Every Dream Is a Prediction for These Indian Gamblers

One morning, the first thing Bhura Yadav saw was his wife on her way to their tiny kitchen, a knife in hand. To him, this mere sight was a sign from the universe that he should bet his luck on ‘44’ today. “Her name is Chando and I saw her with a chaku (knife). ‘Chando’ and ‘ Chaku’ both stand for chaar (four), and I got both the digits. Hence, 44,” he tells me while drawing on a hookah in the town of Sahawar in Uttar Pradesh, surrounded by other satoriye (gamblers) he meets everyday.

Yadav is a die-hard player of Gali Disawar, a popular game played in the region. For thousands of men, satta—a form of gambling—dictates every aspect of their lives. Apart from being a major pastime for men from lower middle class, this tradition of gambling on numbers from 1 to 100 gives them a sense of community, and hope. It might be illegal but that hasn't stopped thousands of players betting any amount they like, getting 80 times whatever they put in if they win.

But like all other forms of gambling, this one has a dark side too. Thriving on dreams of getting rich in a short time, this passion has led to broken homes, affected the mental health of many, and even led a few to attempt suicide, some of them successfully.

In their world, everything is an omen. Most of them believe their dreams can predict the winning numbers. After dreaming of two black snakes slithering down a road, Yadav went on to bet his money on the number 77. “Saanp (snake) and sadak (road) both stand for saat (seven).” When he saw himself in his dream eating two rotis, he bet his money on 28 and 82. “Two rotis placed side by side is called mundi. It would look like a 8. And there were two rotis. Hence, I get two numbers from this combination: 28 and 82.”

Other men in Yadav’s group think they are guided more by mathematics than superstitions. But strangely enough, only they understand the kind of math that goes into this. Whenever Noor Ahmed enters a room, he always counts the number of people sitting in the room and uses that number to give him haroof (the first number), but asks wise men in the village for dhai (the digit on the right).

“When someone dies in your dream, we call it murda,” explains Ahmed. “It’s a signal that the future lies in the past. So, I’d simply bet on a number that won the day before. If 37 has been the winning number the previous night, I’d bet 37 today.” Using similar “logic” and superstition, seeing a rat drinking milk means 42 and 24, while a buffalo drinking water is a symbol for 57 and 75.

Popular in the region from the British era, Gali Disawar is associated with many legends and has been a menace for the authorities in the region. Its popularity is so immense that videos on Youtube explaining the complexities of the game have lakhs of views. Gali is the betting game that is played in the morning, while Disawar is the second round that happens in the evenings.

Sanjeev Sharma*, the kingpin of the satta business in the region, says that they pay the cops at least Rs 3 lakh each month, as bribes. “At the peak of its popularity, we were paying Rs 7 lakh to everyone, from the hawaldar to the biggest officer. Thana hamare hi paise pe chalta tha (the police station was running from our money).”

Sharma or other sattebaazi agents keep 20-30 per cent of the total money they earn from gamblers, giving the rest to the company Satta King, which operates from Delhi. Under Sharma work the khaiwala (agents)—the ones who sit at street crossings, tea stalls, biryani shops and anywhere they can lure gamblers. They write a chit and sign it with the numbers, giving a copy to the players. These agents earn upto Rs. 3,000 daily but get picked up regularly by bribe-seeking cops.

“Our system works on mutual trust, which I have built over time,” explains Sharma, adding that the business runs in all nearby districts including Aliganj, Patiyali, Budaun, Kasganj, Aligarh and Hathras. “Usually, the number which has the lowest money placed on it will win. In the end, I know our business is always profitable for the ones who run the business. Almost all players lose more money than they win.”

Sharma, a graduate from Delhi University, says he has made a name for himself. He has a number of houses scattered across the region, and a son who just became a lawyer. All this without never having played satta himself. “For the players, it’s a kind of nasha (addiction). They are so desperate that when they have nothing to do, they use a slipper and bet on which way it would fall.”

* Name changed on request.

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