I sleep in again. I don’t really have a rhythm and sometimes I sleep worse… I notice I’m on my phone a lot. Maybe it’s still a kind of anchor to stay in touch with people. I remain a social animal. I continue my routine of cold showers here too, hot water isn’t really reliable, and honestly, it’s not that cold either.
Because of the search for that building yesterday, I came across a horse racetrack. That sounds like something for a Sunday. I check Instagram and quickly find an account noticing some races. I don’t look further into it, I’ll just see when I get there. The Mahalaxmi Racecourse, that’s where I need to be.
I grab a bottle of water from the stall across from my hostel. This guy always has a crowd and it’s always busy. From a sandwich, a single cigarette, 3 eggs, a little coffee or a chai—he sells it. The combo: coffee and a cigarette are the bestsellers here.
I pause for a bit because it’s raining hard. Two young guys are standing there and one walks up, soaking wet but with a smile. A fairly big guy. Just a bit shorter than me, so he’s not used to people taller than him. Both smiling, he asks where I’m from and we chat a bit. They went out the night before and are now recovering. No heavy alcohol smell tough—drinking isn’t so common here, more for the elite. Speaking about elite we quickly end up talking about the rich tycoon Mr. Ambani. He apparently owns 170 cars and parades through Mumbai in convoys. While I’m ordering my Uber and hopping in, I realize that Mr. Ambani probably has to think first about whether he’ll step into one of his Bentleys, Rolls Royces, or Mercedes. So who’s really rich, him or me?
The guys also tell me not to give money to beggars. Makes sense of course, but here it’s even the case that if you buy them products like rice, they sell the food again. Still, I give away things sometimes —a banana or half a mandarin for the vitamins. That’s it. After all, that’s also how I grew big.
The Uber arrives—not a Bentley, but a Mitsubishi. I fold myself into the backseat, destination: Mahalaxmi Racecourse. When I arrive, I see lots of scooters and cars in the parking lot, including some luxury ones. Still, there aren’t a ton of people. I wander around and ask about the horses, and someone points me further in. I walk past fallen buildings, no luxury vibes at all, it’s completely run down. The stadium from 1883 clearly doesn’t have a multi-year maintenance plan. I finally reach the horses—some well-trained beasts, looking sharp. For polo and racing, I’m told. But soon I realize these are just the stabled horses, no race here. So where then?
I walk back and find an entrance with a ticket office. I ask about the race. At first, they don’t want to disappoint any one here in India and says only: “Big race 4 o’clock.” At the entrance, I hear lots of noise and cheering. Now I get it. There’s a match within a match—horse races on a screen, and people betting heavily. I head inside, buy a program book for 40 rupees, and then I’m told I need to hand in my phone. On the one hand, that makes me uncomfortable, especially since I’ve already spotted some shady characters, and this betting crowd gives me mixed feelings. I hand in my phone, wander around, eat a bit, observe the people, but still feel uneasy. My whole life is on that phone—what if they sell it or steal it? That’s the control-freak side of me. I decide to go back and ask if I can keep it with me, saying I need to make a quick call. I pretend to call, but the answer is no—it’s not allowed inside, with fines and even police trouble. Everything’s for sale though, even that fine, even a new phone. Then a quote from my friend Rayan comes to mind: “Trust is a good reason.” So, in light of my travel spirit of letting go of control, I hand it in. I get a sealed ticket with a number.
I wander inside and what strikes me is the hustle around the betting counters, where they handwrite all the odds. It looks like a stock exchange floor from the 90’s. Nobody on their phones, everything on paper. Nostalgic and of course, no phones allowed because of corruption. So no photos either. It’s amazing to see a few hundred men going wild. I ask around because I don’t have a clue what is what. Luckily, they don’t see me as an infiltrator or a bookie. After some explanation and hearing names like Thalassa, Malibu, StrongerThanTheWind, High Reward, and Tyrannus, I bet a few euros on a winning horse. The men scream them to the finish, though the actual race is happening 300 km away. I scream as well, cheering Tyrannus to victory. A 50-rupee bet on Tyrannus pays out 7 times. For those at home: €3,50. That screaming, that win—it gives me a kick. 50 cents in, and that kick—priceless. Of course, my winnings vanish quickly. The casino always wins… Still, I’m fascinated by the industry, the number of men here on a Sunday, and how prepared they are. The booklet is about 30 pages long with details on past races. Each costs 40 rupees. People arrive well-prepared, with little notes and even scribbles on their hands to check before betting. My booklet becomes a handy second opinion for others and helps me strike up conversations.
I sit next to an old man, seasoned, 88 years old. Speaks fine English and proudly tells me he comes here every Sunday. Pointing into my booklet, he explains about the jockeys and horses trained in Mumbai—his pride. We chat about London, and he asks about my bets. He laughs when he sees them and says he prefers larger stakes. €100 is more his style—he just turned 10,000 rupees into 17,500. He tells me to think big. He’s a gold trader, a multimillionaire, with 2 daughters and 2 sons. I laugh with him, half believing, half not. I stay seated with him, and we watch some races together.
By 5 PM, everyone heads home, and I too feel rich—not from the betting, but from the experience. And that old man’s thought, to think big, it lingers. Maybe I should start a gold business here. No, not really. I’m not a gold digger. Earlier today someone wrote me: “Use your guide as your social sense in India.” And I do, and I will.
I head home, and at a busy intersection while looking for a taxi, two women pass by, modestly veiled, smiling sweetly, calling out: “pretty, pretty.” Their husbands walking behind them. I smile, keep walking, but glance back on instinct. One of the men scolds his wife—that wasn’t meant to happen. That too is India, and my awareness being a man in this city grows.
All in all, a rainy Sunday. On the way home, passing closer by the Antilia building, that old gold trader’s advice to keep thinking big still echoes.
A Sunday well spent.
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