risk their lives – This is Captain speaking: S Muthaiah (55) I should’ve died five years ago. I was coming back after giving my bull a bath, leading it by a rope.

I turned to face it for some reason and in a flash, it gored me in my groin. The doctors said I wouldn’t have made it alive had the horns gone even an inch deeper. But I’ve seen worse.

They don’t call me Captain for nothing. I’ve had to get 534 stitches in my body from the time I started taming bulls when I was 18 years old.

There are scars all over me. We were three of us: Sridhar, Kavvu, and myself.

I bought a second-hand Bullet from an ex-Army man for ₹1,500 when I was 17, and we would ride it to every jallikattu event in and around Madurai. Petrol cost just ₹21 a litre then. My mother Rasamma would bless me with vibhuti before we left, wishing me victory.

She would refuse to talk to me or feed me if I returned empty-handed. But I mostly always won something.

Silver lamps, steel pots, metal bureaux, silver coins, gold chains…I’ve even won bikes and cars for taming bulls. I’ve lost count of the number of bulls I’ve caught. But I do remember the way each of them behaved at the vaadi.

The ones that leapt in the air, the ones that ran like the wind, the ones that took aim with their horns… I’ve studied them up close and today, I train boys in my village to tame them. I have over 600 students who come to me to learn tactics and techniques.

We gather on my terrace in the evenings as jallikattu nears and I tell them about each bull’s characteristics. I have friends who send me a list of the participating bulls in every jallikattu and I train my boys how to approach each of them.

Our core team consists of 10 to 30 men and we travel to jallikattu events happening across South Tamil Nadu during the Pongal season. I stand 50 to 100 metres from the vaadivasal to assess each bull that charges outside and quickly pass on tips to my students in the arena. Our team commands respect wherever we go.

Over the years, some of my students have died. When I was younger, if a bull gored any of my fellow villagers to death, I would follow it to its next jallikattu. I would not rest until I tamed it.

I especially remember a kari, a black one from Pudukottai with a white flower-like pattern on its forehead. A friend got killed trying to tame it in Alanganallur and I ensured I caught it soon after, meeting it eye to eye. Men tame bulls to prove a point.

To exhibit their masculinity; to earn pride and respect. They become heroes, you see.

In my younger years, I’ve heard my grandfather say fathers would offer to marry their daughters to the man who tamed a particular bull. Every boy born in this village enters the vaadi once he’s ready.

That’s how it is. This soil is such. It won’t let a man rest.

Like father, like son: M Malarmannan (39) My son Mugund Varman is just four and I’ve already started training him for jallikattu. Our favourite exercise is me wearing fake horns and charging from a room while he waits at the door.

He would hop onto my back and cling to my neck as though it’s a bull’s hump. We have fun doing it and he squeals in joy but in reality, I’m preparing him. He’s not scared of bulls the same way I wasn’t when I was his age.

I grew up around bulls. Men from our family have been in charge of the Muniyandi temple in Alanganallur for generations.

Every year, before the event, owners would bring their bulls to the temple to seek Muniyandi’s blessings. As a little boy, I observed the bulls’ every move. I would hide behind my father or uncle as they smeared vibhuti on the bull’s forehead.

It would let out a mighty breath — huffff — and I would tremble. But my elders would thrust me towards it: ‘It won’t hurt you. Don’t be afraid,’ they would chide.

Gradually, my fears dissipated. I moved closer, feeling its skin, taking in its smell, touching its tail.

I did keep my distance — a bull is a bull — but I got to understand how it would behave. There would always be a group of boys practicing with a calf in Alanganallur and I would sit nearby to observe them. They would tie a rope to its neck and stand around it to try and catch it.

This is how I learnt a bull’s response to various actions. I learnt when it would thrust its horns to charge and when it would kick.

I also learnt why it did so. This helped me know the animal in and out.

It was only natural that I took part in jallikattu once I was older. The trick to successfully tame a bull is to act swiftly with a keen eye on its movements. If it leaps, I watch for the feet because if I don’t move, I can come under its hooves.

If it’s a suthu maadu, one that runs in circles, I curl one hand around its hump, my body brushing against its body, and move in the same direction. It will throw its head backwards and I arch my head to avoid the horns.

It will eventually slow down, giving up. These are moves a tamer learns on the field; those that will save his life when the bull decides to attack. I have won a lot of prizes in jallikattu, but I’ve also lost a lot because of it.

Once, a bull placed its full weight on my left foot and I ended up severely injured. I had signed up for police training that year and had to give it up.

Luckily, I ended up becoming a Physical Education teacher at a school in Madurai. I know many boys in my village who’ve given up steady career pursuits to chase bulls. If it pulls you in, you go in deep.

Before you know it, your best years are gone. I’ve taken a break from jallikattu after marriage. As the primary earning member of the family, if something happens to me, my wife and son will be affected.

But I will pass on my legacy to my son. The smell of the bull, sweat, and soil and the fire in the men outside the vadivaasal — I want him to feel it all.