The Betting Trick

In mid-August, on a Wednesday, Ravi missed the stop close to the casino and got off at the next, the bus terminus near the beach. That was a first. On Wednesdays, he was a regular on that old rickety mini-bus, boarding near his office at 17:40, to reach the casino around 18:30. He usually fitted in a nap during that ride, and entrusted the conductor with the task of prodding him out of slumber at his stop. That evening, Ravi had not slept in the bus, though he did little else other than stare out blankly; and, the conductor, seeing him awake, must have wrongly assumed that Ravi wanted a change of scene.

Ravi stood outside the halted bus for a while, scowling, still distracted by his earlier thoughts, irritated with his preoccupied self rather than with the bus conductor. The conductor misread the scowl too and offered an apologetic shrug.

‘Sir, I thought you wanted fresh air this week,’ the conductor said, along with a cheeky grin. In the vernacular he spoke, the ‘wanted’ could be ‘needed’.  He continued, ‘Everything ok, sir?’

‘Hmm… must be the weather,’ Ravi muttered. He knew that it was not the weather that disturbed him. He loved the monsoon, especially after it had spent its fury by early August, still lingering, teasing with sporadic thundershowers, the ground wet but not slushy, the green lush and dense; and, mercifully keeping away the hordes of irritating tourists. Having regained some composure, he added, ‘Well, since I am here, I might as well try out that fresh air.’

He turned abruptly and walked towards the beach, avoiding any further discussion about his state. He resisted the urge to race to the casino. He wanted to check if anything other than a gamble could release the tension.

On the beach, he took off his shoes and socks, rolled up his sleeves, stood near the water, waited for the sun to set, hoping his foul mood would pale, if not go away, in the fading light. He looked calm: ruffled wavy hair, lean body in a relaxed wide stance, dark thoughtful deep-set eyes, untroubled face, lips full and not tightly drawn, jaw firm not clenched, good-looking but still inconspicuous, and to any passerby, he must have looked like a carefree professional relaxing on the beach at the end of the day, or even an artist selecting images in his mind for the next labor.  Within, his inner turmoil only got worse, not that his impassive poker face revealed any of that.

He was an amiable and composed person, but lately he had sensed an increasing oversensitivity, often feeling as if his patience had been tested to the limit. The unsolicited advice and comments about his weekly trip never used to make him so edgy.

Earlier, in office, his boss had poked mildly at him, as usual, and instead of brushing it away with a smile as he was accustomed to, he had left the office greatly perturbed.

At half past five, regular like clockwork, he told his boss, ‘Just don’t feel good, I am leaving early.’

‘Not feeling lucky?’ his boss asked half-reproach half-tease.

‘No, just not feeling good,’ Ravi mumbled again, paused and then felt the need to add, ‘not unlucky...’

‘Of course, you make your own luck, isn’t that so? Didn’t some wise guy say that the more you play, the luckier you get?’

‘Yeah, yeah…’

Externally, his smile had hidden the disturbance within. Even though he knew he was overreacting, he could not control the excessive irritation and, worse, the mix of confusion and rage that made clear thinking impossible.

He could have avoided the lame excuse, and escaped without the confrontation. Not because his elderly boss was fond of him or that he regularly put in extra hours every working day that overcompensated for the early exit on Wednesday. Everyone in office was familiar with Ravi’s Wednesday night routine. But, it helped to assuage some of his guilt.

Once or twice, he had tried leaving after six, the official closing hour, and discovered that he could reach the casino only by half past seven, hampered by the bus timings and the office-goers’ rush. On Wednesdays, the casino waived the entry fee for those who entered before seven. He knew that he was being irrational – that entry charge was insignificant compared to the amounts he often lost in gambling.

‘It’s a matter of principle,’ he thought, ‘money should not be wasted when there’s no chance of winning it back’.

He stuck to that principle outside the casino too, to the extent of excessive thrift and, unsurprisingly, that had also contributed to his troubles.

The sun was setting. He took deep breaths. His thoughts, like rough waves, crashed against the barricades of reasoning, his emotions tried to break free. He reasoned with himself, beseeching, cautioning that he was making simple matters tough. He wanted to run away from the beach, to his opiate, but he forced himself to stay put, to think about his life, in office and at home.

