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HomeFeatures‘Selling dreams to small people’—Kerala’s lottery system powers ambition, addiction

‘Selling dreams to small people’—Kerala’s lottery system powers ambition, addiction

At least 1.5 lakh people earn a living from Kerala’s lottery business. If a ticket wins, even the agent who sold it gets a share of the prize money.

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Sathyapal Sridhar has designed every lottery ticket in Kerala for the last 15 years. His security measure is coded into each. He is Kerala’s answer to lottery scams.

A magnifying glass lies among scattered scraps of coloured paper on his desk, dominated by a large computer with Adobe Photoshop. His career trajectory follows the lottery’s looming presence in Kerala.

The state runs a daily lottery — seven weekly tickets and five bumper draws throughout the year. When Sridhar joined as a graphic designer in 2007, the lottery department was struggling to tackle mounting scams. Four years later, he took matters into his own hands and began introducing safety measures. Now, he has his own security design lab right next to the director of lotteries’ office in Thiruvananthapuram. 

Originally introduced to increase the state’s revenue, the Kerala lottery has become an indelible part of its landscape. It is so important—economically and literally—that a lottery seller can be spotted every 50 metres.

Mohammed Salim, who sells lottery tickets in Thiruvananthapuram | Photo: Vandana Menon/ThePrint

And the state is cashing in on this business of selling luck. According to the lotteries department, the Kerala government prints over 1.8 crore tickets every day.

This means one in three people in Kerala buys a lottery ticket daily. Sridhar is no exception — despite his heavy involvement in the designing and printing of these golden tickets, the shiny allure of hitting the jackpot hasn’t faded. He still buys tickets and has taken home its smaller prizes.

He taps a prototype ticket on his desk and holds it up against the light to reveal a security code he designed. “It’s all in my bhagyam [luck],” he grins.


Also read: On Google Pay, India is paying and playing — the good old lottery game


A complex journey

It all happens with the daily draw, which takes place at 3 pm every day at the Russian Cultural Centre in Thiruvananthapuram, just a few kilometres from the lotteries department.

Daily lottery draw at Russian Cultural Center, Thiruvananthapuram | Photo: Vandana Menon/ThePrint

The colourful lottery machine stands tall in a hall at the centre, also known as Gorky Bhavan. The draw is broadcast daily on four official TV channels, as well as the government department’s YouTube channel. There’s a new set of judges every day. This panel comprises elected officials or important panchayat/zilla zone leaders specially invited to press the all-important buzzer. The buzzer is also sensitive to the force of the finger pushing it, so it is reset daily to prevent malfunctioning.

A long process of machine testing – to prevent cheating – is followed by the official broadcast, which happens like clockwork. The judges take turns pressing and passing the buzzer along a table. The department’s representatives watch the proceedings like a hawk, noting everything down.

Once the lucky numbers are out, the list is uploaded to the government’s website; it is then downloaded and printed by agents and vendors across Kerala.

40-year-old Jayathi gets her list printed at the stationery shop that doubles up as her lottery stall. She began to sell lottery tickets in Kochi’s Palarivattom after her husband’s varicose veins (gnarled, enlarged veins that affect mobility) made it difficult for him to work. “The prizes have gone down these days, so people are not interested in buying tickets,” she says. Jayathi is referring to the uptick in daily lottery prizes, which is further splitting the jackpot among potential winners.

“People would rather win one big prize, I think. But then, if someone wins a small amount, they will definitely come back for more to improve their chances,” she adds. Her sales go down toward the evening once the day’s draw is decided.

“The government also keeps changing little-little things about the lottery. There used to be people who tried to cheat and sell fake tickets, but that practice has come down now,” she says.

This change can be attributed to Sridhar and the multiple security checks he’s introduced into the tickets. Each day sees a different coloured ticket: Sunday is red, Monday is yellow, Tuesday is pink, Wednesday is green, Thursday is cyan blue, Friday is orange, and Saturday is purple. There are security barcodes, QR codes, and specific draw numbers. He has also introduced fluorescent motifs that can’t be photocopied or duplicated. The ticket numbers are added during the printing process.

Sridhar designs the tickets nearly two months in advance in Thiruvananthapuram. The tickets for the daily draw are then sent to the department’s zilla office at least two weeks before the draw date. The zilla lottery office then distributes the daily-draw tickets in bulk to vendors, who supply smaller amounts to agents like Jayathi.

For Sridhar, it all began with buying a lottery ticket himself. Serendipitously, while on his way to a job interview at the lottery department in 2007, he was approached by a lottery seller. He figured he would be better prepared for the interview with the day’s ticket for reference. But more importantly, he saw it as a sign. Sridhar bought the ticket and went for the interview armed with luck. He got the job and won a prize of Rs 5,000. There has been no looking back since.


Also read: Tamil Nadu ‘lottery king’ raided for tax evasion was labourer who built Rs 7,000-cr empire


Kerala’s lottery ladder 

The lottery ladder has four main rungs: The ticket buyer, the agent, the vendor, and the government. And all you need to climb it is luck.

