A game of chance

SHANMUGAM BEGINS early. Long before nine, he drags his table out, dusts it with a piece of cloth. Even as he cleans, a few gather around him, waiting for him to finish. When finally he looks up with his eyebrows crossed, the hands of the waiting lot wrangle to be the first to have the coupons matched with the fortunates' list that was decided a day or more before.

He pulls out some newspapers and checks if any of the coupons he sold earlier have found their way in by some twist of luck. He shakes his head as he returns these to the anxious lot who, aware that their physical, mental and other attributes would not generate tonnes of money quickly, are keen to play the game of chance.

One of the fortune-seekers is a young man, Anbu, who after much vacillation succeeds in glueing the pieces of his courage together to hand over his bunch for verification. After a minute or so, Shanmugam looks up, pouts his lower lip and shakes his head. Anbu stares at his bare feet. His trousers are soiled and his shirt, torn at the cuffs, are held together with rusted safety-pins. Minutes later he goes to the table, inspects the displayed stacks, flips through the leaves, and takes one. He hands over a ten-rupee note from his pocket which Shanmugam tosses nonchalantly into a cardboard box that has more currency notes and a comb. Anbu carefully folds the bunch and shoves it into his pocket.

"I am a mason," Anbu says. "I have spent Rs. 250 already and have got Rs. 15 as prize so far." He smiles when asked if he could instead have used the investment for purchases with immediate benefits - some clothes for his family, or some food. His income depends critically on contacts, and obviously he has none. He did not have work or else he would not be loitering near Shanmugam's supermarket that occupies less than two sq.mtrs. and is protected from Nature's onslaughts by the air-conditioning offered from above - the tree leaves.

A dishevelled man comes along, looks through the bunches, chooses two and pays Rs. 20 for the lot. An auto-driver stops his vehicle, buys 10 different bunches, looks through the newspapers to see if Goddess Laxmi had blessed him, tears all the old bunches to pieces and leaves with the fresh bunch.

A car comes along and stops by Shanmugam's. The driver, a well- clad man, gets immediate attention. Shanmugam springs up on his toes. The man hands over some coupons. Shanmugam checks through the list and gives it back to the man who then focusses on the displayed lot and selects some. The cash transaction is quick and the car drives away.

A police constable is next. He whispers into Shanmugam's ears, hands over three coupons which Shanmugam compares more carefully with the published list before shaking his head to convey "Bad luck this time."

Shanmugam later says, "I have these tickets because they sell." Obviously there is a good demand for this game of chance. Given the quiet but sustained flow of cash, Shanmugam is able to generate enough income to maintain his family and himself. His clothes are clean and ironed. And he wears a watch. Most of his patrons do not even have footwear.

It is not that all vendors are as well-preened as Shanmugam. They are almost everywhere and many are as ill-clad as their patrons. There are many who have almost lost their sight after cataract operations.

There are those who are so weak they do not have the strength to stand on their legs. There are the visually handicapped who hawk the "bearers of fortune" in suburban trains everyday. As one of them confided, he had come across people who did not pay for the coupons they bought. Burdened with a white cane, these hawkers, who depend entirely on the endless trips up and down in suburban trains for their livelihood, are at the mercy of their patrons.

It is easy to calculate the probability of winning a lottery worth Rs. 50 lakhs.

Even when you buy 10 coupons you may increase the probability of success but still it is so close to zero that anyone with some self-respect and common sense will never waste the hard-earned money on a game of chance. But the reality is the Anbus outnumber the lucky few.

The problem is, the institution of lotteries is so entrenched in our psyche that we ignore all calls to a rational approach. You could certainly win all the prizes, including the bumper prize, if you bought all the tickets. But then all the prize money put together will still fall far short of the money you would have spent on the tickets. There are administrative expenses, overheads, printing expenses, marketing expenses and expenses for advertising the results. All these are recovered from the gullible buyer. In addition, the winner pays a large chunk as tax on windfall. So your net benefit from winning all the prizes will be insignificant compared to your expense.

Given the demand, there is a thriving business in fake lottery tickets as well. What you think as a genuine scheme may not be so. And there is no way you can tell.

The primary marketing agents for these tickets are the small retailers like Shanmugam, who could be aware or unaware, but know well that the margins are high.

Counterfeiters can also publish fictitious results. Therefore, their net gain from a fictitious lottery scheme is enormous. Enough to keep the hounds off the trail.

Who stands to lose the most in this game of chance? The Anbus, whose parents could be aged and starving; whose brothers or sisters could be striving to survive on one-third the calories they need; who may be wearing what you or I will never even imagine giving to our own; who are unaware that their beloved Anbus prefer to spend the hard-earned cash on chance instead - in the hope of making it big some day.

GOUTAM GHOSH

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