Bhasha Singh

Sharmila Joshi

Editor

large_01_No_life_should_end_in_the_gutter_BS_IMG_Putul1.jpg

medium_01_No_life_should_end_in_the_gutter_BS_IMG_Putul1.jpg

small_01_No_life_should_end_in_the_gutter_BS_IMG_Putul1.jpg

thumbnail_01_No_life_should_end_in_the_gutter_BS_IMG_Putul1.jpg

01_No_life_should_end_in_the_gutter_BS_IMG_Putul1.jpg

It has been six months since Putul Daloi&#39;s husband, Chandan,
died. The approach to her tiny home in Bengali Mohalla in Vasant Kunj, New
Delhi, takes you through streets crowded with
cows and buffaloes. This is the heart of the dairy business, and the smell of
cowdung hangs in the air. Most of the inhabitants of the mohalla are Bengali migrants.
 
 On one wall of 26-year-old Putul&#39;s home is
a poster of Durga, in her Kali incarnation. Beside it is an old photograph of
her husband. A more recent photograph of him stands on a table with a lighted agarbatti before it.
 Chandan Daloi, 30, had worked at the Vasant Square Mall for seven years. He was part of the housekeeping team employed by World Class Services Private Limited to provide cleaning services. On November 11, 2016, Chandan and another worker were asked to clean a septic tank in the mall’s premises. Chandan descended into the tank – without any protective gear – and choked on the poisonous gases. His colleague Israil jumped in to help him, but he collapsed too. News reports state that a beat constable used a rope to pull them out of the tank and rushed them to hospital. Chandan was declared dead on arrival. Israil survived. &quot;When I heard the news, I ran to the mall,&quot; Putul recounts, &quot;but I was not allowed in. I was told that Chandan had been sent to Fortis Hospital. Hundreds of people from Bengali Mohalla gathered at the hospital, but we were chased away. I pleaded that he was my husband, I had to see him. Even my son was not allowed in. They chased us away as if we were criminals.

“The anguish of not being able to see him in his last moments continues to haunt me.&quot; Putul is close to tears as she speaks. “My husband was made to do this illegal work,&quot; she says. Putul told him to quit the job when she learnt he had to clean the septic tank from time to time. But Chandan had disregarded her, believing he would lose the job if he refused to clean the tank and knowing that it would not be easy to get another job.  &quot;Those who made him do it must be caught. Everyone knows there is fatal gas inside the tanks, yet my husband was asked to go down into it. Why? Why are only people of my caste employed for cleaning the sewers and gutters? There is such a hue and cry about &quot;development&quot; in India, and yet humans are made to clean the shit out of the gutters of malls? Why are people still dying inside those sewers? I want answers to my question.&quot; Fortunately, Putul is not alone in her battle for justice. She has not succumbed to pressure. An IT professional at whose house Putul is employed as a domestic worker helped her file the first information report (FIR) with the police. Non-governmental organisations and the employer of another relative in the mohalla also provided support.

&quot;The post-mortem report testified to the truth – the cause of death was suffocation due to poisonous gas,&quot; adds Deepali Daloi, Putul&#39;s relative. &quot;The company tried to manipulate the report, saying that the death had been caused by electrocution. But everyone knows the truth. When the sahibs from the kothis [housing colonies] threatened to file a case against the company, they corrected the report.” The system is apathetic to us, Deepali adds. &quot;If such is the state of affairs in Delhi, can you imagine the situation in far-flung villages?&quot; After months of follow-up, Chandan&#39;s employers paid Putul Rs. 10 lakhs. (A Supreme Court judgment of March 27, 2014, recommended that amount as compensation for all those who had died while cleaning sewers/septic tanks since 1993.) And they assured Putul that she would be given a job.Ironically, they offered her the same housekeeping job that had claimed the life of her husband.“Finally,&quot; Putul says wryly, &quot;caste matters. I cannot get my husband back. I want only that no one else should have to face this ordeal. No life should end in a gutter.” Putul is from the Bagadi community, a Scheduled Caste, as was Chandan. They came to Delhi from Kandikpur village in the Sundarbans, in South 24 Parganas district of West Bengal. There was no work in the village. At the mall, Chandan earned Rs. 9,800, and they paid Rs. 3,500 as rent for their room.

Now depressed
and unable to resume her work as a cook in the bungalows nearby, Putul knows
that she cannot return to the Sundarbans. There is nothing to go back to. Her mother-in-law, brother-in-law and his family barely manage to live
off their 2–2.5
 
 bighas
 
 (roughly 0.6 acres) of farmland. 
 Though she hates the idea, Putul knows
she may end up taking the cleaning job on offer. &quot;Now it is a compulsion. Everyone says that with
this work I can bring up my child in a better and more secure way.”
 
 Amit, her nine-year-old son, returns
home from school with a strawberry ice cream. He is in upper KG at the Vasant
Public School. He remembers his father
taking them to the mall for pizza and burgers. And then, that November day, he
saw his father being brought home, stitches running down his body from head to navel.
 &quot;They made him go down into that dirty gutter and he died in it,&quot; says Amit fiercely. &quot;They put a safety belt there later, just to deceive people. Had the belt been there earlier, it would have got dirty as Papa climbed into the gutter. But the belt was spotless.&quot;

Amit has grown up to
caste prejudice all too quickly. &quot;When my friends in school learnt about
the death of my father, they asked me why he got into that gutter, why was he
doing this dirty work in the first place? I had not known my father was doing
this work, so I was silent.&quot; He picks up a mobile phone
and shows me pictures of his father. He has a story to accompany each photograph.
&quot;When Papa went down into the gutter, he took off his clothes and left the
phone with them. After he died, I have taken his phone,&quot; he explains. &quot;Every
day after school I look at his pictures and then play for some time on the phone.&quot;
 Amit jumps up and points to a red footprint, framed on the wall. It is an impression of Chandan’s foot, taken after his death. The red is from the alta used to decorate the hands and feet on auspicious occasions. There is a belief in the community that the footprint will ensure that the soul never departs. Amit says, &quot;See, my father is here.&quot; Some 50-60 members of their extended family are in Delhi, Putul informs us. Entire villages seem to have moved to the cities. All of them are involved in some sort of cleaning work, mostly as contract workers. They have escaped the village, but not the caste identities that limit their lives and livelihoods. &quot;Housekeeping&quot; is only an euphemism; it has not changed their conditions of work.