He was not new to his boss’s attempts to reform him. That had started a month after he joined the firm – possibly, a month during which the notorious gossips in office had found out all about him. Then, on one of those awful and unavoidable ‘families’ day out’ arranged by the office, his boss met his wife. He should have anticipated trouble when he allowed those paths to cross.

‘Can’t you do something about his… you know… his Wednesdays?’ his boss asked his wife, soon after the introductions, ignoring Ravi’s frown.

His wife presented a picture of loyalty, refusing to comment or complain. His boss interpreted that picture as that of a martyr; and, he took it on himself, as mentor and boss, to mend the ways of his errant subordinate. Like many reformers before him, he was more interested in doing what he wanted to do and not really bothered about the success of his efforts. Ravi evaded every attack with a polite smile, and they had gone about their business, with no grudges.

But, recently, Ravi had sensed the danger of an overreaction from his side. He was too near breaking point, he felt, quite like an iron bar bent too often, too vigorously, losing elasticity, transformed into a plastic, irreparable state.

‘The barbs and pokes in office, the troubles at home… no bloody weather can beat that,’ Ravi thought.

He thought about the fight with his wife that morning. They had started fighting after their daughter left for school, ever mindful about not fighting when the kid was around.

His wife had bought broccoli.

He protested, waving a shopping bill, ‘Needless expenditure… broccoli, useless bloody rich broccoli, just good for show… bloody hell, fifty for a small bunch!’ He fumed, ‘You are spending too much… why… you did not even tell me about the shoes you bought the other day.’

She did not back off, ‘Those shoes are for your daughter, not for me. I showed you the note from her school. But, did you even look at it? Oh no, I spend too much, go on, what have I spend?’

He listed, ‘Gifts for my parents, your siblings…’

‘You told me to…’

‘Nice, very nice, put everything on my head… I told you to… ha… as if you listen to everything I tell you and follow to the word… of course, why do you have to think on your own… why should you think about spending?’

They skipped breakfast. A nosey neighbor phoned to enquire if everything was fine with them, and she was politely informed that everything was as usual. Apart from that brief interlude, it was an hour with lists of grievances and recriminations.

‘I want to go away, I can’t take it anymore,’ his wife said when they were at the door, ready to leave for office.

‘Go! I and my daughter can do without you.’

‘I am taking her, of course!’

‘Oh no, you are not, you can take all my money, but not my daughter.’

‘Ha! As if you have any money…’ she smirked.

That was the closest she came to mentioning the actual issue but, even then, she did not touch on his gambling.

He reasoned that it was that omission that was the cause for the heaviness within him. It would have troubled him less if she ridiculed his inner tug-of-war, made fun of the struggle between his innate thrift and the addiction to gambling.

You do not understand me one bit, he could have said with finality. But, faced with her avoidance of his frailty, his fight always lost its punch.

Watching the waves, the water inching closer to his feet, his thoughts too moved closer to the harsh reality. He knew that his personal life was snowballing out of control.

A year after their daughter was born, his wife had suggested, ‘Should we go to a counselor?’

He had shot back, ‘Are we going our separate ways?’

That was the only time she mentioned about a third party getting involved in their affairs.

By then, he had restricted gambling to just Wednesdays. He promised never to borrow from others, and they cleared his debts, slowly. He asked her to manage their joint bank account, their salaries; she handled the money matters at home, even his weekly budget for gambling though that was not really negotiable. He took the money from her bag when he went gambling. That way, she could record the amount he had taken, he thought. Whenever he won, he slipped the winnings into her bag, hoping she would also record those rare returns.

It was not an easy life. They talked less, and touched even lesser. Colleagues and friends were living in homes of their own, rather than in cramped rented apartments like theirs. They met their friends and relatives less often.

A serious illness could have placed them in a similar state, he reasoned though he did not like to think of his addiction as an illness.

He listed all the pluses: they were not unhappy, their daughter got attention and reasonable education, his wife was safe and secure, he never harmed her in any way, and the fighting never went beyond the verbal sparring. Is their relationship irreparably spoiled, he wondered, did they trust each other.

When they were newly married, and his addiction was still under wraps, they had been good together. He often wondered if it would have been easier if they had been less well-matched. He remembered the last night when he, wrought with guilt, had tried to please her. He could still remember the way she had looked at him at the end, as if she was asking him why he was trying to be a mere escort. They had not touched each other after that. Or, maybe, they had and he was blowing everything out of proportion, he thought.

