Binding The Nation.

Binding The Nation.

Which of the following has helped unify India quietly and stealthily:

a)   Cricket.

b)   Bollywood.

c)    Garbage Heaps.

d)   The Nighty.

e)   None of the Above.

The correct answer is ‘e’.

Cricket-- nothing quiet or stealthy about it. Bollywood has competition from Tolly-, Molly- and other woods and aren’t we sometimes ashamed that it’s a lesser-talented relative of the Hollywood clan?

Garbage heaps are truly Indian, but they have competition from The Nighty. Irrespective of religion, state or status, from Guwahati to Goa women are linked by the printed-cotton sack-like National Female Attire that is hawked on most bazar-pavements in every town, every district of the country.  Like the Railways and the Postal Services, all the above have helped unify India, but the correct answer to the above question is Tombola or Housie.

It fascinates me that so many tax-avoiding, law-breaking adults can sit together quietly in a disciplined manner next to their best friends, bitterest enemies or total strangers without staring at a swami or television serial. Playing tombola is like meditation. You can empty your mind whilst concentrating on words like “Sai ne bola number sola”, “Independence: forty-seven” or “limbs: four”.

I ‘attended a tombola’ last week after nearly two decades. It’s still an adult activity. Children participate under supervision: I heard a parent (or an aunt/uncle) whisper: “Five-and-five fifty-five is gone. This time it’s all-by-itself number five.” Then, “All the twenties and thirties are in one straight line. See?” (Great way to teach number identification to kindergarteners.)The rest of the crowd hissed ‘shut up’. Interruptions and disturbances aren’t brooked.

Under a starlit sky or inside large rooms lined with moulded plastic chairs, reigning tombola silence is broken by a voice calling out numbers spiked with phrases: “Happy family, number three,” “What babies do, number two”, “Women get flirty at four-zero, forty”, “Men get flirty at ten less, three-zero, thirty”, “A dozen, twelve.” Regulars understand the terms and cross out the numbers on their colourful tickets as quickly as they are called out. Some enthusiasts buy a full sheet of tickets and expertly cancel several numbers in one go. Prizes depend on the number of tickets sold. Where I’d gone, the ‘full house’ (when all numbers of a single ticket get cancelled) was five hundred rupees and the second or out-house was three. The ‘lines’ and ‘corners’ were much less. Winning mattered, everyone paid careful attention to his/her ticket and the announcements. Afterwards, we wrote our names at the back and submitted the tickets for a lucky dip.

The phrases accompanying the numbers varies with the nature of the attendees.

In a housing colony gathering, the MC might say: “Nadkarni’s flat, number ten.”

During a doctors’ evening out: “Total number of wrist bones, number 16”.

In a posh Raj-era club: “Sweet… sixteen.”

In a temple aangan: “Vanvaas plus two -- sixteen.”

At a dentists’ gathering: “Incisors: eight.”

At a housewives’ kitty party: “Minutes taken to micro-warm a pizza: three.”

If you’re an ‘outside’ guest at one of these functions, it’s hard to follow the comments. At a Defence Forces venue, I once heard “…second round…” and couldn’t guess what it meant; everyone near me scratched out seventy-one, the year Bangla Desh was born. Then, when I heard “…first round…” you knew it meant the first skirmish with ‘the neighbours’, and I looked for sixty-five. A good way to pick up general knowledge. I’d recommend tombola for school-kids to learn history (even simple maths) in a fun way.

 I was introduced to tombola as a bride. It was torture for me to raise my hand and cry ‘yaa’ when I deserved a prize. After walking through the chairs and tables to the MC’s desk, if there was a mistake made, those present would boo and heckle. Tombola helped me get over my shyness.

I’ve seen tombola played at the Diwali get-together of a Gujerati joint family and at a school alumni meet. I’ve come across a group of trekkers in the Himalaya, hunched around a camp-fire, playing with the tiles and tickets. In Assam, at a village festival. And in Coonoor at an anniversary party. The accents were ethnic. The phrases and comments were in the vernacular, but the numbers were called out in English.

The Brits inadvertently left behind the tombola tradition. From snobbish clubs it has filtered down to urban slums, satellite townships, retired people’s associations and others with little on their minds. Unsung, this simple gambling pleasure has contributed to unifying the country.