Putul&#39;s father, Pradip,
has been sweeping and cleaning for a long time in Delhi&#39;s Chittaranjan Park. Chandan’s
elder brother Nirmal and sister Sumitra had come to Delhi before them. Men from
their community generally get jobs in housekeeping or gardening and women take
up domestic work. 
 Deepak, Chandan&#39;s maternal
uncle, came to Delhi 20 years ago from the same village, Kandikpur.  After years spent sweeping and cleaning as a
casual worker, he now runs a meat and fish shop. “The work of manual scavenging
continues unabated,&quot; Deepak says. &quot;It must stop. Occasionally, when
there is a death, the issue makes the news. Should we  wait for someone to die before we take the
issue seriously?”
 Putul, who has studied till Class 8 in the Bengali medium, is determined to live in Delhi and make her son a &#39;big man&#39;. She wants to keep him away from the work of sweeping and scrubbing. &quot;I will fight to my last breath to break the shackles of caste,&quot; she declares. Amit clings to his mother and says, &quot;I will become an engineer and develop technology that will prevent humans cleaning gutters.&quot;Postscript: Some time after the author met the bereaved family, Putul did take up her husband&#39;s job at the mall. Though she said she hated the idea, she felt compelled to, in order to support herself and her son.

'No life should end in the gutter'

’அந்தக் குழிக்குள் யாருக்கும் உயிர் போகக்கூடாது’

’نالے میں کسی کی موت نہیں ہونی چاہیے‘

'किसी की भी मौत गटर में नहीं होनी चाहिए'

‘ନର୍ଦ୍ଦମାରେ ଶେଷ ନ ହେଉ କାହା ଜୀବନ’

‘कुणाचंच आयुष्य असं गटारात संपू नये’

‘নর্দমার পাঁকে পড়ে কেউ যেন জীবন না খোয়ায়’

Delhi

At present, we can only accept donations in Indian rupees by Indian citizens. All donations made to the CounterMedia Trust are eligible for exemption under Section 80G of the Income Tax Act, 1961. Here is a copy of our exemption certificate.


India is bigger than New Delhi. And people need to know more about the rest of this vast nation.


Younger, media-saturated generations are growing up knowing little about their country, but a lot about the elites of a few metros and towns. For a narrowly-owned, commercially-driven media, the dumbing down of a nation is part of standard operating procedure. The last available data of the Centre for Media Studies (CMS, Delhi) show us that reports from New Delhi account for 66 per cent of news on the front pages of major dailies. The CMS data also found that just about 0.24 per cent of front page news came out of rural India. The TV channels are not much better.PARI exists to change that.We are a non-profit organisation. We publish under creative commons, and do not charge readers a subscription fee or put-up advertisements. Nothing is behind a paywall and we are completely free-to-access by anyone. We guard our independence and receive no direct grants from governments and corporations, nor any funding that could dictate our content. So, we are dependent on volunteer labour, donations from individuals, foundations and institutions that see value in independent and free media.PARI is changing the way Indian journalism reports and documents the rural.India is more than the elite of a few metros and towns. We report on rural lives and livelihoods, languages, communities, migrants and more. We need your help to pull off this most ambitious of Indian journalistic endeavours. The scale of this effort costs money. Donate generously - and spread the word about PARI.&nbsp;

Donate FAQs


Let’s get you acquainted

Welcome to PARI

All our content is, and will forever be free to consume. If you enjoy our work, you can support us by becoming a volunteer or by donating to help fund our work.

Want to republish this article? Please write to <a href="mailto:zahra@ruralindiaonline.org" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">zahra@ruralindiaonline.org</a> with a cc to <a href="mailto:namita@ruralindiaonline.org" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">namita@ruralindiaonline.org</a>

'No life should end in the gutter'

In November 2016, Chandan Daloi died while cleaning a septic tank at a Delhi mall. ‘Why is only our caste employed for cleaning the sewers, and why are people still dying inside them’, asks his wife, Putul

Related stories

A rain-scented walk in Sivagangai

Living on ravaged land

Biswas and the bamboos on his bike

Recycling energy, Godda style

Bhadels of Goa

Pookadai: still throbbing with morning life

Koli Kadlas

Malnourishment high among children of migrants: study

Wheels of the rural Indian West

Living Under a Red Cloud in Bellary

Vedla – earrings of the Maher community

Dreaming of water, drowning in debt

Kali: the dancer and his dreams

Farmer's diet worse than a convict's

In Yavatmal, life goes on

Suicides are about the living, not the dead

Death of a carpenter

Hoisa Shigmo!

Women farmers: weaving a life in Anantapur

Defiant in Dhinkia

Spice and all that's nice

Kerala's Green Army

The ‘jugaad’ not-a-mobile

Health as someone else's wealth

Calibrating in a Kudumbashree assembly unit