My Little Gharry Pony

by Applejinx

Rating: mature
Tags: Human, Applejack, Gore, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Alternate Universe, Sad, Tragedy
Length: 3807

Pony pulls the wagon... Written to purge it, crafted properly out of pride. Beware.

A gharry pony pulls a cart, in India, until it dies, much like a rickshaw puller.
I don't 'like' this, but it haunted me until I wrote it up properly. Contains cruelty, torture, and death. And it contains just a tiny bit of compassion and mercy. But really this is just to get it out of my damn head, so unless you want it in yours, run.

Published 2012-05-26 00:34:02 UTC
Last updated 2012-05-26 00:34:02 UTC

My Little Gharry Pony

“If you go outside you can take a rickshaw or a gharry, -if you are wise, a gharry. They rattle furiously, and the seats are hard, but the roof is thick, and there are shutters that pull up all the way round. The gharry pony is a wee troublesome beast. Sometimes he balks rigid in the roadway, and the gharry rolls over him and he is lost. Sometimes he kicks and plunges on both sides of the road at once, and speaks clamorously to the passers-by. Oftener the gharry-syce runs at his head and stuffs him with bright green grass, and this encourages him to go forward.”

The Atlantic Monthly, v. 93, 1904

“As an example of what I mean by luxuries which are not luxuries, take an extreme case, such as one hardly sees in Europe. Take an Indian rickshaw puller, or a gharry pony. In any Far Eastern town there are rickshaw pullers by the hundred, black wretches weighing eight stone, clad in loin-cloths. Some of them are diseased; some of them are fifty years old. For miles on end they trot in the sun or rain, head down, dragging at the shafts, with the sweat dripping from their grey moustaches. When they go too slowly the passenger calls them BAHINCHUT. They earn thirty or forty rupees a month, and cough their lungs out after a few years. The gharry ponies are gaunt, vicious things that have been sold cheap as having a few years’ work left in them. Their master looks on the whip as a substitute for food. Their work expresses itself in a sort of equation — whip plus food equals energy; generally it is about sixty per cent whip and forty per cent food. Sometimes their necks are encircled by one vast sore, so that they drag all day on raw flesh. It is still possible to make them work, however; it is just a question of thrashing them so hard that the pain behind outweighs the pain in front. After a few years even the whip loses its virtue, and the pony goes to the knacker. These are instances of unnecessary work, for there is no real need for gharries and rickshaws; they only exist because Orientals consider it vulgar to walk. They are luxuries, and, as anyone who has ridden in them knows, very poor luxuries. They afford a small amount of convenience, which cannot possibly balance the suffering of the men and animals.”

George Orwell, “Down And Out In Paris And London”, 1933

“Last chance not to read…”

Applejinx, 2012

She was lashed to the heaviest gharry-cart, and stood, trembling and sullen, waiting.

Lashed was the right word. She was lashed in front of the cart, as well as lashed to it. He had ways of making her move, she thought bitterly. The whip wasn’t all of them, oh no. He had this stick thing, and the end was sharp.

Her rump showed its marks, again, and a trail of red ran down from where he’d jabbed her. It had worked, too—she’d shoved hard against the sores and pains, to get away from him, even though she knew perfectly well he was perched high on the horrible, heavy, creaking thing and would come right along with it.

That wasn’t the only red on her butt, either. She had no name, but even so, there were three red apples on her flanks, that sometimes drew comment, finger-pointing, laughter.

That had been a day, all right. It was some time after she’d got out of the stinking box, to discover how sorry she was that she’d left it.

The box…

The box had been awful. It was a filthy stall with no room to move around, the food was crap, and from time to time, they’d bring other ponies. The other ponies would jump on her, and give her a glorious and brief fucking. Good times. Sometimes she could tell the other pony wanted to stay, even. She liked to think so. It was probably true—she certainly didn’t want those moments to end, why would he? The people didn’t agree, so she’d whinny in dismay as her lovers were dragged off.

Then it was stand around, eat the crap food, get bigger and then a lot bigger and then strain to expel a foal. Those were sweet, too, and there was more of the crap food then. It was hard to tell what was worse—the foals being taken away when they got big enough to eat their own crap food, or the fact that her crap food rations got cut in half when they went.

The first few times she’d sobbed hearing the cries of the foal being taken away. After that, she knew what was up. She’d wish them well, as a sort of lame joke, because the world was a tiny filthy stall—and hoped they had fun with the moments of fucking that broke the monotony.