At a busy Kochi intersection, 27-year-old Akhil and his two friends supervise a lottery stand. The stall, started by his father, is squeezed between a florist’s shop and another lottery stand run by 48-year-old Shaji. But Akhil says there’s no competition between them. Both wait and watch patiently as hopeful buyers loiter between their two shops, letting them choose the seller and ticket number that could change the course of their lives.

Hussain, a migrant worker from Assam, decides to buy from Shaji’s stall. Shaji greets him by name and averts his eyes to let Hussain make his choice. He buys two tickets a day, and Shaji teases him for his complex calculations and careful selection. “My heart beats a little faster when I sell tickets,” says Shaji after Hussain hands over Rs 80 — one ticket for the daily lottery costs Rs 40, while the price for the special bumper varies according to the prize pot. It costs Rs 250 to buy the Rs 10 crore bumper ticket and Rs 300 for the coveted Onam bumper, which offers Rs 25 crore as prize money. “Because I feel like I’m selling dreams to small people. I pray when I sell,” he adds.

“The people who buy tickets are smaller, poorer people,” says Akhil. “Lots of daily wage labourers [buy lottery tickets]. Big, rich people only buy bumper tickets because they’re more expensive,” he adds.

Akhil retires to the small office behind his stall to begin stacking the next day’s tickets — it’s 5 pm, and the day’s tickets have been crumpled and thrown in the trash. The Kerala government broadcasts the daily draw at 3 pm every day, and residents hold their breath to see who’s won. Stall owners and vendors print a list of the winning numbers and put them up for perusal. Every evening, the promise of tomorrow’s success takes over.

Akhil and Shaji’s intersection is a daily transit point for hundreds of workers. Sudam Burman, a driver from West Bengal’s Siliguri, buys five tickets from Akhil. Depending on his mood, he spends between Rs 200-250 a day, planning to build a house with this money. Meanwhile, K. Anand, a construction worker from Andhra Pradesh’s Anantapur, hopes to fulfil simpler ambitions with the four tickets he’s bought. “What will I do with the money? Go home [to Anantpur],” he says.

But some say the lottery system has created a population too dependent on luck. Earlier, tickets were sold by people with disabilities or those who could not take on manual labour. Today, educated youth like Akhil – who has a BA degree and can speak decent English – have also chosen to sell lottery tickets instead of pursuing different careers.

“There should be a culture of people taking charge of their own destiny,” says economist Dr. Jose Sebastian, former faculty at Thiruvananthapuram’s Gulati Institute of Finance and Taxation who has also researched the lottery economy extensively. “The government shouldn’t be propagating this wrong message that it is luck that counts in life,” he adds.

Why does Kerala depend on lotteries?

For the government, lotteries are not just a form of entertainment but the “backbone” of Kerala’s economy.

“A lottery ticket is a person’s hope that good luck will come to them one day,” reads a December 2022 pamphlet published by the lotteries department. “Lottery is a part of life,” it continues. “When one buys a lottery ticket, it is not just a test of luck but also a contribution to the healthcare and welfare of the state.”

The Kerala government is the sole operator of the lottery, which was nationalised in 1967. The government earned a total revenue of Rs 7,145 crore in the year 2021-22, making nearly Rs 560 crore in profit. That’s a profit of Rs 7 for every Rs 100 the government earned. The targeted turnover for 2023-24 is Rs 10,000 crore.

Thirteen states run lotteries in India, but it is Kerala that accounts for 90 per cent of the total revenue generated from these tickets, according to Sebastian.

“Kerala doesn’t have sufficient funds — so lotteries function as a welfare funding department for the state,” says BT Anil, publicity officer at the lotteries department. “The money goes into caring for people in the state. Plus, those who aren’t able to earn from physical labour can sell tickets and earn their living,” he adds.

But even in this game of money, there is sharing. “The government makes sure that everyone on the ladder earns money from lotteries,” says Anil.

According to Sebastian, around 1.5 lakh people earn a living from Kerala’s lottery business. If a ticket wins, even the agent who sold it gets a share of the prize money — thereby incentivising their role in the ecosystem.

“The primary goal of the lottery is to ensure a livelihood for the people working in the lottery ecosystem,” says director of state lotteries Renn Abraham, who took charge of the department nearly two years ago. “In the process of doing that, the state also gets some revenue,” he adds.

According to Abraham, the lottery generates a lot of money on paper – but almost all is given away in prizes and agent income. As per department officials, the cost of printing 1.8 crore tickets a day boils down to Rs 80 lakh. The net amount that remains in the exchequer is, therefore, low.

“Lottery has been an integral part of the state’s culture since it was introduced. There are lots of people who depend on this, and the interest in it has gone up in the last couple of years,” adds Abraham while referring to the sales volume of tickets. “It portends well for the lottery.”

