Lottery Ticket Winner

| Vrinda Varma | October 2025 | Short Story |

Sajeevan tapped the auto driver on his left shoulder.

“Right there, to the left. Supreme Apartments. You can see that blue board.”

He took out three fifty-rupee notes, twenty more than what the meter read and gave those to the driver. Sajeevan half expected him to ask for more, they never went by the meter anyway. But the auto driver took the money and slipped it into his khaki pocket and drove away. 

It was almost 3:00 in the afternoon; four hours since he had been free. It had taken him three hours to travel from Viyyur Jail to Kadavanthara. He had gotten down at the Vytilla Bus terminal and had fish curry meals from the Kudumbasree hotel next to it. He had then taken an auto to Supreme Apartments.

The sun was scorching against his back, and he felt it itch. Sajeevan wondered if it was in fact unusually hot or if the eight months of isolation in a dark cell with limited exposure to the outside world had made him a stranger to the sun. 

Supreme Apartments appeared shabbier than he remembered it.  It was one of the first apartments to be built in the Greater Cochin Area, but it had clearly not aged well. It had not been painted in years, and the sporadic attempts to mend leaks and cracks on the facade had resulted in unsightly white cement patches resembling infected scabs. The common area was overgrown with grass, and from several road-facing balconies, clothes and undergarments flapped on lines strung across them.

Sajeevan pulled at the sling of his black bag slung across his body, took a step towards the open gates, and hoped that he wouldn’t run into anyone. A security guard sat on a chair near the wall and watched the news on his mobile. He barely looked up as Sajeevan walked past him.

“…. reporting from Thrissur,” a reporter announced loudly from the security guard’s phone, and Sajeevan stiffened. He hoped that it was not a news report about his release. But the guard continued to watch the news, and the news anchor moved on to report about the stray dog menace in the city. Sajeevan relaxed. 

Before Sajeevan was arrested and sent to jail, Supreme Apartments had no security guard. But he guessed that the events leading to his arrest had finally pushed the residents into action, resulting in the appointment of the security guard. He felt a wry smile creep up on his face at the thought of the residents, mostly retired government employee and some renters like him who stayed on because they could not afford a cheaper place to stay in the city, so close to the metro station and the malls and instant food deliveries, finally jerk into action because of the events all those months ago. No amount of stray dog nuisances, power interruptions or septic tank spillages had made the residents convene even once while he had been a regular resident there. The guard, however, seemed indifferent — deeply engrossed in his phone. Sajeevan was glad that the guard had not stopped him. He was not ready for questions. Not yet.

He climbed the familiar dirty mosaic steps to the first floor and made his way to what he considered his apartment: the second door on the right. The flat had belonged to a distant relative who had lived his entire life in Dubai and had died there just over a year ago. When Sajeevan landed a job in Cochin and moved from Malappuram more than three years ago, his amma had arranged, over an expensive international call with Somettan, for him to stay on in the flat as a housekeeper. Sajeevan didn’t expect any payment; he would care for the apartment as if it were his own. After all, crime rates in Cochin were notoriously high. Wouldn’t Somettan be glad to have someone watching over the place? Especially since the flat was in such a prime location—what if thieves broke in and vandalized it?

Somettan had left for Dubai in the early 1960s— one among the first wave of “Gelf Malayalees”. Though he had little formal education, he was good with cars and all types of mechanical repairs. He struck gold with an Arab and became rich in no time, buying property after property all across Kerala. 

Sajeevan had never met Somettan, nor his wife, nor their four sons, who had all apparently settled in different parts of the world. Somettan had no real need for money, rich as he was, and so Sajeevan’s amma convinced him to settle for a monthly rent of a thousand rupees from Sajeevan. Daylight robbery could be worse, but Somettan had agreed. After all, Sajeevan was promising to look after one of the first ever properties he had bought. 

For sixteen months after moving into Supreme Apartments, Sajeevan transferred one thousand rupees to Somettan’s bank account each month. He changed jobs three times but still managed to send the money by the tenth of every month. When Thomman started living with him, Sajeevan had him pay half the rent. Once he learned of Somettan’s death from a burst artery in the brain, Sajeevan stopped sending the money. In the months following Somettan’s death, he expected that someone—either Somettan’s wife or one of the four elusive sons—would call and ask him to pay up. But no one called. He never told Thomman about Somettan’s death. At first, it slipped his mind. Later, the extra five hundred rupees each month became something he was unwilling to give up.

Gradually, Sajeevan began to consider the three-bedroom apartment his own, although he did nothing to change the broken window pane in the second bedroom, or repair the flickering kitchen light bulb, or repaint the interior. He lived in it, considered it a convenience, and left it at that.