Ha! That was all she knew. Those were the days.

She’d wondered if things were getting better, when she left the box. There was open space! She’d been getting more tired, not as steady, and the last foal had hurt real bad coming out. The people had come and looked her over and talked their jabber a lot, and they didn’t sound pleased. They didn’t do anything, though, except let her out of the box. After a while, she’d been able to walk right again, and they sounded all kinds of pleased with that.

So pleased, in fact, that they’d brought out the fucking cart.

It started with the little cart. The cart and the whip and the thing on her face. She’d fought against it, bucking and kicking. It was really strange how pleased they sounded as they beat the shit out of her with the whip, as if they liked her fight even while they broke her until she stopped fighting. What was the point of that? Why sound pleased and do that?

On the day the three apples appeared on her flank, it was the same thing. She’d seen these food carts in the market, and these red things that smelled like nothing she’d ever heard of, though she was almost certain her crap food had contained something like that once. It was the little cart that day, and she’d felt strangely giddy in the bright sun, and before the people knew what had happened, she’d bolted to the side. The person with the food cart sputtered and began shrieking at her, but it was too late—her nose was in the basket, and she’d grabbed one of the red things and bit down.

It was so worth it, so very worth it.

The sweet juices ran down her throat, the flavor seemed to stun her brain, and she had two whole seconds of ecstasy before the guy on the cart dragged her off and started beating the shit out of her with the whip, as usual but worse.

He was kicking her, as well, careful to spare her legs. They were off limits because she worked with those. Her butt was a target for the whip, however, and he scourged her with it in his rage until that orange butt was dripping red.

She wasn’t a damn bit sorry, either. She plotted to do it again, the next time she was driven near that food cart. They must have known, must have seen it in her bitter grin, for they never took her near the open-air market again.

And when the wounds healed, instead of a scar there were those pictures, three images of the wonderful thing. She was proud of that. It was totally unfair, though—she’d only managed to eat one.

Those were the days.

It was always ‘those were the days’. The box seemed awful apart from the fucking, and then there was the cart. The cart, and being well enough to steal food, seemed awful, and then there was the heavy cart. The biggest cart. There was no heavier cart—not for one pony, and she was only one pony. The people talked and sounded pleased, and she dreaded what would happen then, because that sound never meant anything good.

It had meant this: they thought she could pull the really huge cart.

She had to admit, the other ponies sure couldn’t. One was frail, and one kept getting the shits, and the bigger one had just died. She’d seen it happen, down the street. He’d tripped and fallen, and the horrible thing ran him over, and she heard his leg break. She knew what that meant. Sure enough, the people were really mad, and they’d done something to him and made him be dead, right then and there.

The people were real happy with themselves. One even tapped the pictures of the food on her butt, telling some story with great animation.

Next thing she knew, the huge horrible cart was her problem.

She knew it could run you over—she’d watched it happen—so at first she didn’t dare even move. She planted her hooves and refused. That was the day she learned about the pointy thing. The whip had flailed at her, and she’d just set her jaw and glared, and then a different pain happened and something was trying to impale her, pushing farther and farther against the emaciated curve of her rump, and with a scream she strained against the harness and pushed forward—and the heavy thing began to roll, and kept going. It’d taken all of her strength to get it moving, too.

The pain stopped, of course. That was always the way.

Her heart pounded with terror, but the thing wasn’t as hard to keep rolling once it had started. She thought that stopping it would be terrible, but when that time came, there was a nasty scraping noise and the thing stopped itself, forcing her to a standstill. That was interesting. It was nice that it could stop. It only meant she had to strain to get it moving again, though. This time, she knew what it took, and grimly put in the effort to get it rolling. The person didn’t even whip her, that time.

Those were the days.

Her eyes were blurred now, and it was harder and harder to keep up the pace. The other ponies didn’t want to look at her, and she knew why. She’d seen it in others, seen the scourging of whipmarks take over their bodies, evidence that even willing effort was no longer quite enough.

She’d never been willing, so nothing lost there. She knew too much.

She stood at the end of the street, the horrible heavy cart behind her, the harness scraping her weary body. There was the street, and the street after it, and there was the cross-road, and one way went down and the other went up. That’s how it always went. There was the crowd of people, as always, thronging the street. There were the cranky people, never sounding pleased, being escorted into her cart with grovelling deference by the one with the whip and the sharp thing.

