The weight on her heart and her head

Amarjit Kaur freezes mid-way, the tasla – a metal basin that she is trying to hoist on her head seems a bit unsteady for a few seconds. Then slowly, she begins to walk in small, wobbly steps towards the rudi – the dung heap, to empty yet another lot she has gathered from the buffalo enclosure. There were days when she was able to walk with the tasla filled to its full capacity, some 10-12 kilograms, on her head. But at 72 that is hard. Though today the grief in her heart weighs heavier than the vessel on her head, slowing her down.

What I thought was an innocuous question about her family, had brought on a tsunami of memories dragging Amarjit 24 years into the past. “Unhan dasya Patti mod te tera munda mar gaya accident naal [They came and told me, ‘your son died in an accident at the turn near Patti’]," she says and sits down to gather more dung. Her hands move mechanically, her knees creak as she squats on her haunches on the floor. “He used to pull a rickshaw. He was just 18.” Five years later she lost her second son at 21.

The boys were merely six and four years old when their alcoholic father died 36 years ago. If it were not for goha-kura (cattle dung collection) that Amarjit had been doing since her marriage, she wouldn’t have been able to raise her boys and two girls (now married). She scoops more dung with bare hands along with the grief that has resurfaced, emptying one handful at a time into the basin. She heaves one long sigh as she lifts the vessel onto her head, and totters to the rudi, about 100 metres away. This is for the 20th time since she started cleaning this morning. She belongs to the Mehre Sikh community listed as a Scheduled Caste in Punjab. A landless Dalit, Amarjit picks up goha-kura in seven houses in Patti town for a living.

“Jadon main dangran da goha chukkan thalle behndi aan tan oh aksar mere sir te hi moot dindian ne. Main roz roz sir nhi dho skdi te shampoo saban da kharcha vi nhi chukk skdi. Is lai aah lifafa pa leni aan [I have to wrap this plastic bag on my head because often while I am scooping the dung, buffaloes urinate on me. And I can’t wash my hair every day and pay for soap and shampoo].” Amarjit shows me the black bag she is now holding in her fist. She has just finished working in the first house of the day. That of a landowning farmer with 10 buffaloes. She will now walk to another house from here.

The day for her starts at 6 a.m. after a cup of tea. In the following nine hours she covers seven houses spread around the radius of 12 to 13 kilometres from her own home. There are no breaks – not for breakfast, not for lunch. The pay for her hard work is meagre. “Most people with three to four animals pay me 500 rupees a month. In the zamindar’s house I get 1,000 rupees and half litre of milk.”

She clears the faeces of roughly 30 to 35 animals through the day. “In good times I make some 3,500 to 4,000 rupees in a month. In winter there is less work.” The weather in Tarn Taran district is harsh then. “The animals die in the cold, so people take them inside and they don’t need me. My own health also doesn’t allow me to work hard in those months. I cannot start my days early and I need to get back by 3 in the afternoon. I cannot work all day. Lokin paisen in bharde kam bhaven poora din karaunde rahan [People don’t want to pay but they expect me to work the whole day,]" she says.

Almost half of her income goes towards sharing the rent with her granddaughter, who lives with her in a rented room. The rest goes towards sustaining her own life. Amarjit likes to be independent, looking after her needs and cooking her own meals. These days more money goes in purchasing ration and flour. "When the previous government distributed wheat, she used to get seven sacks of grain [widow’s quota] at the subsidized rate of two rupees a kilogram,” says Amarjit Kaur’s eldest daughter, 50-year-old Balwinder Kaur. “Now this current government has completely stopped that Aata-Dal scheme,"

Amarjit holds a Blue Card, issued under the Public Distribution System (PDS) to households below the poverty line, enabling them to buy grains at subsidised rates. However, since 2022, the Bhagwant Mann-led Aam Aadmi Party government in Punjab placed a temporary hold on the PDS scheme in the name of verifying the cards. In 2026, she still doesn’t have access to grains and other essential items under the scheme.

She gets 15 kilos of wheat twice a year under the Pradhan Mantri Garib Kalyan Anna Yojana. “Ini ku kank naal kitthe gujaran hunde ae [How is one supposed to survive with just this much?]" asks Amarjit Kaur. Her old age pension of 1,500 rupees a month offers some relief, but with age her failing health also has its own demands. “Look at this, my lump of grief,” she says showing me her abdominal lump. She hasn’t been to the doctor, though the public hospital is some three kilometres away from her house. "Who pays any heed to us lower caste people in government hospitals? And if I were to go to a private hospital, the doctors will cut me open at the first excuse [for they make more money from surgeries],” she says.

The growth is painless now, but Amarjit is no longer able to eat a full meal, which in turn makes her weak. She has had a few falls while walking to and back from work in the recent months. Why do you have to walk? “If I don't walk, what else am I supposed to do? Where to find the money to pay for a rickshaw?" She seemed a little annoyed with my question.

“Mein padhi-likhi nahin na ise karke goha-kora chukk rahi aan. Koi hor kum karna vinahi aaunda. [I don’t know how to read and write, nor do I know any other work. You need experience to do any new work.] Farmers prefer to hire only young blood for agricultural work. Whenever I approach them, they would say: Maata tu ghar beh [Old woman, you stay at home]. We don’t have our own land, no one from either my in-law’s side or on my parent’s side.” The movement for shamlat [the village common land] in Punjab, is yet to reach fruition and empower the Dalits in Tarn Taran. Till then Amarjit has no options.

“Mein bhi budhape cha araam karnaa chaundi han per je mein beh gai tan mar jaungi. [I too want to rest and live an easy life in my old age. But I won’t survive if I stop working],” she says.

This story was originally reported in Hindi.