The Foreign Service Journal, May 2009

T he Royal Calcutta Turf Club ex- ists in that wistful state of gen- tle decay that, for better or for worse, makes you long for the days of the British Raj. Maybe it’s the bird- cage elevators with high-buttoned bell- men that truck you between floors; or the dull yellow of the grandstand build- ing that reminds you of a faded sun; or the balcony’s inviting teak chairs, posi- tioned on fraying red carpeting, that offer a view of the Victoria Memorial across the way. We had been formally invited by the Stewards of the Turf Club, with whom I shook hands. But beyond matters of protocol, I was happy to run into my friend Pappoo. An open and generous sort who makes sure his guests are en- joying themselves, he guided us to his box seats, where we sipped Kingfishers and Limcas in the stifling heat. When I asked Pappoo which horses he was betting on, he told me that even though there were eight races, he would only be making one bet that day: in the fifth race, on a horse named Imperial- ism. It was as if the gods had scripted it: there was no question which horse I’d be backing. On our way to the betting area, Pap- poo introduced me to Wong, a close friend who was a stereotype of the many Chinese lovers of gambling I have seen around the world: a cigarette in his mouth, slight stubble on his chin and a Members Only jacket. On the main betting floor book- makers posted odds (on chalkboards!) that fluctuated minute by minute, and hopefuls waved rupees around as num- bers were erased and rewritten. Pap- poo explained how people avoided paying the 16-percent betting tax by placing multiple, smaller bets and asked me how much I wanted to bet. Perhaps not as confident as I assumed and willing to take the loss if Imperial- ism didn’t come through, he covered me with his money. We returned to the comforts of our box and settled into a slight nervous- ness as post time drew closer. The track is immense — 2,400 meters long — and it’s not easy, even with binocu- lars, to see the starting gate. Soon the horses were off and running. I grinned happily and shouted “Up with Imperi- alism!” Win or lose, that cheer alone was worth the price of admission. I knew we had it when Imperialism came around the final turn to our right (in India, unlike the U.S., the horses run clockwise) in second place and made his move. He charged into the inside position, pulling one length ahead as he passed in front of us. Im- perialism swept the field, winning by two lengths. We hopped down the stairs to the garden, whereWong explained the con- secutive bets he had placed as the odds had inched upward. He had wagered, in total, about 50,000 rupees (a little over $1,000) on Imperialism, and his re- turn must have been about $6,000. Winning makes the best of us im- mediately feel like giving gifts. Wong promised to send me, of all things, some of his wife’s pork sausages. “Most of the Indian Chinese make these sausages and they’re terrible,” Pappoo interjected. “They soak them in cheap Indian liquor, but Wong’s wife makes the best.” “My wife soaks them in Remy Mar- tin,” Wong said with a grin. The rest of the afternoon flew by as I explained to various people the story of Imperialism’s magical run and watched a horse named Southern Em- pire win the next race (it was a good day for conquerers and plunderers). I spoke with businessmen about the pos- sibility of foreign direct investment in the east, and with police officers about Muslim extremist threats from neigh- boring Bangladesh. As the sun began to wane, we left the stands. Outside, trade unionists were wrapping up their weekend of marches, speeches and shouts of defiant commu- nism. We drove home with memories of Imperialism’s triumph, the “Interna- tionale” ringing in our ears. ■ Rakesh Surampudi joined the Foreign Service in 2000. He was political-eco- nomic section chief in Kolkata from 2006 to 2008 and previously served in Pakistan, Mexico, the Dominican Re- public andWashington, D.C. He is cur- rently a cultural officer in London. It was a good day for conquerors and plunderers. 60 F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L / M A Y 2 0 0 9 R EFLECTIONS Betting on Imperialism B Y R AKESH S URAMPUDI