When A Policeman
Gambles...
by Amit
Parmessur
It’s a fact.
A betting house is one of the funniest places.
For example, when someone is taking too much time
at the counter, those queuing behind wouldn’t
hesitate to say loudly that he’s seeking a
fortunate fortune. ‘He’ll come back
with a wheelbarrow or a lorry tomorrow as the
jackpot will be his’ is not an uncommon
comment.
Money is the
wheels of life. Life is a gamble. By these two
famous equations, gambling – being about
money – is life. Why do people then condemn
gambling? It’s bad if you are risking
someone else’s money, not your own. If
gambling addiction is leading to income addition
then it is all too fair. Gambling is surely
healthy ambling when you are winning.
But why people
condemn gambling when teachers, actors, policemen,
sportsmen and even gambling houses gamble? Why?
Multiplying your money with a combination of good
thinking and luck is certainly honest hard work.
Except for a policeman in uniform at a local
Steven Hills gambling house I guess.
With the giggles,
bizarre looks and words around that poor
policeman, the teams on the different screens
that evening seemed to take on other ominous
forms. Belgium’s Germinal looked like
Terminal. Argentina’s Tigre appeared like a
ravenous tiger. There was a plethora of teams,
and the money was there for the taking. The most
interesting part was that I was the policeman in
uniform.
“It’s
just a policeman losing our time. What if the
chief inspector had come? We would’ve waited
until night!” exclaimed one man when I was
taking all my time at the counter. “What if
the commissioner himself honours us!”
another added dryly. “We might never bet.”
A grizzled man
went on to defy me by lighting a cigarette. A few
minors standing out got in, chewing their chewing
gum à la Ferguson. Suddenly, Perth Glory and
Melbourne Victory from Australia reminded me of
my own tragedy and defeat. Toulouse told me I was
definitely going to lose. Blackpool told me that
I was basking in the black pool of shame there in
my uniform. Was it my fault though if I wanted to
get out of a dilemma risking my own money?
I had a list of
thirty teams split into 6. The girl at the
counter being new didn’t help me. The queue
grew as beads of sweat flew down my spine like
Robin Van Persie’s left-footed cannons.
My uniform was
protecting everyone, including myself. The
gambling house was the epitome of human sin. How
could I tell them that I’d finished work
late and wouldn’t make it in time before six
o’clock without my uniform? How could I tell
them that I’d made a promise of marriage
without revealing I had no money?
Money is the
holiest honey. Out of the 6 combinations I played
I won 4 spectacularly. I felt like a defiant
tiger, roaring in the deep pool of glory. It was
the last time I won in uniform. (I’m now
happily married.)
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