The Dark Horse

I was born simple. I was brought up simple. Life ruined me. With each passing weekend, I move from being corrupt to decadent. Like yesterday, for instance. We went down to the Mahalaxmi race course, ‘just to experience the whole deal’ AND my excuse was that it was a professional hazard (of being a wannabe writer who needs to broaden her horizons).

Except the occasional bet on cricket, I am not much into gambling. I don’t play poker, I don’t mess around with the stock market and I definitely don’t put my money on a four-legged animal. My only previous brush with race horses was four years back, when I was in my first year of MBA and as part of the Corpcomm team I had to interview a Symbi alumni, who had a flourishing business which dealt with buying and selling of race horses.

While the minor glitch was being stopped at the gate (deceptively school-girlish looks often let me down), I managed to sneak in and there was no looking back. We rooted for the underdog, or should we call her the ‘underhorse’, and unexpectedly, she finished third, leaving all of us smiling and a few thousand bucks richer!

Apart from the race itself, it felt like being transported to a different world altogether: with the men, dressed in formals and neck-ties and the women resplendent and sophisticated, it was the cream of South Mumbai gathered on a Sunday afternoon, carelessly elegant and carefully arrogant, while I looked down mournfully at my shabby outfit which stood out as a constant reminder that I DID NOT BELONG THERE.

I also dutifully stuck to my new resolution as I guiltily watched Manchester United vs Liverpool, almost like I was cheating on cricket. As I nearly knocked over my glass when Rooney scored back-to-back goals, I firmly reminded myself that I was only flirting with football, and the alcohol was the REAL deal. I even missed the major part of the India-Australia match, and just to prove a point, Dhoni chose to regain his Midas Touch and pulled off an unlikely win.

Now who would have bet on THAT?