In the 1960s, Mussoorie was a kabariwala’s paradise. Departing families sold their junk, which men like Munnakabari peddled on the roadside where I could often be found browsing through secondhand books. No wonder I still have a soft spot for him.
You could catch Munna lost in a game of Rummy, Paplu or Sweep in the bazaar. ‘Given your talents,’ I’d tease him, ‘Shouldn’t you have been a wealthy man by now?’ ‘Belt up Saili Saab!’ he’d retort. ‘A card player’s curse is the wait for three aces.’
Come! I’ll let you into our dark secret which half the hill station knows about and the other half is sworn to silence: there are some hostelries in the station that await the arrival of the card addicts. Whilst the ladies handle the check-in, the menfolk have just three things on their minds—billiards, booze and cards.
On January 30, 1858, the Australian John Lang writing for Charles Dickens’ magazine Household Words, describes a visit to Suakholi, six miles away (then in the Rajah of Tehri’s territory) where he came upon the largest gambling den he had ever seen: ‘In the hostelries or sarais, nautch-girls would dance the night away,’ as the rich and famous (out of Municipal Limits and the grip of the British Raj) gambled fortunes away. According to local lore, a fine summer palace on Camel’s Back Road has been lost and won several times over.
Last fall around Diwali time a nudge of Nepali workers gathered at Kingcraig. Among them, one stood out with brand-new clothes draped with marigold garlands. ‘He’s this season’s winner of mang-patta,’ a bystander tells me. ‘It’s wrap-up time when one chap takes it all. The rest must wait till next year!’ Winners keepers! Losers weepers!
In the 1970s, the Mussoorie Co-operative Club (now derelict and abandoned) was a gathering place for professional gamers. Foremost among them was a contractor from the abutting hills. ‘He’d arrive with two briefcases: one empty, the other stuffed with cash!’ says Sitab Singh, the bartender. ‘He’d leave only after they were either both full or both empty!’
A hundred and more years later, another gambling den sprang up at what we, out of reasons of politeness, can only refer to as Chachi’s house. Rather amply endowed, fair, grey-eyed Chachi ran an open house for card-lovers in a little room above her vegetable store, where the long, the short and the tall gathered, hoping to make a killing. But Chachi had a few tricks up her own sleeves—whenever she got a bad hand she would pretend to drop something—distracting the others into losing a perfectly winnable hand.
When she passed away at ripe old age, two of her admirers wept inconsolably. Easygoing Chacha did his best to console them. Looking as convincing as a three-rupee note, he put his arms around them, whispering soothingly: ‘Don’t worry! In a few months, I’ll marry again.’
‘That’s all right for you,’ they cried. ‘But what will we do today?’I wasn’t in the least surprised when,
in tribute to her manifold talents, the bazaar downed its shutters for her funeral. Here’s hoping that next time around our card lovers will be dealt an even better hand.
Ganesh Saili
sailiganesh@gmail.com
Author, photographer, illustrator whose works have been translated into two-dozen languages