His head throbbed, and he felt sick. To distract himself, he focused on the people around him, disinterested though he was.

A little boy, stripped to his underwear, and his mother, her sari and underskirt drenched to the knees, chased the waves with whoops and cries. The father-husband lay on the sand, head propped up on one hand, watching his family with undisguised pride. A young couple walked by, holding hands, frequently stopping to face each other, hug and cuddle. Another young couple, with stout bodies in unflattering tights, huffed and puffed near him. The man instructed his wife about breathing and stretching exercises. A middle-aged man stopped to ask Ravi the time, friendly and eager to talk. Ravi looked away. Further away, near the edge of the beach, lovers sat on fallen trees or on the sand, each pair giving the other privacy. A shy young Muslim girl cloaked in black from head to feet sat close to her lover or husband. Her purdah did not seem incongruous on the beach, Ravi pondered about that. He also noted that nearly all on the beach were at best middle-class, wondering if the rich had their own beach. These thoughts distracted him for a while, but not for long.

He turned to face the setting sun; the sky a rich fresco of orange, yellow, red, blue and a thousand other shades he could not name; the clouds seemed like smoke signals to be deciphered.

He walked on the beach for a while, till it was dark. Enough of this sulking schoolboy shuffle, he decided. By the time he got to the casino, a fifteen minute walk from the beach, he seemed his normal self.

He walked past the roulette tables and sat down at a machine to play blackjack and poker. He avoided large bets, doubled up the small winnings, never risking the rare large winnings, more intent on stretching his stay rather than on making a profit. He asked for beer. The service staff brought that along with a plate of hors d’oeuvres. An attendant watched him play, with an equal lack of emotion or interest. Ravi rarely talked to the attendants or the service staff, and limited interaction to a cordial nod or smile. 

An old couple sat at the slot machines near him; they made as much noise as the computer games, cursing loudly, laughing and enjoying every outcome of the game. They were still there, inserting cash with increasing frequency, when he left the machine almost even and his earlier troubles forgotten. He walked past the live roulette tables. The bets there were too large for him. He grabbed a vacated seat at a table of automated roulette.

A lean bearded middle-aged man, seated to Ravi’s left, wore black trousers, a cheap checked shirt buttoned to the neck and well-worn black shoes. He could be a college-lecturer or a middle-level government officer. He did not drink or eat; left his seat only to withdraw money at the ATM; played each bet silently but, the lengthening and creasing of his face indicated that he was losing lots and that too fast.

Next to him, there were two young men, small-time traders or middlemen, acquaintances but playing their own game; one played quietly but seemed tense; the other cursed and smacked the table after each turn of the wheel.

Then, it was a petite lady in her early twenties, in a neat churidaar, the type salesgirls wear. She sat opposite Ravi. Her partner looked rough though not in any threatening way. He decided most of the bets. She handled the money. She carried a cheap square white purse. He preferred to stand behind her, and never took a seat. He went outside frequently, for a smoke or to the restroom. He downed the free drinks and snacks. She sat expressionless. They did not touch each other and talked little; when they did it was about the latest sequence of numbers or the machine’s settings.

Another lady, in her late thirties or early forties, sat alone. She concentrated on the wheel, her impassive face revealed little. Ravi saw her there every Wednesday, from seven till eleven, sitting in the same seat, placing bets, never talking, sipping mineral water. Ravi wanted to ask her if she turned up only on Wednesdays, like him, but it was not a place for chit-chat.

Another regular, an old man slipped into the seat next to him. He was treated like a privileged customer. Attendants and service staff stood near, there to handle wads of cash and to replenish snacks and drinks. A great deal of money always exchanged hands, to and from the attendants, and to the two companions of the old man too. One was an unshaven working class guy who accepted the old man’s notes as if they were settling bills. The other was a fat dark young man who sat close to the old man. The old man fussed over the young man, and held his hand or thigh, for luck or love, as they waiting for the ball to fall into a slot.

Ravi spent the first hour placing small bets on ‘lucky’ or ‘hot’ numbers, the numbers that seemed to be appearing often. It was a good way to kill time, and lose money. For the next hour or two, he mixed that with the outside bets.

