The long road to land rights

The feeling is far too familiar for Kiran Gahala, 54, and many other Adivasi farmers like him.

On January 19, 2026, he stepped out of his small house in Dolhari Budruk village in the district of Palghar wearing a red t-shirt and a scarf. He boarded the waiting tempo-truck with a bunch of other Adivasi farmers and headed towards the village of Charoti. That was the starting point of yet another giant march organised by the All India Kisan Sabha, Maharashtra.

There are tens of thousands of farmers here, perhaps 50,000 or so in media reports and AIKS estimates. They are predominantly from the tribal communities of Palghar district. They had started their trek towards the collectorate, demanding better implementation of land rights, reinstatement of the MGNREGA, cancellation of the Vadhavan port and availability of water for drinking and irrigation purposes, among others.

Blasting protest songs, striding purposefully and chanting slogans, the protestors reached the Collectorate office of Palghar on the evening of January 20, where they plan to camp until their demands are met – the most longstanding of which is the enforcement of land rights. Adivasis have been tilling forest and grazing land for centuries but still don’t own the plots they cultivate.

The Forest Rights Act, 2006, vests forest land and resource rights in Scheduled Tribes and other traditional forest dwellers who have resided in such areas for generations. Gram sabhas initiate claims, verified through sub-divisional and district committees, protecting dwellers from eviction until their rights are settled. But most of the tribal farmers at the rally have not had their claims approved.

This isn’t the first time tribal farmers have launched a protest of this kind in Maharashtra. And it most likely won’t be the last. Gahala was in that massive rally that marched to Azad Maidan in Mumbai from Nashik in 2018 – a 180-kilometres stretch on foot spanning across a week, with many of the marchers barefoot.

“I was at the forefront of that too,” says Gahala, who belongs to the Warli community among Adivasis. “We had blisters on our feet by the time we reached Mumbai.”

It was a historic moment for farmers, for the entire city of Mumbai embraced them. They were also offered help along the highway as they walked. At the end of the rally, the Maharashtra government led by Chief Minister Devendra Fadnavis had to sit across the table with farm leaders and agree to their demands.

Nearly eight years later, Fadnavis is again the chief minister of Maharashtra, and farmers like Gahala are marching again. “The government only makes promises so we go back to our villages,” he says. “But there has been no implementation.”

Between 2018 and 2026, Gahala estimates, farmers associated with the Kisan Sabha might have carried out 30-40 rallies – big and small – to force the administration and government to enforce their demands. The rallies have ranged from a day to a week, or sometimes even more. But even if one considers an average of three days per rally, the tribal farmers have spent close to four months of the past eight years simply protesting for their rights. Those who have been consistent throughout the rallies are tired and have aged, but their spirit is still intact.

They are within this sea of red shirts worn in solidarity as in the earlier marches. The AIKS is affiliated with the Communist Party of India (Marxist).

“My feet and knees hurt,” says Ishwati Gahala. She doesn’t know her age, but her estimate is “saath chya pudhe”, or 60 plus. “I was much younger when we walked to Mumbai,” she adds, sitting under the open sky near Manor phata (junction), where the farmers camped through the rather chilly night. Some of them had taken the responsibility of cooking Khichadi for thousands of their comrades. Others sat beside the huge cooking utensils, warming themselves in their heat. “Marching with other farmers in solidarity gives you energy,” Ishwati adds. “It gives you hope. It feels good to not give up.”

Ishwati, belonging to the village of Jamshet in Palghar district, comes from the Warli tribe too. Three of her family members were at the rally. They own 2 acres of farmland in the village where, much like most others, they cultivate rice during the monsoon season. “We only take out one crop,” she tells me. “Without irrigation, we can’t do much for the rest of the season.”

For the Adivasi farmers in this district of Palghar, labour work becomes imperative for survival because their harvest is mostly for sustenance. In that context, the gutting of MGNREGA is a huge blow for them.

In December 2025, the Indian government replaced the Mahatma Gandhi National Rural Employment Guarantee Act with the Viksit Bharat - G RAM G Act (VB-G RAM G). While the government has increased the guaranteed workdays from 100 to 125 on paper, the new law shifts the funding burden massively on to the states. Considering that most states are financially in shambles, experts believe it could well be the end of a scheme that once provided guaranteed work to people in rural India.

“There were problems with the MGNREGA too,” says Vinod Nikole, sitting MLA from Dahanu in Palghar district, who marched with the farmers. “The work wasn’t enough, and wages were little, and often delayed.” But shutting it down was hardly the answer. “We are demanding better wages and more workdays for the labourers.”

Until the demands are met, the farmers don’t plan to leave the Collectorate of Palghar. “Had the government implemented the assurances given to us in 2018, we wouldn’t be marching today again,” says Rubdi Aadga, 45.

Aadga is one of those who been robbed off a compensation package because he didn’t own the land his family had been tilling for generations. “My land was levelled because a superfast highway project went through it,” he adds. “Now I have no source of income.”

He cultivated rice and jowar on that land, which also had date and pineapple trees. Had he owned the land title, he would have been eligible for a compensation in excess of Rs. 2 crore. Instead, he got nothing – and lost his livelihood. “There are 45 people like me in my village of Jhari in Palghar,” he says. “How many more generations of ours will be robbed off like this? Mere promises won’t work this time.”