Sajeevan stood outside the door, his hand resting on the key without actually turning it. Now that he was there, he did not really want to be. He hesitated for a minute longer before turning the key, opening the door, and slipping inside.

***

Dixon picked up on the fourth ring. 

‘Hello?’
‘Dixaa… It’s me.’
There was a pause at the other end, and then a cautious voice asked, ‘Sajeevan?’
‘Yes.’
‘You jumped jail?’ There was an incredulous tenor in Dixon’s voice.
‘Of course not. I was released yesterday.’
‘Oh!’
There was silence again at the other end, so Sajeevan elaborated.
‘The prosecutor wasn’t able to prove anything, and the judge dismissed the case. I’m free now.’
‘Oh,’ Dixon repeated.

Sajeevan bit his moustache in an attempt to control his rising irritation. He imagined Dixon sitting in his air-conditioned office, the neon yellow sign for the popular food delivery app behind him on the wall, cracking his knuckles nervously and taking huge, loud gulps of his favourite drink: karingaali vellam—a rather pinkish looking water that had been boiled with herbs and roots and leaves and what not. If he closed his eyes, Sajeevan could almost see Dixon taking large gulps of the steaming water, his throat bobbing up and down with each gulp. 

“Can I have my job back?”
There was another long silence at the other end, punctuated by a loud gulping sound and the click of Dixon’s tongue.

When Dixon made no attempt to speak, Sajeeven spoke again. 

“I need a job.”

“Well… I don’t know… You have this case against you and all…”

“I told you I was released. Nothing could be proved. I am a free man.”

“Well, you see, I mean you know, you need to go to houses. If people recognise you, it will cause problems. The company is strict about…”

Sajeevan did not let him finish.

“I will wear my helmet at all times. No one will recognise me. And it is only for a few months. I need to settle some things, and then I will go away. I won’t trouble you again.”

“Eda, I understand your situation. But you know I can’t. If the company finds out I hired a person with a record like yours, I will lose my job too. Sorry da, but I don’t think I can take you in again. It wont happen… But, if you need any other help pl–”

Sajeevan cut the call. He wanted to hurl his phone at the wall and watch it shatter into pieces. The only reason he didn’t was that he didn’t have enough money to buy a new one just yet. So, he simply flung it down on his bed and watched it bounce once before falling back down.

He raked his close-cropped prison hair with his fingers and growled in frustration. It had been twenty-four hours since his release, and other than the fish curry meals he had from the Kudumbasree hotel, he hadn’t eaten anything. He had made himself a mug of black coffee in the morning, but the instant coffee powder had hardened in the bottle, and the coffee had tasted musty and sour.

He was hungry. At least in jail, food had not been a problem. He picked up his phone from the bed and scrolled through his contacts. By late evening, he had made twenty-one calls. Some did not pick up. Some picked up and cut the call immediately, making it clear that they did not want to be contacted again. 

A few were sympathetic. “We want to help you, da. But…” No one wanted to give him a job. 

He got himself a glass of water from the kitchen sink, then another, and then another. His stomach seemed to protest, but that was the least of his problems. He collapsed onto his bed and immediately fell into a deep sleep. It was as if his body did not want to deal with anything.

The next morning, Sajeevan yanked his lungi tighter around his waist and snatched the same crumpled shirt he had been wearing since his release, and quickly did up the buttons halfway. He slipped on his chappals and walked over to the apartment at the end of the corridor. 

He rang the bell and waited for an answer. 

This was the third time he had stood in front of the door since his release two days ago. He had rung the bell twice the previous day—once in the morning and again in the evening—but no one had opened the door. He was sure that Vijay would be home now, perhaps getting ready to go to work. Sajeevan rang the bell again, keeping his finger pressed until he heard shuffling from inside and the sound of a bolt being drawn back.

Vijay stood before him, dressed in an odd assortment of clothes. He wore an impeccably ironed, light blue, full-sleeved shirt with a telltale brand logo on the breast pocket, a tie in some shiny material loosely tied around his collar and blue and white checked shorts and socks. A wireless earphone was tucked into his right ear.  It took Sajeevan a moment to take in Vijay’s strange appearance, so different from what he was used to, shirts from Marine Drive and jeans from factory outlets, and a cap, always a cap.

“You’re back,” Vijay said immediately, as soon as he opened the door and spotted Sajeevan, in a way that made Sajeevan feel that Vijay had known he had been back all along.

“I am,” Sajeevan said, nodding slowly.

Sajeevan caught Vijay trying to compose his face into an expression of relief and joy. But the smile that he came up with, struggled to stay on his face.

