An Irishman's Diary

STUCK for a column idea the other day and with a deadline hovering, I did as I often do in such crises and went for a stroll around the grounds of my architectural neighbour, the Royal Hospital Kilmainham.

Its walled garden is a good place to clear the head, offering both cloistered calm and a range of possible subject matters on which to reflect. Modern art, for one: since the RHK doubles as Imma. Also nature, in such forms as the wall-climbing Virginia Creeper, whose autumn exhibition (now open) rivals the National Gallery’s Turner show as an annual spectacular.

Even the economy is a looming presence, with the garden now overlooked by a half-finished Heuston South Quarter, its balconies still unpopulated. And although the RHK is in central Dublin, one is reminded there too of many others parts of Ireland, if only by the sound of the nearby Heuston Station public address, announcing departures to Cork, Tralee, and Galway.

Of course, in a 330-year-old military hospital, history – especially the British imperial variety – is a dominant theme. So it was, the same day, that I passed for the umpteenth time the grave of one of the hospital’s many old soldiers, Vonolel: a four-legged war hero who served under (literally under) the famous Anglo-Irish military man, Lord Roberts of Kandahar.

Named after an Indian tribal chief, Vonolel was awarded several medals for his part in the Afghan wars of the 1880s. And although it was not unusual then for animals to be decorated, I believe he was unique in being allowed – by permission of Queen Victoria – to wear his medals on parade. In 1897, he had the added honour of following the royal carriage during the queen’s diamond jubilee procession.

But he was an old horse by then, an Irish Timesreport of 1899 noting that Roberts "now only mounts him on ceremonial occasions". On which note, when he died at Kilmainham that same year, Vonolel might have suffered the fate of many celebrity horses: being mounted for all eternity, by a taxidermist. Happily they buried him instead, in the RHK's rose garden. And to cap a very distinguished career, his grieving master even gave him a headstone with a poem expressing the hope that they would meet again in heaven.

UNFORTUNATELY, I had written columns about all these subjects before, so they were no use to me on the day in question. Thus it was with a despondent air that I passed the headstone yet again. Until, around the same time, I became conscious of an unusual noise emanating from another part of the RHK. It was music, clearly. But it seemed – at least to my unaccustomed ears – Indian.

Following the sound, intrigued, I found it came from the old stable yards. Which on closer inspection, were shrouded in smoke. And amid that smoke was a large crowd of people, most of them clearly of subcontinental origin and speaking, where they spoke, in what sounded like Hindi or Urdu.

For a strange moment, it seemed I was caught up in some weird equine-human thought transfer process, channelling the memories of a Victorian warhorse whose post-traumatic stress disorder had somehow survived him. Then I realised this was a film set. Yes, I had stumbled on the Bollywood blockbuster, Ek Tha Tiger,currently being shot at "undisclosed" locations around Dublin.

The smoke was from a machine, it turned out. So was the music. But in between breaks, I had a glimpse of one of the live mass dance numbers for which Bollywood is noted. And watching, fascinated, I did a quick Google-search to find out more about a film genre that, until now, had passed me by.

Ek Tha Tigeris a romantic thriller, I learned, from the same team that created the 2006 hit, Kabul Express, set in Afghanistan. That too was a thriller, although I discovered that other popular Bollywood sub-genres include the romantic history-epic, an example of which swept the Indian Academy Awards two years ago. I read too about how lucrative the genre is and how, increasingly, its reach is spreading far beyond India.

And as I stood there wondering what the RHK’s old imperialists, two-legged and four, would have made of this Indian invasion of their stable-yard, it occurred to me that there might be an opening here for an Irish screen-writer to go where no Irish screen-writer has previously gone. Whereupon, almost unbidden, a draft outline for an Anglo-Irish-Indian romantic history-epic thriller came together in my head.

It would centre on the "Great Game": the war of intrigue Britain and Russia once fought for influence over the tribal areas to India's north. There might be elements of Kipling's Kim,which told the story of an Irish army orphan living on his wits in 1890s Lahore. The romantic sub-plot, however, would be the love affair between a man and his stallion, with – breaking new ground – a show-stopping four-legged dance sequence, perhaps shot at the Army School of Equitation.

It needed work, I knew. But I was so excited by the idea that I nearly pitched it to the Ek Tha Tigerpeople on the spot. Then something stopped me. Maybe it was the security men. Or maybe it was the thought that, if mishandled, the film would be a gift to critics, who would all be sure to accuse me of flogging a dead horse. Besides, I still had a column to write. And the day wasn't getting any younger.