Grouse of cards

On the night before Diwali, people in the nicer parts of Delhi play cards and lose large sums of money, in the hope that this will bring them good fortune in the coming year. Given that most of them come back and play again, it’s a plan that seems to be working. This is not as surprising as you’d think. There are huge amounts of gravy in Delhi, and so long as they can keep the outsiders out, there’s more than enough for everyone.

These Diwali card parties also serve as a useful social yardstick. Cars can be hired. Homes can be rented. The diamonds could be fake. But a Diwali party pegs you in cash. Your status is defined by how much you lose. If you lose ₹5 lakh per move, you are at the high end of the market. You are a major loser. Your invitation will come with a mason jar of gold-leafed chocolate-covered coffee beans. You get your choice of single malts. Well-known musicians play softly in the background. They serve you poached scallops and baked beetroot purée accompanied by puffed rice, with caramelised garlic as appetiser.

The ₹20,000 to ₹1 lakh range makes you a mid-level loser. You get vegetable momos and regulated quantities of cashews, with Black Label. At the ₹10,000-20,000 range, you get papad and mid-level sweets, and Blender’s Pride, which will run out early. Ice will have to be picked out with fingers.

This may sound very rigid and hierarchical, but over time, the system has evolved. For example, credit is no longer provided, and all settlement is up front, after a former cricket tsar and a late hotelier* came to blows in a bar, over an unsettled gambling debt of ₹1 crore. This was when a crore was considered a large sum. The father of the tsar settled the matter amicably, and the payment was made in instalments. However, settlement in kind is still accepted, which is why cars and farmhouses sometimes unexpectedly change hands. I was personally very moved by the story of young Pritish, a 19-year-old BBA student, who gambled away his Zippo, his iPhone and his BMW, as well as ₹45,000 in cash, but promised to come back the next day, determined to win everything back. With youth like this, there is hope. It’s important to note that all this gambling is done mostly by men, since women can’t be trusted with money. The women gamble with much smaller sums, trying to win back some taxi fare in case their husband loses the car.

Luckily I have never been in this position, despite spending years in Delhi. I do not play cards at Diwali parties. It’s a result of psychological programming by aunties. In middle-class Bengali circles, gambling is frowned upon, especially by aunties. This is because our literature, films and recent family history are full of debauchees who blew up their fortunes on gambling and loose women, and, in some cases, pigeons, leaving their children to fight over one small residence in Kalighat. I had more aunties than most. So whenever anyone invited me to play cards, or tried to teach me how, their faces would float in front of my eyes, all 14 of them, shaking their heads and pursing their lips. “We knew it,” they would say, “What else could we expect from you?” As a result, I still don’t know how to play.

At parties, I sit in a corner, out in the garden, under a mid-sized tree, with the two or three other non-players and a deaf uncle. Most parties have a special place for those who don’t play cards. The lighting is dim. The snacks do not reach us. The last time I was in such a position, I was with three middle-aged men with big noses who talked only about Lahore. “The roads in Lahore, so smooth,” said one of them. “The kebabs in Lahore, so tasty,” said the second. The third just said “Lahore” once in a while and sighed, misty-eyed.

They discussed the roads and the kebabs, and, lowering their voices, the women. They were three adult Punjabi men, sitting right next to Outer Ring Road in Delhi, longing for Lahore. There was a poetic element to their sadness that was completely unexpected.

Ever since, whenever I go to a Diwali party in Delhi, I’m reminded of Pakistan, and how people sometimes celebrate what they have, because of what they’ve lost. Some of it might be fake, but the celebrations are real enough.

A very Delhi Diwali to all of you!

*He was alive at the time

Shovon Chowdhury’s most recent novel, Murder With Bengali Characteristics, has a Sunil Verma who wishes he was in Delhi