by Sanchita Dwivedi
“Chip off the old block,” muttered Ramlal grudgingly, as he saw Sundar Singh ride around the corner on his worn-out bicycle, whistling merrily. Then turning those know-it-all rheumy eyes towards Bachua, Ramlal continued, “But maa-kasam, juaan [Gambling] has never made a man…..and if you are as shrewd and lucky as that chap, jealous louts will keep buzzing mad, like flies near a pot of honey.” Bachua nodded, more not to offend Ramlal than because he agreed with or understood what the old money lender had said.
Unaware that he was being commented upon, Sundar Singh rode on cheerfully, till he almost crashed through the post office gate, one of the three pukka buildings in the village of Chaitanya. Resting his ageing two-wheeler against the red brick wall, he swung on his khaadi jhola, when Mohanraj, the village tailor, suddenly burst upon him, like a snow shower in June.
“Namastey bhai Sundar. Where are you rushing off to?”
“Nowhere special bhai, just got a letter here. My wife’s brother has just had a son. We can’t visit them right away…not enough money… so, this letter,” ended Sundar Singh in a matter-of-fact tone.
Mohanraj seemed to swell up at the mention of the monetary crunch and continued, “Arrey bhai, why should a kismatwalah [Lucky person] like you worry? One or two games of chance at the adda [Place of gathering of people for illegal/shady activities] and you will be off to your brother-in-law’s in a plane!”
Sundar Singh shook his head with a sheepish smile, “Nahi Bhai. If my wife gets to know, I’ll have a hard time making her board a plane back from her brother’s place.”
At this Mohanraj roared with mirthful laughter, his jelly-belly shaking all over.
“Arrey, wives are there for all these tantrums bhai. You don’t worry. Come to the adda tonight. A place like that is dead without masters like you,” pestered Mohanraj.
Such platitudes went on for few more minutes when Sundar Singh finally gave in. Victorious, Mohanraj joined his three dhoti-clad friends at the riverside, with a smug smile. “All is well, bhaiyon. Tonight is the night, my brother Chhagan,” said Mohanraj, back-slapping a man on his right, and the group roared with delight and a fake spirit of brotherhood.
As it happened, Chhagan was Mohan Raj’s distant relative and a shrewd conman from a neighbouring village, adept at manipulating cards in the game of chance. Mohanraj and his cronies had an elaborate but simple plan ready to score one on Sundar Singh once and for all. Three rounds of easy wins on the usual poor bastards to boost the confidence of the would-be victim to dizzying heights, as well as the sum at stake… and then the inconspicuous entry of Chhagan…and a little something in Sundar Singh’s Chhaanchh[Spiced buttermilk]. Simple.
It was a few minutes past ten. The adda was a spot of glimmer in the otherwise quiet and dark village. Pot-bellied, happy and satiated villagers swarmed in for their usual rounds of liquor and taash [game of cards]. Some came in just to look on, too scared by previous experiences. Taash at the adda was a big thing. No going back on words once a stake was put. Many had lost ridiculous amounts within these premises. No, they weren’t taking chances. Let people like Sundar Singh, the favorites of lady luck, play on.
Mohanraj, his cronies and Sundar Singh were given the place of honour, the center table, so that everybody could witness the massacre. When Sundar Singh played, it was showtime!
Within half an hour, the din was unbearable. Sundar Singh was out to kill but for the first time, Mohanraj was not sweating. He was cheering on Sundar Singh like a true sportsman, as if goaded by some kind of kinship. His cronies were eyeing the proceedings with some scepticism, wishing to stop the riot, wishing Mohanraj to announce the entry of Chhagan, their worried eyes darting all over for a glimpse of the conman. But Mohanraj, was a man possessed. Sundar Singh had already won pachaas hazaar (fifty thousand) and still Mohanraj didn’t seem worried. He was waiting…patiently.
As the stakes climbed further, the din peaked, going up to new feverish heights. “Sattar hazaar rupiye,” (rupees seventy thousand) the final stake was announced by a half-drunk ruddy-faced villager. Some gasped, some went unusually quiet.
And then Mohanraj said, “Arrey Kaka, get a pint of chhaanchh for all of us and a full matka for Sundarbhai. Today bhai has won me over,” he added with a huge smile directed at Sundar Singh who sat concentrating hard on the game, little aware of the relieved looks exchanged among Mohanraj’s cronies at this. To add to their relief, Chhagan suddenly materialized from a dark corner in the periphery of the adda.
“Sundarbhai, I want you to meet my second cousin, Chhagan. He has come here for vyapaar [business]. Reached today and will be off tomorrow,” said Mohanraj, introducing the stranger.
Sundar Singh turned his distracted eyes on the newcomer and gave him a polite and confused smile. Chhagan folded his palms in greeting, “I have heard a lot about you, sir. And none of it is false praise, judging from what I have seen. I have observed your game with my own two eyes and bhagwan-kasam, you are a wizard.”
Sundar Singh smiled courteously and a little impatiently. He wanted to get over with this last stake quickly, without much ado.
Chhagan continued, “But I am also renowned in my village. After what has been happening, it’s evident that this last stake is yours too. If you are not the one for easy wins, then let me try a hand.”
Mohanraj faked surprise and ejaculated, “But Chhagan…”
Supremely confident of his abilities and distracted in mind for some strange reason, Sundar Singh took another sip of his half-finished chhaanchh and seemed to contemplate.
“Very well shreeman,” he spoke suddenly and a little sleepily, “Ho Jaye! But I must warn you that I am the son of luck,” he added with disarming conviction.
Everybody smiled; Sundar Singh with a quiet, soporific silence, and Mohanraj and his cronies with a hint of mockery.
The last round began. Adrenaline pumped up as sweat gushed out. Sundar Singh shook his head to clear it for the final kill, Chhagan sat across with a suspicion of a smile, Mohanraj folded his plump hands across his pot-belly with eager anticipation, his cronies tried to look relaxed, struggling with suppressed excitement like poor secret keepers, and the crowd unconsciously leaned forward, gazing, expecting, hardly breathing, waiting for the first move…and then a woman screamed…!
“You juuandi[gambler], scoundrel, good for nothing peasant!”
As if, parts of a single body, the entire crowd turned in unison towards the direction of the voice. “Come home this minute or I’ll kill myself and the children. We are leaving for my brother’s place tomorrow morning. I have the tickets. And once we come back, if I see you sticking around with these hoodlums anymore, you have had it from me,” fumed Sundar Singh’s wife with heaving breasts; her voice and bulk over bearing, and ready to brook no objection.
All seemed bemused…taken aback. Mouth agape, Mohanraj saw Sundar Singh quietly pick up fifty thousand from the table and sheepishly leave the adda in the wake of his grumpy wife.
Standing near the doorway, Ramlal grumbled under his breath to Bachua, “Juaan has never made a man…and if you are as shrewd and lucky as that chap, jealous louts will keep buzzing mad, like flies near a pot of honey.”
Pic: https://www.flickr.com/
Awesome work!