A Visit to a Casino

            I wanted to visit a casino in Goa. This is just a beginning, I told myself, I’ve still to experience tombola, matka and lottery. Then I told Shri Husband and Goanna about my wish.

“You don’t have the gambler’s instinct,” Shri Husband cribbed. “Even when you cross a road through traffic you don’t take a chance.” Agreed, there have been times when I’ve started a jam by freezing in the middle of two opposing car-lanes, but to accuse me of not having a gambler’s instinct wasn’t fair.

“She married you,” sniggered Bai Goanna. “Some gamble that.”

Shri Husband smilingly said: “Lucky her.” I realized what a nuisance Fate could be about luck and stuff after their dialogue.

Nevertheless, we went to visit a casino near Panaji. No matter what time of day or night, there’s always a parking problem. It (casino, not parking problem) was bigger than I expected. The seats were red, the curtains were red, the walls were red, carpets ditto. The uniforms on the staff glittered. And there were mirrors on walls; I saw my reflection in all directions and each time I saw multiple images inside the frame. I felt I was inside a circus ring, with me being both clown and spectator.

A security team greeted us at the metal-detecting frame. “Why are four guards doing the job of one?” I asked Shri Husband. “Good way to generate employment,” he replied. “Besides, not every paying customer is law-abiding, so they’re a need in this industry.” I recalled aloud seeing guards at malls, theatres, restaurants, even clothes’ shops these days: did it mean many industries have this need? Did so many guards around mean we need less cops? “You’re forever asking questions that have no answers,” Bai Goanna whispered fiercely in my ear. I fell quiet.

I wasn’t carrying a purse into the casino, which made me a suspect of sorts. Apparently men and women go there with bulging bags and pockets. Or credit cards. They (guards and bouncers not people with bulging bags and pockets or credit cards) glared at my non-purse status, were stumped for a bit, then they stamped some glowing radioactive-looking green-yellow stuff on the back of my hand. It had the name and logo of the casino on it.

“It doesn’t go for days,” Bai Goanna scared me. “If you decamp with goodies, they will find you. It glows in the dark, you can’t escape.” I had a mind to take one pretty paper napkin to gift my friend who makes decoupage and other craft, but changed my mind after hearing Bai Goanna’s words. I settled on a toothpick as souvenir. Easy to carry and they wouldn’t miss one of those, would they? Still, I felt like a thief: middle-class morality is the bane of this country, I thought. Why can’t we all learn to bash on regardless, to dominate, to lead, to bully instead of whining about losing our culture/religion? Instead of go-getting, we sit and mumble sour-somethings to each other. Bah.            

“Try the food,” Shri Husband advised. It was very good. He was right. As always.

“People don’t come here to eat,” hissed Bai Goanna, “we have to go where the action is.” I very reluctantly left that wonderful buffet. The entertainment was good, too: girls bowing and flinging around their limbs, dressed in a cross between a wedding-gown and a trapeze-costume, dancing to the latest Bollywood noise.

We sat an elementary level table to learn the ABCs of electronic gambling. Pictures of aces, clubs, spades and hearts flashed on and off on the screens in some way. There was also a real pack dealt out and handled by a real person to show us how the game worked. Reluctant to allow a machine to swallow hard-earned money, I pretended to make myself comfortable over and over again in my chair whilst watching others play.

I thought the name of the game was Under-Bar. It was after a couple of ‘sets’ that I realized it was nothing to do with drinking too much. The term was ‘andar-bahar’, Hindi for inside-outside.  

The staff and customers represent many Indian states, each with its own accent. Naturally, misunderstandings happen, they get laughed off, people take offence, then make up over chai samosa or something else… this sub-continent with all its madness and chaos… imagine casinos, of all places, uniting us?

On another floor sat more serious, ‘advanced’ players. Here the computer was programmed to permute a variety of wins and losses. Mainly losses. For the players. I was told some were regulars. They flew in from cities across India, booking their travel and lodging in advance, hoping to suddenly spike their income. Hope reigns eternally; they keep returning. Most were here for a long weekend. Goa has something Las Vegas doesn’t: casinos with children’s areas.

The concentration on wooing Lady Luck was akin to deep meditation. Total involvement in the present, the moment. A Zen thing, I thought. The silence was broken by the occasional electronic tinkle of a scheduled ‘win’, the clink of glasses and the crunch of potato-wafers. Here, you can’t call potato-wafers ‘chips’. You-know-why.

At a side table, a bejewelled woman tittered over a WhatsApp message.

“Tu-ell carode,” she said to her companion. “That badminton-girl got.”

The latter choked: “Tu-ell carode? You mean twelve crore?”

“Hahn, and the other wrestler-girl and the gymnast, they also got lots, coaches also.”

“Good idea to try for the Olympics, so much money.”

The first woman read out more, about practice sessions at 4 am, no biryanis/desserts/television, sweaty workouts and age.

Number Two comforted her: “If it’s written in your naseeb, you’ll get your money here.”

I turned from them and confessed to Shri Husband and Bai Goanna, “I can’t get myself to feed a machine with cash.”

“Not tempted to get-rich-quick?” both chorused.

“No. Maybe something’s wrong with me.”

“Amen,” they said smilingly as we exited the casino.

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