“Are you busy?” Sajeevan asked Vijay, knowing fully well that he would be in a rush to get to work. But the conversation couldn’t wait. It had already been eight months and two days pending. He tried to enter Vijay’s apartment, but Vijay stopped him. 

“No, Sajee, not today.”

The old, familiar use of “Sajee” grated on his ears. Vijay must have noticed his irritation and quickly said, “I know we need to talk, that you have things to discuss with me. But it has to wait till evening, today. I have a meeting with the manager in the morning, and I am already late. You know that with the Metro work going on, the traffic is really bad.”

Sajeevan hesitated. He needed Vijay in a good mood.  

“When will you be back?” he asked, trying to keep his tone casual.

“The usual time,” said Vijay. 

Sajeevan took a step back, and Vijay pulled his tie straighter and cleared his throat.

“Should I come here or will you come over?” 

“I will come,” said Vijay, nodding his head vigorously. And repeated for emphasis, “I will come.”

“Ok then,” Sajeevan turned around and walked away, feeling Vijay’s eyes on his back.

It was almost nine at night, and Vijay still hadn’t come back. Sajeevan had not moved from his chair that faced his half-open front door since 7:00 pm, the time when Vijay usually got home. A few people who lived on his floor and a few who lived on the floor above had slowed their steps as they came near his door. Some tried to peep in but quickly withdrew and averted their eyes when they caught him inside. Only Sarojam Maami and her husband had actually stopped at his door. 

“Mone,” Maami called out to him.

Her voice indicated nothing. No fear, no curiosity, no anger. Her “mone” was exactly how she had always called him son—someone who used to help her carry groceries up to their second floor, someone for whom she always had a bright smile..

Sajeevan felt his throat tighten, and though he felt grateful for the normalcy of “mone,” what came out of his mouth was a loud and irritated, “What?”

He saw Sarojam Maami visibly recoil in front of him, and her husband looked shocked at his tone. 

Sajeevan suddenly remembered the taste of Maami’s sambar and idli, which she sometimes sent down with her husband, neatly packed in steel boxes, claiming that she had miscalculated and made more than they could eat. Sajeevan never quite believed her. How could someone who looked to be well into her seventies, and who had cooked almost every day of her adult life for herself and her husband, miscalculate the number of idlis they ate? Still, he always accepted the steel boxes with a smile and relished the ghee-soaked idlis and coriander-tempered sambar. In fact, he was sure that Maami’s steel box, in which she had given him idlis the last time, was still sitting on the kitchen ledge.

“Nothing, mone. I saw that you were back and wanted to see how you were. You have grown so thin.”

Once again, the answer that came out of his mouth surprised and angered him in equal measure. 

“I have been in jail. How do you think I am?”

Sarojam Maami opened her mouth to say something, seemed to think better of it and closed her mouth. She then hesitated before saying, “Take care, mone.”

She and her husband walked away, climbing the stairs slowly, one step at a time. Sajeevan heard them opening the door to their flat directly above him and leaned back in his chair. His anger was building, and he gripped the armrest of his chair tight and clenched his jaw to stop himself from screaming. 

When he heard the clock strike nine, Sajeevan jumped. He felt hungry and light-headed and considered going down to the roadside cart by the main road and getting himself an omelette and chaaya, but did not want to risk missing Vijay.

He opened the food delivery app on his phone and ordered himself a chapati set. If he were honest with himself, he wanted to get drunk. Drink and drink and drink and maybe die drinking cheap liquor. He had considered many ways to die while in his cell at Viyyur. A length of rope, a high building, a railway track, the bridge over Bharatappuzha, he had considered them all. But they would have to wait. He would die, but not yet. Not till he had spoken to Vijay first and settled things. Vijay, who usually came home by seven each night, had not come home yet. 

Vijay had been the first to talk to Sajeevan when he moved into Supreme Apartments. Vijay, with connections all across Kochi, thanks to his time at his brother’s shop, Gulf Mobiles, on Marine Drive, a place where people came to exchange old phones and stolen phones, old TVs and yet to be released movies, where saadhanam was a code word for anything from safety pins to weed to women. Vijay, who attended night classes at the parallel college near Kaloor Market, passed every exam; either because he was too smart to fail or because he had a knack for knowing the right people (and the right answers) just when it mattered most. Vijay, who charmed everyone with his ready smiles and endless stories, cheap booze, and imported mint-flavored cigarettes. Vijay, who landed an accounting job, while Sajeevan struggled to complete food deliveries across town. Vijay, who introduced him to Thomman.