A young couple joined the table. They were on their honeymoon, clinging to each other, ready to try something new after dinner. The young man was tall, fit, dark and confident; he proclaimed to the disinterested others that he was new to gambling; the lady was short, fair, plump and too confident in her tight top and half pants; she giggled and gurgled; they made a lot of noise after each bet. And, with beginners’ luck, they started winning. As their winnings increased, they grew quieter. They whispered to each other, possibly about gut feelings. They placed ‘calculated’ bets. They announced to the table that their lucky numbers were multiples of nine. They won on 9, 18, 27 and 36. They must have increased their bets too. 11 and 13 turned up in eight successive turns of the wheel. They left the table. They did not collect any winnings.

Ravi watched them go, wondering if they will ever try their luck again. They would, he thought wryly, if they knew that the same turn of events had gone against Ravi’s martingale strategy. He had betted on red and each time doubled his bet. The eight black 11s and 13s left him nearly broke. He shrugged; that strategy required unlimited funds and infinite patience. He was on his last fold of money. He went back to small bets on individual numbers; and, alternated with bets on the lower two-thirds. The ball seemed to have a strange attraction to two sections of the wheel, the set 31, 9, 22, 18 and 29, and the numbers 27, 13, 36, 11 and 30. His winnings increased but his thoughts started to wander. That too was a first.

It must have been that couple on honeymoon or the other quiet betting couple or those he saw on the beach that triggered thoughts about his wife. He felt a desperate need to hold her. The turn of the wheel and the clatter of the ball became a blurred background. He imagined his wife standing next to him. She had never accompanied him on any of his gambling trips, not even on their honeymoon. He thought he could feel her hand in his. For a moment he wondered if he should call home to check if she and the kid were fine. But the vision was not disturbing in any way, though he experienced an adrenalin rush. He was sure that it was not just an erotic sensation, and acknowledged a longing for his wife’s company, a desperate need to be with her. The vision became more vivid. His right hand slipped to her bare waist, the palm fitting into the curve. She stood closer, her left hand on his shoulder, bunching his shirt.

He turned back to the roulette wheel. He sat out a few turns. He looked around for an attendant to quit the game. All the attendants were engaged at the high-stakes tables where loud groups of very wealthy gamblers were busting lots. It was half past midnight and normally he would have sat for an hour or two more. But just then, he wanted to break free and escape from the table. He was impatient, hardly his usual nature, and reckless. He placed all his money on 0. If he lost all, he could just walk away.

He won. An attendant turned up at his side.

‘What’s the trick?’ the friendly attendant joked.

‘Think of your wife,’ Ravi thought of saying but kept it to himself. The regulars in the room never talked about betting tricks.

Ravi felt happy, light-headed.

He quit the table and went to the cash counter to collect his winnings. He stuffed the thick wads of money in his pockets.

When he stepped outside, he thought of taking a taxi. But he decided against that and walked briskly, it was not his stingy nature that prompted that, just a desire to enjoy the moment.

He thought about the gifts he should buy for his wife and kid, a nice dinner at a classy restaurant, a jolly trip. He decided that he should not be a scrooge with that evening’s winnings and that he should surprise them with a change of nature. They deserved it, he told himself. He felt a surge of love and affection.

He got home around two. He looked in at his daughter’s room. The bed was empty. He felt panic.

She couldn’t have been serious about leaving him with his daughter, he thought. He nearly cried out loud.

He raced to their bedroom. His daughter was lying next to his wife.

He watched their sleeping forms, affection nearly making him sob. He brushed his teeth and completed ablution in the spare bathroom, trying to be as quiet as possible. He went to the bedroom, took out the money from his pockets and slipped it into his wife’s handbag. He changed into his pyjamas and slipped in next to the sleeping form of his wife. He placed his hand on her waist and marveled at how his palm fitted so well in those curves. She turned to face him, still asleep and snuggled against his chest.

He made a mental note to tell her the next morning that she should put the sizeable winnings in some secure fixed deposit or in the provident fund in their daughter’s name. He should also warn her, he thought, not to waste any of that money on unnecessary expenditure like gifts, or meals from outside. He pulled her close to him. He slept, smiling, nearly laughing, at a passing thought about his betting trick – he should never try that again.