She stood, glowering at nothing, pretending she’d stand there forever. Why not? For a moment, she pretended she didn’t know why not. The whip, the sharp thing—it was always something. She’d give in, even if it was only at the point of abject panic. She panted, her head hanging, eyes blurring. Ah, giving in, pulling the heaviest cart down the street with a clear eye—those were the days.

The guy with the whip was getting up into his perch, getting his stuff ready.

She tugged experimentally at the harness, head hanging low. It was getting so hard to get the stupid thing moving. Even with the whip. Sometimes even with the pointy thing. It just didn’t want to budge anymore.

The whip sang through the air and cracked her ass, leaving a little welt. She jolted, and felt rage—the fucker hadn’t even bothered to flap the reins! It was like he knew that wasn’t going to work. Sure, the last three times it hadn’t, but it was another couple seconds of peace while he tried. It was DECENT, trying the reins first. The guy had no right to skip that part!

She fought against the weight, legs trembling with the strain, and finally the heavy cart started moving. An angry voice came from inside it. The whip guy answered with more grovelling talk, and whipped her again, and she gritted her teeth as she tried to get up to the speeds she used to do all day. She got kind of close—or at least wished she did, as the whip cracked yet again.

She wondered if she had energy to turn and kick at passers-by. Probably wouldn’t get any. It would be nice… She realized, then, that far from have the energy to do that, she only had the energy to keep the cart moving. Wasn’t at all sure she had it in her to get it going again.

And there were two turns the cart could make. If it went left, she’d be able to roll downhill, getting her breath and maybe she’d be able to move the cart from a standstill, after a rest. Or, perhaps it’d go straight—she figured she could keep that going, though she’d have to forget kicking passersby because she’d never manage to keep the momentum going that way.

Or, the cart could turn right, where the road went uphill.

That fucking hill! The last time she’d seen it—actually, it had been a long time ago. It was the worst. She’d struggled, her progress slowing to a crawl, really trying her best because she knew she’d have to. Even that wasn’t enough, and the whip and pointed thing had come out, and she’d cleared the top of the horrible hill frothing and bloody, her eyes wild and staring. That was some time ago. It pissed her off so badly, because she would have eventually got over the hill. She knew she had to. It’s not like the people were going to let her turn back, so why whip and stab her when she could see it was a hill for herself? But no, they were in such a hurry.

With a jolt, she realized that she’d felt a lot healthier, that day. She glanced ahead, with trepidation. She was almost sure—no, she was pretty sure that she couldn’t get over that hill on her own, this time—not with all the nonexistent patience in the world.

Better hope the cart turned left, then.

They rolled up to the cross-street.

She felt the reins tugging her head to the right—and her heart just about stopped.

The reins dragged harder and harder, and she stumbled, unwillingly, around the corner, slowing, trying to fight the reins but unable to resist as they twisted her head. Where the head went, the legs had to follow. She staggered along in disbelief, and as the road began to angle up, she felt the momentum of the cart slowing, stolen by the hill, and gradually it, and she, came to a halt in the middle of the road.

The whip cracked, lashing her rump, and she just stared up at the top of the hill, so far away.

It might’ve been the moon, for all the difference it would make. The cart was stopped. She wasn’t going to be able to do it.

The whip lashed again. She gave a great, shuddering sigh.

The guy shouted. She heard the faint scraping noise of the pointy thing being lifted, aimed at her.

She screwed her eyes shut, bared her teeth…

…and lay down, her harness binding her painfully, wrenching the bars her harness was fastened to.

That was new. She had a moment of great peace, as the guy with the whip stared in disbelief, as she lay awkwardly in the street. It felt so good to rest her legs. She’d never done anything like that before. Why had she never thought to do that before?

The whip broke like a storm across her body, reminding her.

She set her jaw. Fuck it. A WORLD of fuck it. She was done. There was no describing how done she was. He could do his worst.

He did—she thought. The whip wasn’t nearly enough. She heard angry voices from inside the heavy cart, the guy’s desperation as he tried to placate the voices. She shuddered, gritting her teeth as the expected pointy thing jabbed at her. The guy sobbed and begged as he did it. It was really fucked up how his voice quavered as he leaned into the fucking thing and it sank agonizingly into her butt-cheek—what was left of it—impaling her and keeping on going. He could fucking cry about it, then. She wasn’t going to. He could shove the sharp thing until it spitted her like a damn pig for all she cared.

