Crying hoarse in the racing season

mumbai: mahalaxmi beckons. not the goddess ensconced on an outcrop overlooking the arabian sea, but her more down-to-earth manifestation a few hundred metres away—the racecourse. as october's boiler-room gives way to november's more dignified clime, hundreds can be spotted making their way with single-minded determination to that brown-green pendant in the heart of the city.they come by car, they come by train. they bus it down, they walk it up. they come from all classes—the white-collared, the blue-collared and the collar-less. they come with hope (and not a little greed) and money to burn—hard-earned, inherited or ill-gotten, it doesn't matter. lottery may be dead, matka may have been pushed further back into its hole in the wall and card clubs may feel the pinch of inflation, but horse-racing rules, okay. few gambling pilgrims know, or care, that the sprawling 215-acre mahalaxmi racecourse is situated on reclaimed land. or that it was built with the largesse of industrialist and horse-lover c.n. wadia in the early twentieth century. flanked by the sweep of annie besant road to the west and the arterial e. moses road to the north-east, the mahalaxmi racecourse is where all the action is from early november to late april. and as the royal western india turf club whipstarts the current season, bittersweet memories come racing back, of a daze of wins and wonder, of days of pain and penury. fave recollections include that fine sunday in the february of 1994, when little by little, one was won over for life. she winked at me, she did. i had seen nothing like it. as she paraded in the paddock, her left eyelid dropped ever so languidly, and i dare say, suggestively, and then she was past me. if i was looking for a heaven-sent sign this was it. in the wink of an eye, my mind had been made up. littleover it had to be. it was derby day. mellow afternoon, charged atmosphere, people streaming in. knowing looks, innocent hunches. smart punters, hedging bets. smarter bookies, lowering odds. green turf, grey droppings. the colour of money. the scent of excitement everywhere. serene swishes of equine tails. vigorous nods of human heads. frenzied commentary, raucous crowds. slow horses, racing pulses. money in hand, heart in mouth. 3.45 p.m. time yet for the big race. time for a chilled beer, but there's been a run on the bar — and by sweat-stained beer guzzlers at that. but trust good old john to oblige a regular. even with his hands full serving billed cheer, he manages a smile and a kingfisher. only for you, sir. most chilling.'' thrilled, i say. elsewhere, things are hotting up.the lady in red has come in for much critical attention. in the heat of the moment she apparently let her slip show. having placed my bets, i have a hard time convincing my debutant friend to put his money where mine is. oh well, some people will swallow an elephant but strain at a gnat. by now the starter's up on the platform. generous patron, reason to smile, maximillion, icarus..the 13 horses are cantering in. the line is set—and they are ready and racing. as the horses turn the final corner and enter the straight, the crowd goes round the bend.the din is incredible. the commentator's voice is drowned out. there is wild cheering and jeering as the horses cross the finishing post. no one is sure who won, but all agree it was great fun. meanwhile, i'm pummelling my pal. didn't i tell you littleover would win? she winked at me.'' i duck a punch just in time. talk of doing others a favour. yes, that there is pesi shroff. grinning, winning pesi.ahead of the sweating, sulking losers. red roses for the winner and choice abuse for the also-rans, their jockeys and their mai-baap. the cacophony has subsided. it was a great experience, thank you colts and fillies, ladies and gentlemen. as littleover begins her regal walk to the stables, she tosses me a backward look. and winks.this time neither the beer nor the sun's had me. i wink back. and blow her a kiss for good measure. mahalaxmi beckons? nah, she summons. and who am i, a mere mortal, to say neigh? (this weekly column aims to capture that quintessentially mumbai state of mind.)