‘We sleep with our heads on the road’

“It takes seven steps to craft a broom,” says Bhagwati.

Although only 20 years old, Bhagwati knows her craft well, having learnt from her mother and others in the family. “First, we split the date palm fronds in half, then strip away the leaflets,” she tells this reporter.

“Tukde tukde [small pieces]” is how she refers to the leaflets – the smaller leaves that form one large feather-like leaf. Broom makers cut each of these out and gather them into bundles. They are then fastened onto a bamboo stick and wrapped tightly with panni [polythene]. The last stage is thinning out the leaves and trimming the edges, she tells us, reeling off the stages. Her cousin Deoali chimes in occasionally.

The cousins, in their early twenties, have memorised each step. Seated on a pavement in Malout, Punjab with Bhagwati’s mother Soni Devi, the women face each other in a tight circle. Like a well-rehearsed dance, they take turns, each executing a step before handing the task to the next.

Deoali’s enthusiasm for the family craft is evident in her voice: “We have been very interested [Bohot mann karte the] in making brooms since we were children. And we continue to be.” She learnt the craft from her mother Rukhmani and is looking to pass it down to her three younger siblings.

Her cousin Bhagwati, although as excited as her about the family craft, is more practical: “Kyunki jab mehnat karenge to toh khane ko milega or mehnat nahi karenge toh kya khaenge [We have to work hard to eat. If we don’t work, what will we eat]?” she asks. She has grown up hearing her mother Soni Devi say: “If we will not make brooms, what will we eat?” It’s a sentiment that other broom makers who travel to Punjab from the Mewar region of Rajasthan also express.

Broom-making has been in the family for generations. Soni learned it from her mother at the age of 10 and, in turn, passed it down to her three children. So when Bhagwati turned 10, the young girl was ushered into the craft.

“When mother made a broom, she’d hand me one too. I’d follow her instructions just like a student learning from a teacher. Ankhon mein lekar seekh lete hain [We memorise every step by watching closely],” says Bhagwati.

“If we struggle, our mothers make sure we do either by scolding us or with a few slaps,” Deoali says with a laugh.

“There’s fear from both sides,” Bhagwati adds, joining in the laughter. “Mother’s scolding on one hand, and the sharp edges of the palm leaves on the other.”

Seated on the pavement with leaves and brooms around them, the trio occasionally look up to see honking buses passing by as they arrive and depart from the Malout terminal, Sri Muktsar Sahib, which shares a border with Rajasthan to the south and Haryana to the east, is much closer to Rajasthan. The town is well known for its Punjabi juttis (footwear). Read: ‘No one can craft a jutti like I do’

The girls describe the work as ‘aukha’ (arduous), and they are at it every day. The family’s nomadic way of life has made schooling impossible – the girls have never attended school.

Their workday runs from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m., with a few breaks in between. “One family makes around 20-25 brooms a day,” says Bhagwati. However, selling the brooms can be a slow process. “It takes five days to sell 20-25 brooms,” Soni tells this reporter. “We sell each for just 10 or 15 rupees a piece.”

The finished brooms are displayed against a wooden stand to attract passersby. “Not everyone who prefers brooms made from date palm leaves, will buy one every day. After all, a broom is something every home already has,” points out Deoali.

As she is speaking, a mother and son, Omkar and Surjeet Kaur stop to buy brooms to sell at their shop, 16 kilometres away in Pakki Tibbi village. Omkar says brooms made from date palm leaves work better on cemented brick floors. “The other ones work well on flat surfaces,” adds Surjeet Kaur.

The customers leave and the women pick up where they left off.

“Yahan roti-pani kamane ke liye aate hain. Humare baap-dada se aa rahe hain [We come here to earn a living, just like our forefathers did],” says Soni.

Soni and her family belong to the Bagaria community, a marginalised, nomadic group from Rajasthan. In their state, the community is listed as backward class (BC). “We don’t have a pucca home back in Rajasthan, only a than (small patch of land) where we live in a similar settlement like here,” says Soni.

The Bagaria community is a forest dwelling one, and listed among the de-notified tribes (DNT) in Punjab. “Having [once] labelled them as criminals, society kept them at a distance, further hindering their development. Now with natural resources no longer available, they are forced to turn to society for survival,” says Tejaram Mali, founding director of Manthan. His non-governmental organisation is based in Ajmer, Rajasthan and works with the Bagarias in the district.

