For those who’ve chronicled the Bangalore Turf Club’s theatrics for decades, the winter season of 2012–13 remains unforgettable, when Murioi dared to win and was disqualified for dangerous drift. That riot, the last of its kind, was engineered from the owners’ stand, with the infamous twins—Aravind and Raghavan—at the forefront. They weaponised the KROA to strong-arm the club. Today, they sit smugly as club members, masquerading as moral guardians while continuing their disruptive reign. The management, sadly, remains helpless against their relentless verbal diarrhoea. From inciting chaos to calling the shots—some legacies are too toxic to retire.

And the best part? The race was called the KROA Trophy—a name that suggests dignity but delivered pure farce. In the end, Solitaire Royale won by employing the revolutionary tactic of simply not interfering. Stay out of trouble, pick up the trophy—textbook stuff, really.

Back then, the KROA (led by the legendary Raghavan twins) was less an owners’ association and more a militant union with racing colours. Their favourite pastime? Ruining the start of the season. Their crowning glory? Orchestrating the only Derby in racing history to get cancelled because of a strike. True visionaries. They loved reminding the Turf Club that they could “bring its members to the road.” (Well, at least they were committed to improving pedestrian footfall.)

Their finest hour came during the Murioi debacle, when the UB Stand transformed from a viewing gallery into a riot staging area. Naturally, the ringleaders were none other than these same “present-day conscience-keepers” of the club—the Spin Twins themselves. The ensuing chaos was so enthusiastic that racing had to be abandoned for the day.

The disruptors once reserved their choicest vocabulary to vilify club members and administrators, loudly questioning the accounts—one even making a pilgrimage to a television studio to broadcast the club’s supposed shortcomings (or rather, its questionable actions). But oh, how times change. Those same disruptors, once threatening to burn the place down, eventually charmed and arm-twisted their way in as respectable members—like wolves in dinner jackets. The then-chairman, Harinder Shetty, did show some spine by ordering a thorough inquiry and even producing a chargesheet naming the twins and their KROA president pal. But naturally, thanks to a convenient lack of quorum (and the end of the season), the chargesheet was filed straight into the circular bin.

Fast forward to today, and our two erstwhile revolutionaries have reinvented themselves as the self-appointed Saviours of the Turf. They’ve swapped flaming torches for fountain pens (well, angry letterheads), firing off sanctimonious notes to the committee about upholding club morals while branding any criticism as an unforgivable affront to the club and its managing committee. Disciplinary action? Please—they’re too busy reading the riot act from the comfort of their armchairs. They now believe anyone criticising the club should be dealt with in the strictest possible way—after all, they’ve migrated to the other side. Happy chameleons indeed.

Their true genius lies in intimidation—crafting letters so frightening that committees fold like cheap umbrellas in a cyclone. They even have a fan club of loyal cheerleaders, who mistake bullying for leadership.

Let’s not forget Ashok Raghavan’s former side gig as the self-appointed legal knight for trainers convicted of “malpractice.” When the Appeal Board had the audacity to stand firm for once, he graciously proposed a strike—to teach them the finer points of democracy, presumably. Ever since, he’s been on a quixotic quest to restore one particular trainer’s license—an epic mission distinguished only by its consistent failure.

The authorities, rightly wary of these tactics, ultimately banned club members from representing professionals at enquiries. After all, their looming presence had a way of “influencing” proceedings—and no one wanted to risk re-election campaigns turning into scorched-earth affairs once the twins launched their signature negative blitz.

Meanwhile, they’ve also campaigned to keep licenses away from genuinely deserving applicants—because nothing says “integrity” like gatekeeping for your own clique.

Their letters these days positively weep with outrage at the faintest whiff of criticism—like foxes gasping in horror that someone dared notice the henhouse is missing a few hens. And as for his grand warning to the committee if they dare not bow to his diktat? Oh, it’s a masterpiece of melodrama: “I shall pursue this matter to its logical conclusion!”—which presumably involves endless finger-wagging and 2?a.m. manifestos in ALL CAPS. “Rest assured,” he thunders, “no attempt to dilute or deflate action will deter me!”—as if the committee is scheming with giant novelty pumps to deflate his crusade like a sad party balloon.

Perhaps the best twist in this drama came when Aravind Raghavan managed to get himself installed as chairman—only to be unceremoniously evicted by the government and handed criminal charges as a going-away gift.

Of course, setbacks don’t faze the Twins. They’re always ready to sprint to the spotlight when anything good happens at the club. As for the endless selfies—well, they’re tailor-made for those who truly love themselves. The Twins practically wrote the manual on self-promotion.

Aravind Raghavan, as Chairman of the Club, was guilty of vindictive actions against professionals, resulting in enormous legal expenses before the inevitable compromise petitions. He remains unrepentant for these misdeeds, which cost the club dearly—including loss of income and the license to conduct activities for almost the entire summer season last year. And yet the “Twin Towers” remain standing—loud, unrepentant, and about as subtle as a foghorn. Sooner or later, someone will have to call their bluff. Until then, we’ll just have to endure their unmatched talent for hot air. Because when it comes to lung power, these two really are thoroughbreds.