Disability deepens farm distress

“I am like Thakur from Sholay.”

Ravindra Shinde’s impish smile suggests he is pleased with the analogy, comparing himself to Sanjeev Kumar’s character from the iconic Bollywood movie. But then he pauses. “I am probably luckier. He lost both his hands.”

Most others in his situation might have lost the spirit to carry on, let alone joke about their life. But Shinde, 47, retains a dark sense of humour.

A farmer with 16 acres of land at Umri village in Maharashtra’s Yavatmal district, he has been dutifully cultivating it since he was in his teens. His entry into agriculture, unfortunately coincided with the beginning of an agrarian distress that has continued for decades.

His father could run their household with the income from farming, but by the time Shinde was married and had kids, it was a different story. Rising inflation, falling crop prices, and climate change-induced extreme weather events, such as prolonged droughts, led to mounting farm debts.

Maharashtra’s household agricultural income stands at a dismal Rs. 11,492 per month. The crisis is mirrored in the National Crime Records Bureau’s numbers – in 2024, India recorded 10,546 farm suicides. That is 29 suicides every day. Even this is a gross underestimation because data gathering on the ground often leaves out women, Dalits and Adivasis. On paper, most of them don’t own the land they cultivate. Therefore, their suicides are often not classified as “farm” suicides.

Maharashtra topped the list with 3,824 suicides, or 36 per cent of the total number. A large proportion of Maharashtra’s farm suicides are concentrated in Vidarbha. Shinde’s village is a part of that region, grappling with the challenges of the agrarian crisis.

But he had no idea that life was about to get even more difficult.

One afternoon in October 2021, a sudden burst of heavy winds followed by torrential rain alarmed Shinde. His soyabean harvest was neatly piled up in his fields, ready to be taken to the market for sale. He had covered it with a plastic sheet for protection from rainfall, but his farmland was dangerously close to a creek, making it vulnerable to flooding.

Shinde rushed towards the farm, not far from his home. He staggered to keep his balance amidst swaying trees, their fluttering leaves barely clinging to the branches. The roar of the rain as it lashed the tin-roof homes created a prolonged hiss.

“The water was gushing into my farm when I reached,” Shinde recalls. “I had to salvage my harvest.”

He tried to kickstart the motorpump to drain out the water. But the winds had dislodged the wire connecting the electricity pole and the line that delivered power to his farmland. The motorpump wouldn’t start. Desperate, he rushed to the transformer to turn the main switch off before climbing to the top of the pole to fix it.

“Farmers do that all the time,” Shinde says. “I couldn’t afford to call the electricity board and wait for them to fix the issue. In any case, they never come on time for farmers. All I could think of was my soyabean harvest.”

He had invested over a lakh of rupees in its cultivation and the harvest was worth even more. “I can’t let it rot under water,” he thought as he climbed the pole with ease, guided by muscle memory. It wasn’t the first time he had done it. But it would be the last.

As Shinde reached out to the wire with his left hand, an electric current sliced through his body. He collapsed, losing consciousness. He had confused the position of the transformer switch. “I thought I had to pull it down,” Shinde says. “In fact, I switched it on before climbing the pole when it was already off.”

Fortunately, Shinde fell from the pole onto a haystack under it. Other farmers rushed him to hospital. The doctor managed to save his life but not his left arm. It was amputated from the shoulder. Shinde lost control of his right hand too – he can’t close the palm to make a fist or move his fingers at all. When he has to make a call, he holds his mobile like a saucer and has a conversation on the speaker phone.

“I used to work the tractor and slog it out on the farm,” Shinde says with a wistful smile. “That’s all gone now. I can only be thankful that I didn’t turn into ashes on the spot.”

According to a study published in 2024 – Health and Injury Outcomes Among Agriculture Workers in India – the rate of accidents in agriculture is 334 per lakh workers. Of these, 5.6 per cent are fatal.

More than half the people surveyed reported pain in the lower back, knees and shoulders due to repetitive movements and awkward postures, which exacerbate old-age related disabilities. As many as 58 per cent reported distress – linked to debt, crop failure and suicides – leading to mental health problems.

In Madhya Pradesh alone, economic losses from fatalities and downtime was Rs. 170 crore annually, says the study.

The albatross of the agrarian crisis is tighter around the necks of farmers with disabilities.

The intersection between the farming crisis and disability in the country is hazy — especially because India still lacks a clear picture of disability at large.

