I’M no friend of gambling, get that straight. The thought of what little money Ihave disappearing across a blackjack or roulette table leaves me cold. Poker with friends,now that’s a different story. But gambling with strangers is a pointless exercise,fraught with risk, best avoided. So it was journalistic enquiry, not greed, that broughtme to visit Kathmandu’s casinos recently. I left my wallet at home, but brought mynotebook and a television camera. I was looking for Indian tourists. They’ve all butdisappeared from the Nepalese capital, post Hrithik Roshan, post hijacking.
But aside from Colombo—and it costs real money to get there, and you can’t spendyour own rupees as you can in Nepal—there is no other place for the hardened Indiangambler than the four casinos of Kathmandu. A sign at the door greets you with the houserules: "No short pants, sandals, T-shirts or Nepalis." Perhaps it was a readingof those signs that touched off December’s riots in Kathmandu, not the non-existentvenom of a very nice young Bollywood actor. If I were a Nepali, I’d take to thestreets too. The Nepalese government, it seems, either thinks gambling is beneath itscitizens, or something they must be protected from, even at the cost of an insult tonational pride. The regulations are clear: anyone can gamble in Kathmandu, 24 hours a day,as recklessly as they please: so long as they weren’t born there. Once aside,officious security people kept hissing in my ear, "don’t take any pictures ofanyone who looks Nepali". Frankly, aside from three Chinese and three whiteAmericans, all of the gamblers looked Nepali. I asked a few and they said they wereIndian, but a fiercely waggled finger from the security chief when I tried to take apicture pronounced on nationality more than any Immigration officer ever did. So I’mnot sure if I found the elusive Indian tourists or not. Nor did I lose any money, which isan accomplishment in itself.