Thomman had come home with Vijay one night and stayed on. He moved in with Sajeevan and split the rent, drank coffee out of a Cello thermos flask and ate half the idlis Sarojam Maami left them. Thomman’s belongings, Sajeevan was sure, were still in his room, inside the steel almirah plastered with countless VIP underwear price stickers. Thomman, who still seemed to be the glue holding the three of them together when nothing else did, except their shared desire to be richer than they were, to have women who found them irresistible, to escape to Dubai, and to pretend they’d never crossed paths while in Cochin.

Wearing the all too familiar yellow uniform of food delivery boys, a skinny boy poked his head inside the door and delivered his dinner. Sajeevan shook himself from the doom that was closing in on him. It wouldn’t do to remember the past. It was time for plans and action. And to confront Vijay. He ate hungrily from the flimsy foil container, his eyes still glued to the door, waiting for Vijay to come home. 

Sajeevan heard movement on the stairs sometime in the early hours of the morning and jerked awake. He had fallen into an uneasy stupor while sitting in the chair, waiting for Vijay, and now his neck hurt. Drool had pooled in his mouth and dribbled onto his chest, leaving behind a disgusting, stinky trail. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood up quickly.

He checked his phone for the time: 4.32 am. On an impulse, he pulled open the door and stepped out, just in time to see Vijay dragging a suitcase down the flight of stairs. He had changed out of his morning clothes and wore a t-shirt and jeans with expensive-looking white shoes. Vijay looked up just as Sajeevan stepped out, and this time, he had no time to mask his expression. Anger and fear, mostly fear, flickered on his face, and his eyes shifted wildly between Sajeevan, the suitcase and the way downwards. 

“Running away?” Sajeevan asked him. 

“Nnnn… Nnn…ooo,” Vijay stammered. He then pulled himself straighter and said,

 “No, no, Sajee. You see, I have a meeting. A work trip. In Chennai. No…. No not Chennai, Bangalore. I am taking the first bus out of town.”

“You said you would meet me once you are back from work.”

“I did.”

“And?”

Vijay shuffled uncomfortably. But then he lifted up his chin and demanded,  “What is there to talk about?” 

Vijay’s entire demeanour changed, and his voice was laced with defiance now. The fear was replaced by anger.

“What?” Sajeevan climbed down the stairs so that only two steps and the suitcase separated them from each other. 

“What did you say?”

“What you heard. That there is nothing to talk about.”

“But I do. I have only one thing to ask you. Where is my money?”

Vijay laughed. “Your money?”

“Yes, mine.”

“It was never yours,” Vijay said, his voice emphasising the last syllable so that it came out sharp and shrill.

Sajeevan had climbed down again, and Vijay took two steps down, dragging the suitcase after him. 

“It was supposed to be ours,” Sajeevan said, “Mine, yours and Thomman’s.”

Vijay hesitated. He laid a light hand on Sajeevan’s arm and tried speaking in a calm voice. 

“A lot has happened, Sajee. Things have not worked out… Some of our calculations…” he began.

Sajeevan did not let him continue. He smacked Vijay’s hand away and hissed, “I spent eight months in jail. Eight months. And all because I trusted you. Because you visited me the evening I was arrested and told me that you were working to sort everything out, that it was a simple mistake and that you had it all worked out.”

“Is that the story we are going with now? That it was my mistake?” Vijay shouted back.

“Thomman died. If that is the mistake you are referring to, then…”

“The police arrested you… Not me. Surely they must have some evidence.” 

Sajeevan lunged at Vijay and tried to grab his collar, but he ducked. 

“Bastard!” cried Sajeevan through clenched teeth. “How dare you? After all that I have been through. After all we have been through… Thomman…Thomman…” Sajeevan steadied himself. The lunge had made him lose his balance a little.

“Thomman is dead. He fell from the terrace, and he died while you and I stood watching, piss drunk and high and out of our heads. The police arrested you, not me. Maybe you did push him. Maybe he jumped. Who knows?” Vijay spat out the words. Spittle flew out of his mouth and landed on Sajeevan’s face.

“Is that what you told the police, you… you dog? That I pushed him? Is that why they arrested me and not you? As I remember, you had him stand on the parapet. You dared him to jump three floors. I tried to grab him, but his shirt tore in my hands. He was wearing my shirt. Mine.”

With great effort, Sajeevan choked out the remainder of his sentence. “Thomman bled to death wearing my torn shirt.”

When Vijay opened his mouth to retort, Sajeevan continued without giving him a chance to speak. “You told me it would be ok… that the police couldn’t prove anything. And you were right, they couldn’t. Because I never pushed him.”