The Census of 2011 recorded 26.8 million persons with disabilities in India, or 2.21 per cent of the total population. Of these, 69 per cent live in rural areas, where most livelihoods directly or indirectly intersect with agriculture.

However, India only recognised eight categories of disabilities in 2011. Five years after the census, 13 more categories were added, which means the number of people with disabilities is likely to be far higher.

The WHO estimates the number of people with disabilities at around 16 per cent of the global population, or one in six. At that rate, the absolute number in India would be over 200 million.

The Union budget of 2026-27 allocated Rs. 1,670 crore to the Department of Empowerment of Persons with Disabilities – an increase of nearly 30 per cent, which adds around Rs. 380 crore over the previous year. However, the problem is underutilisation of funds. For 10 years from 2014, more than Rs. 500 crore allotted to schemes for the implementation of the Rights of Persons with Disability Act reportedly remained unspent.

Maharashtra, which offers a snapshot of the dire state of India’s agricultural economy, appears to have no figures of disabled persons working in agriculture. While the state has schemes for disabled persons, none of these accounts specifically for farmers, said an official who formerly worked in the concerned ministry.

Dr. Manik Gursal, Secretary of the Department of Empowerment of Persons with Disabilities, said he didn’t know if statistics or specific schemes discussing the overlap between farming and disability exist.

“Please check with the Commissioner,” he said.

This reporter sent an email to the Commissioner, Satyajit Bade, asking for the information. The story will be updated when he responds.

According to official numbers, there are over 36 lakh people with disabilities in Maharashtra – the second highest in India – who are eligible for the centrally-issued Unique Disability ID (UDID) card. The person with a disability has to fill out an online application form and undergo a medical assessment at a government hospital.

But only over 14 lakh UDID cards have been generated in the state. In other words, 60 per cent of the disabled population in Maharashtra hasn’t received the UDID card, without which welfare benefits cannot be accessed.

Nilesh Wankhede, 27, is among them.

Wankhede is a Dalit farmer from Injala village in Yavatmal. He was 19 on the day he returned home after spraying pesticides on his cotton crop.

“He had lunch and stepped out of the house to go to the toilet,” his mother, Chandrakala, 60, recalls. “When he didn’t return for half an hour, we got worried.”

When Chandrakala went searching for her son, she found him lying unconscious. She rushed him to the hospital at Ghatanji taluka, from where he was referred to Yavatmal town.

“He had been poisoned while spraying pesticides,” she says. “He was tied to the hospital bed while the doctors injected him. When he vomited out the poison, he squirmed like an epileptic patient.”

During 2017-18, more than 50 farmers died of pesticide poisoning in Vidarbha and over 1,000 were hospitalised with complaints of nervousness, dizziness, visual impairment and stomach aches.

Wankhede’s eyesight has never been the same since.

The burning sun was right above him the day he was poisoned. Blistering heat was scorching the cotton crop in his 2.5-acre farmland. He is reminded of his near-death experience every time the sun is overhead – he becomes incapacitated. In summers, Yavatmal consistently crosses 40 degrees Celsius, and Wankhede can barely put in any hours in the field.

“I start palpitating when it gets really hot,” Wankhede explains. “I feel scared and anxious. I am reminded of the incident and I can’t think straight.”

Labour costs on his farm have gone up because his parents can’t handle the farm by themselves. The family cultivates cotton and soyabean – both consistently sell at least 10 per cent below the minimum support price (MSP) in the market while the input costs rise, often unexpectedly as in the current season.

Ever since the US and Israel declared war on Iran, fertilisers have become more expensive, forcing farmers to spend at least Rs. 3,000 extra for every acre. “The only way to break even is by increasing your own workload,” Wankhede says. “But that is not possible for me.”

For the first four years or so, Wankhede didn’t work on the farm at all. He gradually returned to it but his eyes continued to give him trouble.

“My vision has been blurry for all these years,” he says. “I used to put in a lot of work as a teen. I had hoped to take over the farm and ease my father’s burden.”

But Wankhede can’t focus on an object that’s far away. His head starts hurting if he looks at anything close for a while. The minute he steps into the harsh sun, his eyes begin to water. His visual impairment has had a cascading effect on the family.

“My father has to put in extra hours in the field and also double up as a labourer,” he says. “I feel guilty that he has to do it at this age.” His father is 65.

Yet, Wankhede doesn’t have a UDID card. He didn’t even know it existed because none of the hospitals or authorities have told him about it. The district welfare officers are supposed to facilitate registration camps with the help of local organisations, and examine whether a person qualifies for the UDID card or not. In Wankhede’s case, the guidelines have a criteria for visual acuity but an eye test has never been done to determine whether he qualifies.

