arms and legs.

Nobody, remarkably, gouges out anybody else's eyes with their mallet.

The Army team, which includes a Malaysian prince, dominates the game from the first, though the Piramal team makes a respectable comeback so that the scoreboard is more even at the end of the match.

Between every chukkar, while the players change mounts, the daredevils of 61st Cavalry, the Army's famous mounted regiment, perform stunts with bloodcurling war cries.

Standing salutes, 'hanky-picking' all at full gallop "" they spew machismo from every pore. Even the fellow whose horse is named Ting Tong.

The stands are, sadly, muffled by good breeding (the Rajmata has been known to turn around and say: "We are princesses, we do not shriek") which is a shame because the horses flashing from side to side and the cries on the field make you want to leap up and yell encouragement at the top of your voice.

The commentator exhorts people to cheer to little avail.

I'd rather, in fact, be with the plebs, who seem to be having more fun: the sidelines have quickly filled with people seated on chairs, on the grass, perched on the wall, some little kids shinnying up the odd tree for a better view.

They're all clapping and cheering, animatedly discussing tactics and players. The best we can do, up in the stands, is let out the occasional corseted sigh of appreciation.

And that's the nicest thing about polo in Jaipur: it's the common man's game too, about which people feel the way other Indians feel about cricket.

Samir Suhaag, playing for the Army, wins the Most Valuable Player prize (a trip for two to Mumbai) and embodies the many professional players who have emerged thanks to the support of corporate houses for the sport.

Rajmata Gayatri Devi, still beautiful, erect and sharp as a knife at 85, presents the Cup to the winners and trophies to everyone.

And then it's time for high tea and cocktails, where princesses rub shoulders with soldiers, players with corporates and hacks with everyone.

It's a heady mix of fine things, all of which together make the polo world go round. It might be utterly removed from the realities of life in modern India, but it has its moments.