How Indian Men Found A Space For Themselves At The Mahjong Table

MAHJONG, IN ITS EARLIEST TELLING, DID not arrive gently. It moved through rooms thick with smoke and calculation, a game of instinct and appetite, where risk was currency and silence carried considerable weight. Its mythology is steeped in speculation—a smattering of folklore, peppered with fact—but its early associations were unmistakably masculine: coded, competitive and cutthroat.

And yet, in contemporary India, Mahjong has undergone a complete reinvention. It now lives, most visibly, in sun-drenched living rooms and stately clubhouses, carried forward by women who have transformed it into a ritual of elegance and social rhythm. The surprise is not this evolution. It is that men, long absent from this softer iteration, are now returning to the table with much enthusiasm. Not as interlopers reclaiming territory, but as participants drawn to something far more complex than nostalgia.

Organisations such as The Mahjong Network, which hosts lessons, tournaments and community events, have helped build a thriving Mahjong community in which men are no longer the exception. Harshad Daswani is one of them. The entrepreneur, who comes from the world of e-commerce and apparel manufacturing, admits his introduction to Mahjong was born out of a familiar kind of social persuasion. “Like all exciting activities, it was via peer-pressure, where friends were already playing and I didn’t want to get left behind,” says Daswani. “I immediately signed up with ace Mahjong teacher Neha Dalamal, with a group of four male players and once we finished our 10-session course, I was hooked!”

For Daswani, 50, the game transcends any notion of gendered participation, resting instead on skill, intuition and endurance. He likens it to Bridge, in both temperament and intellectual rigour. He adds: “Just like Bridge, there is a strong mental quotient and a competitive nature which makes this a very exciting game. If there was a way to burn calories while playing, this would be the game of choice for everyone,” says Daswani. “Although now, brands such as The Beach Company are selling Aqua-Mahjong sets so people can swim and play!”

For Sahill Shaha—author, innovator, and, in his own words, “accidental banker”—the game enters not as a calculated choice but as a byproduct of circumstance. “I’ll be very honest here, I was going through a personal loss and just wanted to stay out of the house,” the 42-year-old says, candidly. “Book and board game clubs were fading, dating apps weren’t working for me, (laughs), then I saw a reel of pretty women playing Mahjong and, voila, it ticked all the right boxes. So I signed up for a class.”

It is a line that invites a grin, but beneath it sits something more telling—a search for structure and a room to belong to. “I was getting bored of regular card games and most friends had turned into full family men, with less meeting, drinking and partying. I still play cricket or paddle, but Mahjong adds a different social layer,” adds Shaha. That layer is where the story deepens. Because Mahjong, unlike most traditionally male-coded leisure spaces, does not hinge on performance or bravado. It requires attention and observational intelligence.

Karan Khandelwal arrives at the game from a more structured entry point, but lands in a similar place of fascination. “I’ve been friends with Diya Roopchand Kaul and Vasundhara Sinha for a long time, so when I heard they were start - ing The Mahjong Network in Delhi and needed a guinea pig to test out the classes and give feedback, I was more than happy to offer my services.” What began as participation became immersion. “Mahjong is genuinely fun. There are thousands of variations and no two games feel the same. It definitely brings me more joy than my PlayStation ever has,” Khandelwal, 31, adds.

There is something telling in that comparison—the displacement of digital stimulation by analogue immersion. Mahjong’s appeal lies in its demand for presence. “Every game has to be strategised differently… you have to be very careful about the hand you decide to play,” Khandelwal explains. “There’s also a feeling that’s hard to explain—when you’re the one who gets to yell ‘Mahjong!’ to declare victory after a long game. You go home happy that day.” The satisfaction is not explosive; it is cumulative, built slowly over decisions made and unmade. “Like poker, Mahjong is all about strategy and reading the table,” he adds.

And yet, for all its strategic architecture, the modern Indian Mahjong table is curiously detached from the idea of financial stakes. “In India, we don’t really play for money, if anything, reputation is the real stake,” Shaha notes. It is a telling shift—the transference of value from currency to credibility. “There’s a certain satisfaction in seeing competitive faces lose,” he adds. A wry reminder that the instinct to win has not disappeared; it has simply been reframed.

For Sameer Savara, 54, an entrepreneur in the green energy sector, the draw of Mahjong is almost introspective. “I’m a bridge player but Mahjong seemed ‘lighter’ and more social, a way to unwind and spend time with friends—even on weekends away,” says Savara. His relationship to the game resists the language of competition. “I don’t play for stakes, it’s just fun to engage the mind and chat with friends, in a relaxed way. I’m not too advanced or competitive… the game is so dynamic and that’s what’s intriguing. It’s a growing community and while the game is very old, there has been a renaissance in terms of popularity,” he adds.

But it is in what he shares next that Mahjong reveals its most unexpected dimension. “I lost my father some months ago and the void has been difficult, especially during family lunches. So now my wife and I, and my sister and brotherin-law, play Mahjong together every weekend. It’s a welcome distraction… we are learning together as we go along,” Savara says. Here, Mahjong ceases to be a game in any conventional sense. It becomes an architecture within which absence can be held. Not an escape from grief, but a way of sitting alongside it.

This ability to oscillate between strategy and solace is perhaps Mahjong’s most compelling trait, particularly for a generation of men navigating shifting definitions of leisure, connection and masculinity. Daswani frames it with clarity. “From my perspective, it is a much better way to meet and interact with friends, family and like-minded people, which traditionally involved food or drinks. It is a much better use of my time… networking with brain power in addition to being a fabulous way to spend quality time.”

What he articulates is a broader cultural pivot. The old templates—late nights, loud rooms, transactional bonding—are no longer sufficient, or perhaps no longer desirable. Mahjong offers something slower, but no less engaging. It asks for time, but rewards it with depth.

Inevitably, there is the question of difference. Do men and women play Mahjong differently? The answers, layered with both humility and self-awareness, resist easy binaries. “Absolutely,” says Shaha. “Many men come from poker or teen patti, so the poker face is strong. On intensity, yes, but also speed.”

Daswani complicates that narrative: “Men seem to be a little more aggressive in their approach… but women are the sharper lot and have a lot more focused approach and generally accrue more wins and points.” Khandelwal, perhaps most candidly, concedes: “The women tend to pick up the game quicker. The men are definitely a bit slower.”

There is something radical in that admission. In a culture where men are often conditioned to lead, Mahjong presents a reversal—one where they enter as learners, not authorities. So what, then, explains this growing male gravitation toward Mahjong? It is not, as one might assume, a longing for its high-stakes past. If anything, it is a response to the present—a search for spaces that allow for both engagement and ease, competition and connection, intellect and intimacy. “Curiosity and staying socially active are the main reasons, followed by women,” Shaha admits. “Sometimes men are simply dragged in by their partner or a female friend.”

Khandelwal offers a gentler version of the same truth: “Or maybe, they just want to spend more time with their wives.”

Mahjong’s resurgence cannot be explained by nostalgia alone. What draws people back is something more nuanced: the game’s ability to exist simultaneously as intellectual sport and social ceremony. And that is probably why, after all its iterations, the game feels newly relevant.

Not as a relic of the past, but as an antidote to the speed, solitude and disposability of modern life, where the simple act of sitting across a table and paying close attention is now a luxury in itself.

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