For Shinde, it took about three months after his accident for the UDID card to arrive. “I get Rs. 2,500 per month,” he says. “But my expenses are far more than that.”

Under normal circumstances, for cotton and soyabean, a farmer spends anywhere between Rs. 25,000 and 35,000 per acre on seeds, fertilisers and pesticides. Labour is hired only towards the end of the season, for harvesting. Shinde’s labour costs have, however, shot through the roof since his accident because he has to engage people through the season.

“For a man I pay 500 rupees a day, and a woman, 300 rupees,” he says. “My input costs are almost 1.5 times the input costs of others. My injury is an example of Dushkalat terava mahina.” The Marathi proverb translates to “a thirteenth month during drought” -- adding insult to injury.

“Farming is a loss-making profession in the first place,” Shinde says. “Even in a rare good season when the weather is consistent, I make little profit because of my higher labour costs. But when I lose, I lose big. How is Rs. 2,500 per month going to cover that?”

Towards the end of the monsoon season in 2025, an excessive burst of rainfall washed away 68 lakh hectares of farmland and affected 60 lakh farmers across Maharashtra. More than 100 people lost their lives and 3,000 homes were damaged. Angry clouds unleashed a devastating downpour, submerging miles of farmland and knocking down trees and electricity poles. Farmers rushed to salvage their harvest and lead their livestock to safety.

But Suresh Mundhe, 53, helplessly watched his business drown.

“It was about 8 in the evening when the rain started pouring down,” Mundhe recalls. “It took about 15 minutes for everything to get wiped out.”

Living with polio since childhood at Ukadgaon village in Solapur district, he could not have undertaken a rescue operation. By the time he reached the shed, 15,000 of his chickens had drowned – their wings flapping as the gushing water carried them away.

Mundhe owns farmland for sustenance, but the allied business covered the household expenses for the past 20 years or so.

“Today, at least I am able to speak to you,” he says. “Until a couple of months ago, I was in a state of shock.”

According to a government resolution, Mundhe should have been eligible for Rs. 100 for every chicken he lost. In other words, Rs. 15 lakh. But when the administration inspected the damage, he received only Rs. 10,000 in compensation.

“It was a joke,” he says. “I have a debt of Rs. 40 lakh.”

The tehsildar of Barshi, F.R. Shaikh said the administration has so far cleared about Rs. 94 crore for 73,000 farmers who suffered losses and Rs. 68 lakh for 1,670 damaged homes. “For chickens, the government resolution capped the damage to 100 units,” he said. “That’s why he got Rs. 10,000.”

However, that upper limit has now been relaxed. “We have asked for the purchase receipts of 15,000 chickens and the farmer in question will get his compensation,” he added.

That is a tricky demand because farmers may or may not save their purchase receipts from years ago. However, Mundhe has them. “My father passed away in June due to blood cancer,” he says. “I couldn’t submit those receipts immediately. I will do that soon.”

Mundhe, in the meantime, managed to gather himself and restart his business from scratch. But it isn’t easy. “I was in my thirties when I last did this,” he says.

Climate change is among the leading factors compounding the agrarian crisis. A sustained drizzle has been mostly replaced with bursts of heavy rainfall. As weather patterns change, farmers need to adapt — running to protect their crop from unexpected torrential rain has become a frequently required survival skill. Farmers with disabilities are at an added disadvantage. By the time help comes, it is often too late.

Ravindra Shinde feels the insecurity of being incapable of carrying out a rescue act.

“I can’t even drink water by myself, let alone save my crop,” Shinde says, sitting under a tree in an open farm, enduring blistering heat. Sweat trickles down his forehead and he points to a bottle of water for his friend to uncork. “What are you waiting for?” he sarcastically asks. The friend laughs and helps him quench his thirst.

“My parents are aging and they have their own troubles,” Shinde adds. “My father has back issues and my mother struggles with joint pain.”

But one of his greatest laments is that he can’t be there for his daughters the way he would have liked to. They are 10 and 12 years old. He can’t drop them to school on a bike, nor can he play with them after they come home.

“I couldn’t enjoy their childhood,” he adds. “It’s the one thing a father wants to do. I will always have that regret.”

This story is supported by the International Foundation for Disability Inclusion's (IFDI) Journalism Fellowship on Disability Inclusion.