The Hindu Business Line : Racing against despair

It was not a place either of us — Shanti Kannan and I — would ever have thought of going, but it was work that took us there. We would have returned to office after the press conference — it was about DLF leasing Madras Race Club's property, something that has been in the news. But we stayed on — perhaps it was the sight of the horses, those beautiful animals with a majestic walk. We got chatting with the affable Secretary of the club, the man with a funky beard, Dharmasenen Ebezner.

He said the club has about 650 horses, nearly half of them owned by M.A.M. Ramaswamy. He told us about the three-way split of the proceeds among the government (20 per cent), club (15 per cent) and the winners. And, he described the life of a jockey.

Blame it on all that talk. I said, "Let's bet Rs 100." Shanti, always ready for a good adventure, said `Yes'.

A man called Ganesan was deputed to take us to the pit where the bets are placed. There was a buzz about the place — an oval-shaped shed, reeking of cigarette smoke and hordes of sombre humans holding bits of pink paper with some inelegant printing on them. Most of them looked at us with surprise.

"These companies are the bookmakers," said Ganesan, waving towards the counters. Each one of them had a name-board. `Jaikishen and Sons', `Ajay and Co', `S.S. and Sons'. You could bet on a horse winning or its position at the finish.

We were excited. Should we go for Sunshine, Dashing Affair, or Force One? We were happy, like kids in a candy shop, but we were the only happy people there.

A man in his 50s, hair dishevelled, shirt half tucked into dirty trousers, came to us. "Why you come here? This is not a place for people like you," he said.

"We are here just for fun," I said. "Just for fun?" the man sighed. "That is how I started too — just for fun — 25 years ago. Today, I have no peace of mind." Another sad-looking man joined us. "Take my advice, go away," he said in a sepulchral voice.

The loudspeakers blared. The next race, held in Mysore and telecast here, was announced. The screen showed horses in a leisurely march, like boxers to the ring. Too much excitement... We decided to ignore the friendly advice.

Jaikishen and Sons seemed to be as good as any for a bookmaker, so we moved towards the counter, Ganesan in tow. A man near the counter gave us a friendly smile. "Are you here for the first time," he asked. We nodded.

"You will win today," he said. You will come back tomorrow and win again. But from the day after, you will start losing. And then, you are hooked," he said.

"We are not coming back tomorrow, no matter whether we win or lose today," I said.

Another bystander joined in the conversation with a sardonic laugh.

"Yeah, yeah," he said, "That's what I also thought when I came here for the first time 20 years ago."

We were intrigued. In 20 years how much would he have won?

"I am a doctor, an oncologist," the man said. "I practise in the mornings and evenings. In the afternoons I come here and lose whatever I earn in my practice." The doctor once won a few lakhs, a tiny fraction of all the money he lost. But he still hopes for a turn of luck.

Could he not stay away from the races? "I can't. I did stay away for a year, but then I came back. This place is a trap. Once you are in, you can't get out."

An elderly man, who had obviously overhead this conversation, walked up to us. "You see, I came here with my father one day, 40 years ago. My father has since died, but I'm still here." He had lost all his money and was still hoping to redeem at least a part of it.

The irony struck me between my eyes. Madras Race Club, like many of its sister clubs belonging to the Turf Association of India, is a `Section 25 company' or a charitable, not-for-profit company. Ebezner had told us that each year about 440 races take place on the two turfs of the club — at Chennai and Ooty.

The total value of winnings is about Rs 7 crore a year, which is 65 per cent of the bet money. Another 20 per cent, or about Rs 2 crore, goes from the pockets of these miserable people into the coffers of the government. For its 15 per cent, the club gets about Rs 1.5 crore a year — money which "goes towards improving the facilities of the club". It's a fine English-looking club, built even before the country's first railway line. Outside in the parking lot, you will see a significant contrast. On one side are rows and rows of unwashed, creaky looking motorcycles that belong to those who lose money in the bets. On the other side you see Skodas, Sonatas and Mercedes that belong to the patrons of the club. `Trickle up' effect?

Shanti and I could never agree on which horse to bet, so we left it to Ganesan. Rs 100 exchanged hands at the bookmakers.

"Come, let us watch the race from inside," he said and took us into a room that was opulence itself. As we watched the race on TV, seated in our amply cushioned, wooden antique chairs in the air-conditioned room, we were served hot samosas, bondas, sandwiches and aromatic coffee.

Has anybody become a millionaire from the races, I asked the waiter, who laughed at the question.

"Even if somebody wins one day, he will come back the next day and lose it all. Then he will again come back the next day and lose more."

People come to the races from faraway towns in southern Tamil Nadu with return tickets in their pocket, knowing well that they might not have any money left to buy their tickets back home. Some have been driven to killing themselves in despair.

Can you believe the government earns money from this activity? At least, can't the tax revenues from racing be ring-fenced and earmarked for the rehabilitation of those who have got trampled under the racing horses?

The race began. "Come on, come on," I screamed at the television, though not knowing which horse to cheer because we had no idea which one Ganesan had put our money on. In a minute-and-a-half, the race ended.

"You will certainly win, sir," said one of the waiters.

Sure enough, Shanti and I won. We put in a hundred and got a hundred more. We divided the spoils 50-50.

"Don't come back. This is a very bad place," the bookmaker said. Ever heard of a businessman telling a customer not to come back?

But I have taken his advice. I have hung my lucky win up on the wall.