“I said nothing to the police,” Vijay said slowly, his face level with Sajeevan’s. Looking straight into his eyes, defiance clear on his face, Vijay continued,

“I don’t know what you planned. All I know is that Thomman is dead and that the police arrested you. The last thing I saw that night was you standing next to him, your hands outstretched.” Vijay’s voice rose to a scream.

“Eda parama thendi!” [1] Sajeevan screamed, unable to accept what he had just heard. Yet, deep down, he realized he shouldn’t have been shocked. It was exactly what he had pieced together while in jail: why only he had been arrested, even though both he and Vijay were there with Thomman that night. Something had been planned the night Thomman died, and Sajeevan was not included in whatever happened after. Or perhaps, being left out had been the plan all along.

_{[1] You bloody scoundrel}

No one cared when a nobody died drunk and high. The apartments had employed a security guard, and they perhaps felt they had done their bit. Thomman’s aged parents had travelled from Idukki and stood by their son’s body, silent, helpless and confused. They filed no complaints. No one raked up the case. Even the newspapers had not reported the death, save for a mere mention in the obituary section. Thomman had been a nobody. And he was easily forgotten. 

“Where is my money?” Sajeevan’s voice fell into a dangerous whisper.

“I don’t have your money.”

“Where is the money?” His nose almost touched Vijay’s nose, and he saw the madness in his eyes.

“I don’t have it,” Vijay shouted, and Sajeevan pushed him so hard that he stumbled down a few stairs and held onto the railing for support. The suitcase Vijay had been holding on to tumbled down a step with a loud thud.

“I know you do, you vile snake.  I have had enough time to calculate while I was in jail, and I have always been good at maths. You owe me 22 lakhs. Minus the commission to the lottery agent, minus the tax, minus the money you get to keep for yourself. You have it. You picked out the ticket, the one that won us that bumper, but Thomman and I paid the money. Thomman wanted us to share it equally amongst us, and we promised him. And now he is dead.

Give my money back to me, and I will go away.  I need the money. I need it. I need to get away. I cannot stay here,” Sajeevan screamed, finally being able to grab Vijay by his collar and shake him till he rattled.

A door opened from below them, and an angry male voice floated up. 

“Which sick dogshit thinks it is okay to wake people up with their foul-mouthed arguments?”

Vijay took the interruption to push Sajeevan back and twist himself free. Before Sajeevan had time to react, Vijay had bolted down the stairs and out of the partially open gates. Cursing himself, Sajeevan made to follow after him but tripped and fell on Vijay’s suitcase on the stairs.

Once he had picked himself up and rushed out of the open gates, Vijay was already far too ahead of Sajeevan for him to catch up. He took a deep breath and followed him anyway, refusing to let go so soon. Vijay was much too fast and turned left onto the main road, and Sajeevan had just enough time to register the movement.

He had just turned the corner when a tipper lorry sped away dangerously, followed by shouts from people about a hundred meters to his left. Sajeevan turned to see what the shouts were about, only to find a group of people gathered around something sprawled on the ground.

A boy with a cycle full of the day’s newspapers was shouting, “Is he dead? Is he dead?”

Someone else was shouting, “Call the ambulance. Someone… There is too much blood.”

Another voice joined the chorus, “Did anyone note the number? I just noticed that it was a tipper.”

Sajeevan did not wait to see anything. He took a few steps backwards and slowly made his way back to Supreme Apartments. He felt sick. As soon as he crossed the gates, he doubled over and threw up violently. He had barely pulled himself up when his stomach heaved again, and he threw up bile and bits and pieces of last night’s chapati dinner. Some bit of the bile went the wrong way and came out through his nose, making his eyes water and his nose burn. He felt dizzy and weak, and his knees shook under him.

He scanned the apartment windows and offered a silent prayer when he saw no lights. Hopefully, no one had seen him. With some difficulty, he climbed the first few steps and stopped at the landing. He was panting still and drenched in cold sweat. 

Vijay’s suitcase was lying on the steps just as he had seen it last, running down the stairs chasing after Vijay, upturned and face down.

He didn’t know what made him do it, but Sajeevan pulled it up and dragged it with him up the stairs to his floor. It was much heavier than he expected, and in his already weakened state, he had far more trouble dragging it up than he would have thought. 

Panting and trembling, Sajeevan pushed the suitcase in with one final heave, entered his flat and shut the door behind him.

_________________________

_{Vrinda Varma is a practicing translator and author. She was the recipient of the PEN/Heim Translation Grant award in 2024. To write and read without interruptions with a side of strong coffee is her idea of a perfect day, but alas, real life gets in her way.}

_________________________

Photo by Manas Manikoth on Unsplash

Find MeanPepperVine on Instagram @MeanPepperVine