The jury’s still out

Critics say that providing employment is not a justification for encouraging an addiction to the lottery.

Branding it “ridiculous”, Sebastian says that while it provides employment, very few people win prizes; so if the argument is that the government is not gaining much revenue from it, why is it running the lottery? “Instead of raising the stakes, the government should be critically analysing the impact it has on the poor,” adds Sebastian.

Sebastian’s research points to the fact that all sections of Kerala society are not equally addicted to the lottery. The wealthy don’t purchase too many tickets. According to data he has collected on per capita expenditure on lottery tickets, he found that sales in Muslim-dominated areas like Malappuram, Kasaragod, Kozhikode and Wayanad are lower than in other districts — possibly because lotteries are seen as haram. Similarly, prosperous sections of the Christian community also don’t spend much on lotteries. His evidence-based conclusion is that the poor among Hindus are increasingly becoming addicted to the lottery.

“Malayalis are highly literate, left-leaning, politically organised people. In spite of this, people are going in large numbers after luck,” says Sebastian. “It is causing hardship to the poor, and they are being exploited. A government committed to the poor shouldn’t be doing this – it’s a disservice on their part.”

This psychological dependence on fortune provokes thousands to buy tickets in the hope that their dreams will come true. Everyone — agents, sub-agents, vendors and buyers—is convinced that the odds will be in their favour one day. And if things don’t pan out as planned, their hopes go up in smoke, just like the wasted tickets that are either exhumed or discarded after 3 pm every day.

Kerala’s economy runs on lottery, liquor, and land — as well as money collected from traffic violations. Economists say lottery and liquor contribute to about 37 per cent of the state’s total revenue as per Sebastian’s research. If any of these go out of the revenue mobilisation framework, the state will be in big trouble, says D. Dhanuraj, chairman of Kochi’s Centre for Public Policy Research.

“This is like an invisible taxation regime,” explains Dhanuraj. “The state is indirectly taxing the public by popularising the merits of lottery and thus attracting them to buy the lottery for providing other goods. If the idea of taxation is to meet the state expense, the lottery is also meeting the same purpose.”

It’s a tool used by the state government to perpetuate an ideal socialist world, he stresses.

“This is not like education or other basic provisions the state should provide. The government also collects GST [Goods and Service Tax] on the prizewinning money, which is an additional cess and extra taxation…It is simply furthering the illusionary idea that winning the lottery in an otherwise equal world will alleviate poverty,” Dhanuraj adds.

The contradiction of a state that prides itself on its socialist framework drawing revenue from an arbitrary system like the lottery isn’t lost on those who willingly participate in it.

Mohammed Salim, a 62-year-old agent with the smallest stall among the six sellers at Thiruvananthapuram’s Mannarcad Junction, switched to selling lottery tickets after he suffered a stroke three years ago. The stroke left him with a tremor in his hands, making him unfit for his job as a waiter.

“Sometimes it’s stressful, sometimes it’s not,” he said. “It’s odd to say that I feel there is no risk in this job — I know this is a game of risk and luck. But it’s riskless because everyone wants a better life. I know I’ll get some money every day because I know that someone or the other will want to give themselves a chance to change their lives.”

What winners do

The fortuitous winners of the lottery — especially the big bumpers like the Onam Bumper, which has the largest prize of Rs 25 crore — receive an average of 4,000 letters a day asking for financial help. Sometimes it’s loans; other times, it’s medical bills.

Anoop, the 2022 Onam Bumper winner, was inundated with so many requests for help that he stopped answering calls and texts altogether. He and his brother have also opened a lottery shop in Thiruvananthapuram, as a homage to the system that gave them so much.

The 2021 winner, Jayapalan PR, is an auto driver who lives in Maradu, Kochi. His prize was Rs 12 crore, and he had to pay over Rs 4 crore in taxes. His life hasn’t changed much after his win, though—he continues to live in the same house with his sons, wife, and elderly mother.

The two-storey house is simple and unpretentious — he paid off the loans he took to build it with the bumper money. Jayapalan is one of the rare few who used their prize money judiciously: He paid off loans, bought two plots of land in Ernakulam, and was able to get medical attention for a tumour his wife had. He still drives an auto, but he and his son used part of the bumper to start a business selling dried, cured prawns, which he says is taking off.

“No, we didn’t spend on gold or other fancy things. We have everything we need already, thanks to God and good luck,” says Jayapalan, flanked by his son on one side. The family seems happy and secure, though the attention after they won was overwhelming — he remembers that Anoop called him shortly after winning to ask him how to handle it.

The government wants more people to follow his example. And they plan to inaugurate a financial training programme at the Gulati Institute of Finance and Taxation for this purpose. The aim is to help winners use their money wisely –  like a ‘drink responsibly’ message from the government.

Jayapalan put the amount that was left over in a fixed deposit. But how much? He smiles coyly and shrugs. “There’s enough.”

(Edited by Zoya Bhatti)

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