It seemed like he was fixing to do just that, when he stopped. She couldn’t believe how far he’d shoved the thing, it was like he was trying to pin her to the road. It was damned ridiculous, because she was always a little lame when he got her with that, and now what had he done? She heard him sob and curse—and, with a horrible grinding sensation, the pointy thing was dragged out of her butt again. She could feel blood pouring out, dousing her shabby blonde tail.

She realised he’d got down from his perch. Hah! Like that would help. Now, more than ever, she defied him to do a thing to budge her. If he’d wanted to change her mind, he shouldn’t have stabbed her ass.

He came around beside her, and she glared at him, at his weeping, selfpitying, indignant face, and her hatred filled her eyes. There was nothing left of her, yet still she watched with narrowed eyes, determined to bite him for his trouble, really put a frown on that stinking people face. She lunged at him, but anger made him quick, and he caught her bridle, pulling her head back.

There was something bright in his hand.

In a single motion, he cut her throat, and blood gushed into the street.

For a moment, the shock of it froze her. She stared at nothing, astonished. It’d hurt much less than the pointy thing, but somehow she could tell it was very serious, and for that moment she just tasted the lightheadedness, the pain, as she felt the guy kick her hard in the side, and then begin to unfasten the harness in a desperate hurry, the people inside the cart shouting at him now.

It was strange how the pain of it kind of wandered away, distracted like her mind, forgetting itself as her blood emptied into the drain. She could feel him unbinding the harness, removing the bridle, and she realized she’d just missed a great chance to bite him… as he let her head drop into the gutter, she curled a lip, glaring one last, utter FUCK YOU to him and to life and to everything.

They’d taken the harness off. Not a scrap remained. It had been valuable, she guessed. It was gone. She heard the guy shouting, and then saw an amazing thing—a crowd of people, dragging the poles she’d been tied to. They were putting money into their pockets, dragging the heavy cart. It took eight, ten of them to do it. The wheels rolled right by her face, as her lifeblood steadily pumped away.

She fought to keep her eyes open, and her ear weakly perked up, though she couldn’t lift her head anymore, or move her body. There was something she had to hear for herself, at all costs, no matter what, and she listened and listened and finally…

She couldn’t hear the heavy cart, or the people dragging it, or the fucker who had cut her throat, any more. They were gone.

They really were gone, at last.

She let out her breath in a weak sigh, and her lips formed into a bitter halfsmile. She looked across the street and saw a person, a small one. He’d been with one of the cart-hauler volunteers. That one had given the little person his money, and the little person had darted into a nearby store, and then come out without money. Instead, he had something in his hand. It was one of the red food things—like the ones on her butt.

He ate it, impassively, looking at her, seeing that her eyes were open and moved, that her chest still rose and fell.

She looked back at the people-foal… and the little halfsmile came, again.

Yeah—enjoy your red thing, foal.

I got one, once. I feel ya.

Her eyes widened, the smile dropping away as agony transfixed her. Her body was done with being drowsy, it seemed—it wanted to jab her as if the pointy thing was spearing her from tail to chin, through a closing haze of dull numbness. But the pointy thing was gone. And the cart was gone. And now, she could tell that she was gone.

Whatev

The child watched, as the pony’s body and face went from some kind of odd smiling expression, to great and unbearable pain—and then, through it, into softness and death’s limpness.

He took another bite of the apple, and another, watching in fascination. He’d never seen them do that to a gharry pony before. The passengers must have been very important. It had brought Father several rupees, and Father had given him a rupee, and he’d been able to get an apple. It was a very good apple, too.

Nobody gave the pony anything, the child thought. It was a girl pony, and she had apples on her flank for some reason, and she lay dead, unable to pull any more carts. The dogs and the starving people would have her soon enough. He wouldn’t be one of them, nor Father—not today.

Father returned, at a run, and the child waved, smiling, showing he was safe and well. Father hugged the child as he clutched the core of the apple—and listened, as the child said something to him. And he looked solemn, and nodded, in return.

The child ran across the street, bent down, and firmly wedged the apple core into the mouth of the dead pony. He patted her still head, and then he stood, and ran back to rejoin his father.

“Aum nama sivaya,” breathed the father. “May the sacrifice of this poor creature, that has brought such a gift to us, bring it karmic benefits in its next life, and thereafter.”

“Do you think it will, Father?”

He nodded, and they walked peacefully away.