In 1992, an opportunity arose. The collapse of the Soviet Union had created a vacuum in the Russian market, and enterprising businessmen from around the world were clamouring to take advantage. Kumawat saw a golden opportunity. By then, he had been dealing with Moscow importers for years, supplying generic drugs made by Sun Pharma. Packing his bags, he left the familiar chaos of Mumbai behind and set his sights on the uncharted territory of Moscow.
Kumawat wasted no time in establishing a foothold in the Russian capital. Using his extensive contacts in the pharma industry, he started importing generic drugs from India, quickly gaining a reputation for his high-quality products and competitive prices. Moscow’s gritty streets, rife with the remnants of Soviet-era organised crime and the nascent seeds of post-Soviet capitalism, provided the perfect environment for a man of Kumawat’s talents and ambition. His success was hard-earned but swift. His keen business acumen and relentless ambition propelled him to great heights in the city’s pharmaceutical market. As he settled into his new life, he embraced the role of a true Muscovite, adapting to the local customs and immersing himself in the vibrant culture.
Eventually, Kumawat found love in the arms of a beautiful Russian woman. Their union not only solidified his place in the society but also served as a testament to his ability to reinvent himself and thrive in a foreign land. Amidst the constant hum of ambition and intrigue, Kumawat built a life for himself that far surpassed anything he could have imagined back in Mumbai.
And yet, even as he basked in the spoils of his hard-won prosperity, the seductive allure of the gambling world continued to beckon him. His past successes had left an indelible mark on his psyche, a constant reminder of the thrilling, high-stakes world that had once been his playground, the spoils of which had made his move to Russia possible. But in Moscow, he would find a new game to conquer, one that would test the limits of his cunning and determination. The game of cricket. He wanted to become the ambassador of the sport in Russia, with an eye on profiting from it down the road.
However, things did not go as planned.
“Kumawat, it’s Faizal. I’m outside your house with Mithun. Can we come in and talk?” The two men stood outside shivering as there was a pause at the other end before Kumawat grudgingly agreed. Faizal and Disco made their way up to the house.
As they walked in, they found Kumawat, now in his fifties, in his living room, dressed in cricket whites and sweating profusely. He was practising his batting, hitting a ball hanging on a rope with a cricket bat. His once-athletic body was now well past its prime, and his belly bulged from underneath his shirt. Various cricket memorabilia adorned the room, including signed bats and balls from some of the biggest names in the game.
“Faizal, Mithun,” said Kumawat, wiping the sweat off his forehead and having a swig of water. “What do you want?” Faizal got straight to the point. “We need your help. We have a plan to fix matches at the IPL and make a lot of money off of it.”
Kumawat was mid-gulp but choked at this, water spurting out of his nose. It took a while for his cough to subside.
Even Disco looked betrayed. “The fuck! IPL, Faizal?” he asked, “I thought you were talking about fixing some domestic league!”
“Is everything alright, Rajveer?” asked a concerned Svetlana, Kumawat’s wife, a native Russian with chestnut hair and striking green eyes, as she came into the room to check on him.
“Da, da, dorogaya, you can go.”
But Svetlana offered the guests something to drink, first, at which Disco jumped in eagerly, “Chay budet prekrasnym!”
Kumawat gave Disco a nasty look.
“How about some pakode to go with?” asked Kumawat, dripping enough sarcasm to fry the said pakode.
Disco, salivating, was about to say yes when Faizal elbowed him. “Err, no, no. Acidity,” he said, patting his stomach.
“Thank you, malýshka,” Kumawat said, ushering Svetlana out of the room. He then folded his arms and faced Disco.
“Bhabhiji is very kind,” remarked Disco sheepishly.
Kumawat picked up his bat to start practising again. “Right, so where were we? Oh yes, match-fixing at the Indian Premiere League. Quick question: subah subah vodka chadha rakha hai kya?”
Faizal and Disco exchanged a glance. Faizal had anticipated this reaction, but he had come prepared. “The plan is solid, Kumawat,” Faizal said. “And your cut will be substantial. Think about it, you can retire comfortably and live the rest of your days in luxury, hitting balls all day long.”
Excerpted with permission from Indian Punter League: The True Story of the Fake IPL, Abhishek Bhatt, Westland.
