The Desi Poker

The D-Day is about to dawn. And each year, a week before the Dhoom’s Day we get ready to lay our cards on the table. Not figuratively but literally. For this is the only time we get to play the game that is spoken about in hushed tones in a few circles. I could easily call it ‘The Indian Poker’ glossing it with a more sophisticated sheen. Or I could, without any inhibitions call it the ‘Flash’. Or simply translate and pronounce it as ‘The Three Cards’. But nothing is more charming and captivating than the raw and desi version of the sounds of Teen Patti.

A month after our wedding, Shanker announced that we had been posted to Chakradharpur.
‘What pur’ I asked.
You see, I have heard of and seen many purs before, including our very own Bhramha’s pur, but this definitely sounded like the ‘purest of the purs’.
‘I know’ he said,‘even I hadn’t heard of it. Just call it CKP’
How typically Railwayish, I thought- always abbreviating words and digitalizing time. Take this for a demo- ‘Wake me up at 22.45’ hubby says and by the time I calculate what O’ clock that number amounts to, it is already eleven and I am labeled a poor imitation of an alarm piece :-{

Anyway, everybody else’s reaction in the household was the same- my parents, my in-laws, none had heard of this ‘pur’ before. However when I told my Anglo Indian friend about it she nodded knowingly.
‘Oh! Chikaadapore? That's a lovely place man!’ she said.
The point is, that it was at our first posting in Chikaadapore or Chakradharpur or CKP or whatever that I was first introduced to Teen Patti.

In our circle of new friends, in this godforsaken ‘pur’, we were the only couple among a group of just joined bachelors- the lone King and Queen amidst the tens of Jacks. And since none wanted to be labeled as ‘dull boys’, all the Jacks worked in the morning and played cards in the evening! After a period of stern abstinence (I was strictly tutored as a child that playing teen patti was like taking a direct route to Hell), the lone vigilance started to get a bit dreary.
‘Aap bhi kheliye na Bhabiji’ they pestered.
But I politely kept declining, often pitying them for suffering from a complete draught of ethics.

But everyone seemed to be enjoying but me. And since I am not exactly a candidate for Sainthood, slowly the images of Hell and my resolves began to fade ;-} Soon I was lured into its intoxicating fold. However my initiation was gradual and by the time we were transferred out of Chikaadapore or Chakradharpur or CKP or whatever, I had become the Poker faced Mistress of bluff and skill.

A month later, we were seated in the serene atmosphere of the esteemed Kharagpur Railway Club, playing a tedious thirteen- card game. This time the cash was replaced with plastic chips. An elderly lady sat next to me with her sequences and pairs glued to her chest. Suddenly I came up with what I thought was an innovative suggestion.
‘Rummy is so boring. Let’s play Teen Patti, Auntie’, I told her.
The ‘Auntie’s’ expression suggested she was about to have a cardiac arrest. Her Officer husband’s gray eyebrows almost vanished into his scalp. Horrified glares and queer expressions flitted across the formidable faces of the other Rummy and Bridge playing crowd. I turned questioningly to Shanker with a ‘Whaaaaaaaaaat?’ look. He returned a severe gaze that got translated only when we reached home.
'It was a Railway Club we were playing in. NOT a Casino or a home. And ‘Auntie’ and ‘Uncle’ were as taboo a name, as was ‘Flash’ a game!'
But after having got addicted to a game of such high standards, Rummy did not hold much charm anymore. Therefore reluctantly, I resigned myself to being called an ‘Auntie’ , sometimes even by men older than me :-{ And the Indian Poker was forgotten for the next few years.

However, the fascination did not lay dormant for long. When we were posted in Kualalumpur, a group of Indian friends got together for Diwali. To complete the festivity the cards were dealt out. Here, there were no hang-ups, no restrictions, no Aunties and no Uncles:-} Everyone mutually agreed that Rummy was but a dummy of the real thing and Bridge was too tough to traverse. Only Flash could be spelt as enjoyment. So once more, from the embers of the powerful pastime, the Phoenix of the Indian Poker had risen. And this time we played, not with coins or chips but with Ringitt. The currency had hardened and the graduation was complete. However, the stakes were never high and it was not a daily affair. It could not be as now we were coupled with added responsibilities. But it certainly became a yearly ritual. A Diwali ritual!

Diwali is a festival of lights and sounds and refection. Of late however, cracker making is considered improper and mithais are calorific. The sounds and the aftereffect are polluting. In short all the social addendums connected to this beautiful festival are either unhealthy or politically incorrect. But come Diwali and Shanker and I still look forward to a collective escape from the rigours of a mundane life. We call upon some of our friends and for the next few days we religiously lay aside our other commitments to shuffle and dole out a pack of cards. We lay a wager, remain poker faced or even bet as ‘blind’ but all the time keeping in mind an important factor. The ‘teen’ important ‘pattis’ are distributed not with fortune, defeat or addiction in mind. They are purely dealt with chance, amusement and fun!