With the Punters

A day at the races: horses cross the finish line at the Royal Calcutta Turf Club.

When I met Sanjay at the Royal Calcutta Turf Club, he was playing hooky. Sort of.

Sanjay is an assumed name. He would not want me using his real name, lest his parents find out what he really does when he tells them he’s ‘going out with friends’. That is, come to India’s premier horse track and bet on the ponies.

“Gambling in India is very looked down upon,” he told me after sidling up to me and offering his hand. “I come here secretly. Gambling is considered even worse than drinking in India. My parents would kill me if they knew I was here."

Despite the fact that I met him in the middle of the afternoon on a workday at a racetrack, Sanjay did not strike me as the typical punter. He was young and stylishly dressed in T-shirt and dark blue jeans. He had close-cropped hair and a glimmering diamond stud in his left ear. Every so often during our short conversation he would glance at his cell phone and tap away at the keypad, sending a text.

Most of the men—and it was nearly all men—at the racetrack looked to be in retirement, wearing tattered slacks and wrinkled button-up shirts. The smell of cigarette smoke hung in the air like a mist.

I pointed out to Sanjay that he did not really seem to fit in here.

“Most of these guys live off pensions, which don’t pay that much—maybe 5,000 rupees a month. That’s what? Maybe $150? So, they come here to try and make a little extra cash.”

He smiled sardonically. “But we know that doesn’t happen, right? Nobody here makes money but the trainers and horse owners.”

He self-confidence and obvious worldliness endeared him to me. I hoped silently he was not a gambling addict. I asked him what he did when he was not at the racetrack.

“I don’t come here everyday,” he said laughing. “But I just finished my MBA in October. I got an internship with Exide Batteries. Today’s an off-day.”

“Your internship must not pay well if you’re here,” I said.

“It's okay. I’m hoping to make it into a real job there. I mean, that’s why I went to school, right?”

As we talk, an authoritative voice announced over the PA system the lineup for the next race. Television monitors in the grandstand showed the horses being led into their paddocks. We looked out from our vantage in the stands over the elongated green field of the racetrack. The white dome of the Victoria Memorial jutted up to our right. The modern angular form of the Howrah Bridge dwarfed the scene to our left.

“Do you have a bet for this one?” I asked idly. I noticed a buzz begin to build in the stands as men came in from the betting stalls and tote boards with chits in their hands, cigarettes hanging limply from their lips.

“Yeah, number eight: Fit For Fray. Paying nearly two to one. I only bet underdogs,” Sanjay said.

“How much you put down?”

“One-hundred rupees.”

“Is that typical?” I asked.

“Yeah, usually. One hundred. One-fifty. Sometimes, two-hundred.”

“What is the most you ever won on a single bet?”

Sanjay smiled wistfully. “Ah yes. That is easy: 21,000.”

“Twenty-one thousand?” I asked incredulously.

“Yep. Twenty-one thousand rupees, off a bet of 100 rupees. I had to open up a separate bank account so my parents would not get suspicious.”

I continued to consider this as the announcer called out the horses. A tone buzzed, then a bell rand and the horses were off. They began their run at a point on the racetrack nearly opposite the grandstand, their sprinting forms mere blurs on the horizon a half-mile away. The bright jockey uniforms appeared candy-colored against the gray skyline of Calcutta.

Spectators half-stood on their benches. Several dozen men appeared from the concession area or the tote boards and surged out onto the small grassy plain in front of the grandstand to get a better look. As the horses rounded the turn and entered the straightaway, shouts of encouragement could be heard all around us.

“Go!”

“C’mon!”

“Achcha!”

The rumble of the horses’ hooves against the grassy turf started to thud in my chest as the pack got closer. Suddenly, one rider veered into another and an agitated groan arose from the crowd. The two horses tussled for several dozen meters, driving each other away from the leader, until they unlocked and stumbled back into place. Shouts of protest continued as the horses passed the grandstand. The jockeys’ uniforms appeared like passing taillights, the chestnut bodies of the horses glistened in the bright sunlight.

The race ended with a palpable hint of dissatisfaction in the audience, still upset at the perceived slight in the race.

“I think there will be an objection,” Sanjay said as he puts his hands on his head. He stared at the results board in the infield beyond the racetrack. A smile broke out on his face.

“My horse did not win but he got second. That means I get some money. But…” and his breath started to quicken.

“But what…”

“I could get a parley here,” he continued, still eagerly staring at the results board as the digital numbers started to flicker. “I put numbers two, eight, and seven in the top three. And if that objection holds up, that is what the results will be. That could be big money…” he trailed off.

He looked agitated. “I need to go check. Good to meet you,” he said hurriedly.

“Okay, good luck,” I said, shaking his hand.

“I think I had some good luck today,” he said. Then he disappeared into the crowd of milling punters.