Cash-for-vote is an evil that continues to ail Indian democracy. Contrary to popular perception that it is a recent phenomenon, it is as old as elections themselves in India. Candidates of political parties have always found ways to bribe voters, and no amount of effort by the Election Commission has been able to put an end to the practice. In a way, voters too share responsibility for this trend.
Jnanpith Award winner Jayakanthan wrote about this practice as early as 1957 in his short story Porukki. It was published in the magazine Saraswathi, one of the pioneers of the modern Tamil literary scene.
Set in one of Chennai’s slums — referred to as a seri by Jayakanthan — the roadside eatery run by Muniamma caters to the dirt poor, who eke out a livelihood through menial jobs. Rickshaw pullers, the elderly who can no longer work, and impoverished children are her customers. “Hey Appakaramma! I have to rush for work. Serve me quickly.”
“Wait. I have to make it. There are people ahead of you.”
“My child is crying, Ayah!” says a girl.
“Do I have four hands? What do you want me to do?”
“Give me one anna’s worth, Muniamma.”
“Hey, old man! Where is the money for what you have already eaten? You said you would bring it by daybreak. Is this a habit of yours?”
“I will give it by evening. I have had a fever for three days and could not go to work,” begged the old man.
But Muniamma was firm. “Go away.”
The old man left, coughing. Hungry and unable to stand, he lay down under a tree.
Muniamma looked at him. She could not bear the sight.
“Hey, thatha, here is your aappam.”
Her eatery stands under a thoongumoonji tree at the end of a by-lane that meets the main road. Her son, Sabapathy, lives off her hard labour and wanders aimlessly around the city. One day, as he was eating aappam and demanding two annas to watch a film, a Corporation garbage lorry arrived. Muniamma tried to run away with the pan used for making aappam. The health official got down from the vehicle, followed by two sanitary workers.
“Ayya, Ayya,” she pleaded. But the official paid no heed. The batter and the prepared aappams were dumped into the vehicle. Children waiting for their turn to eat began to cry. “A tragedy beyond imagination,” writes Jayakanthan. “Cholera is spreading. Is Muniamma’s eatery the source of the disease?”
It was then that Muniamma noticed Sundaram Naidu’s car on the road. “Ayya, Dharmadurai!” she shouted, running behind it. Others followed her.
“What happened?” asked Sundaram Naidu, irritably.
Sabapathy pleaded: “The Corporation inspector has destroyed our eatery. Did we vote for you for this?”
“Speak with respect, you dog. If you say another word, I will call the police and have you locked up,” he retorted, and drove away.
After some time, election fever gripped the area. Sundaram Naidu was contesting once again. “Hey, Sabapathy,” shouted Muniamma.
“What, Ma?”
“What are you thinking?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Go. Naidu needs people to campaign for him.” “For that man?”
“I will beat you with my chappals. He is gold. You brought this upon yourself with your loose tongue. Go. He is giving one rupee,” said Muniamma. Sundaram Naidu went about boasting of his achievements as a councillor and of his noble character. A procession followed. Sabapathy led it, holding a flag bearing Naidu’s pig symbol. “It is a procession of the poor for the supposed guardian of the poor,” claims “vote beggar”, votu porukki Sundaram, election after election. Another beggar — Sabapathy, an echa porukki — believed it, for one rupee.
Published – April 02, 2026 12:07 am IST
