The Bangalore Turf Club seems to have perfected the fine art of drifting—drifting so far, in fact, that it`s becoming a spectator sport in itself. The committee, a delightful mix of elected members and those coopted (especially since the previous committee was forced to quit in disgrace, with the license to conduct racing operations hanging by a thread after countless allegations of “unexpected happenings”, appears to be spectacularly allergic to decisive action. If racing governance were a race, this lot would stumble at the starting gate, adjust their binoculars, and then engage in a heated debate about who left the gates open, all while the sport gallops headlong into chaos.

Each week, the Stipes churn out reports as predictable as a B-grade soap opera: “Explanations noted for future reference.” Future reference? Is there some mythical archive of notes collecting dust in a secret chamber? Because the professionals merrily repeat their infractions, confident that these "notes" won`t see the light of day. The Stipes, in their infinite wisdom, are apparently unaware of a revolutionary concept called following up.

Take deliberate interference during races, for instance—a practice so common it might as well be part of the rulebook. Offenders, who seem to run on a cocktail of hubris and adrenaline, face little more than a shrug and a wrist slap. As one veteran jockey confessed when asked why riders engage in deliberate interference despite the risks: “If I don`t do it, someone else will. Why leave free money on the table?” Fear of authorities? Ha! That ranks somewhere between unicorn sightings and honest politicians on their list of concerns.

Meanwhile, the Stipes positively beam when a professional admits fault, as if they`ve just been handed a Nobel Prize for stating the obvious. The punishment? A gentle two-to-four-day suspension, which is practically a paid vacation. The in-and-out running of horses? Noted for future consideration—again. At this rate, we might as well install revolving doors for these infractions because the same cycle repeats with the reliability of a broken record.

If cumulative action were a thing, serial offenders would be packing their bags by now. But instead, the Stewards wander around like tourists without a map. Their lack of decisive action has turned them into easy marks for the professionals, many of whom seem to have taken the phrase “taking them for a ride” a bit too literally. Whispers abound about certain Stewards moonlighting as punters and tipsters—a conflict of interest so blatant it`s practically screaming for attention.

As if this weren`t enough, the committee is divided into two factions: one loyal to those who`ve lost power and are clinging to it like it`s their last drink at a party, and the other allegedly trying to do some good. Of course, any well-meaning effort is hamstrung by the shadow of a deposed chairman Aravind Raghavan, who, despite facing criminal charges, manages to loom over the club`s affairs like a storm cloud. With an uncanny ability to spread disinformation, fire off angry letters faster than a postal worker on overtime, and sow chaos at every turn, this individual has turned procrastination into a fine art.

Most members of the committee could win gold if timidity were an Olympic sport. Calling them spineless might be an insult to jellyfish. Confront them with even a whiff of aggression, and they scatter faster than leaves in a gust of wind. They`ve mastered the art of playing the three wise monkeys—see no evil, do no evil, hear no evil—except they`ve added a modern twist: solicit evil. Ironically, they`re more than happy to cozy up to the very professionals they`re supposed to oversee, shamelessly fishing for tips like it`s a sport. Watchdogs? More like lapdogs. And so, the Bangalore Turf Club spins in a vicious cycle, a chaotic carousel of indecision, political wrangling, and a complete absence of accountability. One can only hope that someone—anyone—will wake up, grab the reins, and steer this mess back on course. Until then, it seems the only ones truly enjoying themselves are the offenders and the occasional observer with a dark sense of humour.

The club`s brilliant idea of forcing newly licensed trainers to bring in five outstation horses has indeed achieved one thing: increasing horse strength—on paper. These horses, however, didn`t come galloping in because they were champions in disguise; they were dragged in simply to tick a box. And while they do add to the headcount, their contribution to the quality of racing is about as significant as a plastic spoon in a five-course meal. In fact, these equine additions have done wonders—for mediocrity. Almost every horse acquired under this genius rule has been about as effective as a wet matchstick.

Ironically, this is the same club that once decided to limit horses with trainers and even flirted with the idea of reducing the number of trainers altogether. Back when the going was good, these visionary decisions seemed like masterstrokes—until they boomeranged spectacularly. Now, with a depleted horse population, fewer race days, and races that are about as competitive as a snail derby, the club is reaping the fruits of its foresight—or lack thereof.

The rule that once required a minimum of eight horses for a race (unless there were rare exceptions) has been unceremoniously ditched. As a result, we now have tiny fields masquerading as races, which do wonders for tote betting collections—if by "wonders," you mean a nosedive.

Meanwhile, the club, ever the picture of financial prudence, owes money to the government and is scrambling to stay afloat. But why let pesky things like fiscal responsibility ruin the fun when there`s always money to burn on pointless litigations? Priorities, right?