“There is no work in Rajasthan,” Soni adds. “Water is also scarce—we have to buy it. Here, we get food, water, and manage to sell some brooms. We even find date palm leaves here to make them.”

So Soni and her husband Sukhlal, both in their forties, have for years journeyed with their three children over 700 kilometres, from Gangapur in Rajasthan’s Bhilwara district. Her voter identity card lists her address as ‘near the bus stand’, Mali Khera village, Bhilwara – a reflection of her transient life.

They travel to Malout, changing multiple trains and buses. Now, with their eldest daughter and son married and staying back to care for their own families, only Bhagwati, their unmarried youngest, accompanies them. The family of three live in a jhuggi (makeshift hut) near the bus stand.

They usually stay in Malout until the monsoons – during the rainy months of June and July it gets difficult for them to live on the pavement. Besides, the date palm leaves they get then are damp and turn black, making it difficult to craft brooms. After the monsoon ends, they return to Malout.

Last year, her sister Rukhmani and husband Shankar, 34, joined them, bringing their four children from Kalesariya village in Rajsamand district, 50 kilometres from Soni’s village. They settled in the jhuggi across the road from Soni’s.

Now, six such jhuggis house migrants from Rajasthan’s Mewar region, all making a living by crafting and selling date-palm brooms. Soni said other broom-making families move around, going to cities like Bathinda, Jalandhar, Moga, Jagraon, Kotkapura. “We move around these kinds of towns. We never stay in one place,” she adds.

Behind Soni’s hut, is a makeshift bathing area. Toilets are the nearest bushes, a short walk away. It is difficult for women, especially during menstruation. They have to use old pieces of cloth rather than sanitary napkins – the latter are a luxury they cannot afford.

Living in the open brings the fear of being run over: “Sadak par matha tek kar sote hai [We sleep with our heads on the road]. Our hut is not that far from the road, and if an accident happens, our entire family could be wiped out. But what choice do we have?” asks Rukhmani helplessly.

Outside Soni and Sukhlal’s hut, a tin box balanced on bricks serves as a stove, fuelled by twigs. Eating chapatis with raw tomatoes he just bought from a vendor for 10 rupees, Sukhlal says, “This is how we eat.”

Bunches of date palm leaves, referred to as puli, are neatly laid out on the pavement in front of their jhuggi. “We dry them in the sun for 10 days until they turn white in colour,” Sukhlal adds.

This is not always possible. “We have to keep them at the back when the valmikis [sanitation workers] scold us,” says Soni. “Sometimes, they even take away our leaves and brooms.”

“They threaten to burn the leaves, calling them kachra [garbage],” adds Bhagwati. “What can we say to them? After all, this is government land, and every month, the workers get orders to clear the roads of anything left behind.”

On a winter morning in January, when PARI was speaking to the family, a sanitation worker sweeping the road stopped and asked the family, “When are you leaving?”

Soni was born with a disability that makes walking difficult. Her hands too, are twisted, and using them is a challenge. “It is difficult for me to sit and walk on my own. My daughter, Bhagwati, helps me,” says Soni, wrapped in a shawl over her warm top and ghagra.

She has also been suffering from abdominal pain over the past few months. The family has spent Rs. 1,500 at a private clinic for a check-up and medicines. The doctor advised her to get an ultrasound, but she doesn’t have enough money. “Not even enough to make a cup of tea,” she says.

Government hospitals are around, but Soni cannot avail the free treatment because she does not have an Aadhaar (identity) card. The only identity document she possesses is a voter card issued last year.

Sukhlal has a kidney stone and goes to a neighbouring private clinic when he can afford to. Their youngest, Bhagwati, was also suffering from kidney stones. Last year, the family took a loan of Rs. 40,000 from a neighbour in their village for her treatment. They are struggling to repay the debt.

The family plans to return to Rajasthan after Holi, which falls on March 14th this year, to get their Aadhaar cards issued and apply for a disability pension. Each family manages to return home to Rajasthan with approximately Rs. 10,000 to 12,000.

“Humney toh 1 lakh bhi nahi dekha. 1 lakh kitna hota hai humne kabhi dekha bhi nahi hai. Lakh dekha hota toh hum mar bhi jae [We have never seen a lakh of rupees in our lives. If we did, we might just die],” Rukhmani says wryly, watching Bhagwati and Deoali play a game of ludo with stones in the shade of their displayed brooms.