A Suitable Boy(228)

‘Isn’t Varun studying at all for the IAS?’ asked Lata. The other day Varun had been talking about sitting for the civil service exams later in the year.

‘No,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra with a sigh. ‘And there’s nothing I can do. He does not listen to his mother any more. When I say anything to him, he just agrees with me and then goes off with his friends an hour later.’

‘Perhaps he’s not cut out for the administrative service,’ suggested Lata.

But her mother would have none of that.

‘Studying is a good discipline,’ she said. ‘It needs application. Your father used to say that it does not matter what you study. As long as you study hard, it improves the mind.’

By that criterion, the late Raghubir Mehra should have been proud of his younger son. Varun, Sajid and Jason were at that moment standing in the two-rupee enclosure at the Tollygunge race-track, cheek by jowl with what Arun would have considered the riffraff of the solar system, studying with intense concentration the pukka or final version of the racing form for the afternoon’s six races. They were hoping that they would thereby improve, if not their mind, at least their economic situation.

Normally they would not have invested the six annas that it cost to buy a pukka racing form, and would – with the help of the handicap list and information about cancellations – have simply pencilled in changes on the provisional form that they had bought on Wednesday. But Sajid had lost it.

A thin, warm rain was falling all over Calcutta, and the Tollygunge race-course was slushy. The discontented horses being walked around the paddock were being eyed keenly from all sides through the drizzle. The Tolly had gymkhana racing, not turf racing, unlike the Royal Calcutta Turf Club, whose monsoon season began more than a month later. This meant that professional jockeys were not compulsory, and there were plenty of gentleman-jockeys and even one or two ladies who rode in the races. Since the riders were sometimes quite heavy, the handicap on the horses too started at a heavier level.

‘Heart’s Story has 11 stones 6 pounds on her,’ said Jason glumly. ‘I would have bet on her, but –’

‘So what?’ said Sajid. ‘She’s used to Jock Mackay, and he can out-ride anyone on this track. He’ll use up a good part of that 11 stones odd, and that’s live weight, not lead pellets. It makes a difference.’

‘It makes no difference. Weight is weight,’ said Jason. His attention was caught by a strikingly attractive European woman of middle age, who was talking to Jock Mackay in low tones.

‘My God – that’s Mrs DiPiero!’ said Varun, in a voice half fascinated, half terrified. ‘She’s dangerous !’ he added with admiration.

Mrs DiPiero was a merry widow who usually did well at the races by gleaning tips from knowledgeable sources, in particular from Jock Mackay, who was reputed to be her lover. She often bet a few thousand rupees on a single race.

‘Quick! Follow her!’ said Jason, though the direction of his intentions only became clear when she went to the bookies and he turned his attention from her figure to the chalk markings on the blackboards which the bookies were rapidly rubbing out and re-marking. She was placing her bets in such a low voice that they could not hear her. But the bookies’ notations told their own tale. They were changing their odds in the wake of her heavy betting. Heart’s Story had come down from 7-to-1 to 6-to-1.

‘That’s it!’ said Sajid languorously. ‘I’m betting on that one.’

‘Don’t be too hasty,’ said Jason. ‘Obviously he’d praise his own horse.’

‘But not at the cost of her displeasure. He must know it’s undervalued at the odds.’

‘Mmm,’ intervened Varun, ‘One thing worries me.’

‘What?’ said Sajid and Jason simultaneously. Varun’s interventions were usually to the point in racing matters. He was a true but cautious addict.

‘It’s the rain. The heavily handicapped horses suffer the most when the ground is so wet. And 11 stones 6 pounds is about the heaviest handicap you can get. I think they penalized that mare because her rider held her back three weeks ago in the finishing straight!

Sajid disagreed. His cigarette bobbed up and down as he spoke. ‘It’s a short race,’ he said, ‘Handicap doesn’t matter all that much in a short race. I’m going to bet on her anyway. You two can do as you please.’

‘What do you say, Varun?’ said Jason, undecided.

‘Yes. OK.’

They went to buy their tickets from the tote rather than the bookies, since a couple of two-rupee tickets each was all they could afford. Besides, the bookies’ odds on Heart’s Story had now come down to 5-to-1.