POOR PEOPLE AND GET-RICH-QUICK DREAM

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The emotions shown in the racecourse were contagious


Some of the students in the college where I studied were members of the Riding Club at Guindy. They went there early in the morning every day and rode the horses for a specific time. These amateur riders were entitled to free passes for the Guindy races. Sometimes they took us along.


Emotion on display

The first day I witnessed the races I was struck by the smooth elegance of the horses and their graceful movements as they ran. I was also impressed by the mass of humanity milling around the various enclosures and the raw emotions they exhibited. There is no place like a racecourse to see human passions in unrestrained display.
Some men standing near the railings would be shouting themselves hoarse as the horses entered the home stretch. If their choice won, they screamed with delight and danced all the way to the pay window. Some stood sobbing as they slowly tore their betting slips. A common saying in the racecourse was that when you come to the races you should be sure to have a return ticket for the electric trains, or you may be stranded.


The emotions shown in the racecourse were contagious. One day I heard a lot of yelling and shouting as the horses came round the bend, and then realized that I was the one making all that noise, which was rather uncharacteristic.


Shattered dreams

The most pathetic sight in the racecourse was that of poor people coming with a get-rich-quick dream, and then standing there weeping with all their hopes shattered. Many women who sold vegetables or fruits for a living came to the races and stood expectantly with their empty baskets after vending their wares the whole morning. Someone known to them read the tips from a Tamil newspaper, and they placed their bets accordingly. Perhaps their whole week's earnings went into the betting.
When the race was over you could see these women with devastation writ large on their faces, making their tragic exit from the racecourse. But one day it was different. The Tamil paper had tipped a horse called Premchand. No other paper had mentioned this horse.


The vegetable women were as usual faithful to the Tamil paper - and Premchand won! The women threw their baskets up in the air and did a jig as they celebrated their victory. And as the winning horse was led into the paddock, the women crowded at the railings and cooed, "Premchandu, Premchandu!" and held their palms together in a gesture of thanks. It was very moving. And everyone there savoured the moment which was perhaps never to be repeated.


The V.I.P. Punter

A well known public figure from Madurai was a regular at the races. But unlike the rest of the crowd, he sat in splendid isolation under a tree in the members' enclosure. A chair was kept for him there, and two men attended on him. He was always in a cream coloured bush coat and trousers to match. His walking stick rested against the arm of his chair. An enormous cigar dangled from his lips. Every time a race was announced he called one of the attendants and pointed to the number of the horse of his choice in the race book. Then he dipped his hand into capacious lower pocket of his bush coat and pulled out a wad of currency notes which he handed to the man without counting. He never went to the railing to see his horse's performance, but just sat there placidly puffing away at his cigar. When the race was over the man came and stood before him with a miniscule shake of his head. The old gentleman shrugged his shoulders and kept puffing away.


Sometimes the horse won, and the man came back clutching a lot of money. Which the gentleman stuffed in his pockets without counting. We thought that it must be nice to have so much money to throw around.


But all that money didn't bring him the excitement lesser mortals like us felt and expressed in the racecourse which was what made it all worthwhile for us perhaps.




J. VASANTHAN
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