Bhasha Singh

Namita Waikar

Translator

Sharmila Joshi

Editor

large_Untitled-2_iFeBGir.jpg

medium_Untitled-2_iFeBGir.jpg

small_Untitled-2_iFeBGir.jpg

thumbnail_Untitled-2_iFeBGir.jpg

Untitled-2_iFeBGir.jpg

In the Pul Pehlad mohalla (settlement) of Lal Kuan in outer Delhi, everybody knows ‘the boy with the pushcart’ or the ‘chilli-potato boy’. He is the youngest pushcart vendor in the area.
I spot him running through a narrow lane in the slum settlement, bordered with open sewers, to the empty space where he parks his handcart. He rolls the cart to the end of the lane, wedges stones against its wheels to keep it immobile, and disappears into a room. For 14-year-old Arjun Singh, who will soon load his cart with potato chips and momos for sale, this is a daily routine.
The shy but cheerful boy lives with his widowed mother, Laxmi Singh. Inside their small room, there is no furniture. A mirror adorns a wall, with a heart shaped out of brown tape stuck in a corner. ‘Laxmi+Arjun’, it declares. &quot;I wrote that,&quot; says Arjun, &quot;so whoever visits us can see our world in it.&quot;It is an isolated and difficult world. On July 14, 2013, Arjun’s father Rajeshwar Singh died while cleaning the sewers at the Indira Gandhi National Centre for the Arts. He had been employed there since 2011. He was one of three cleaners who inhaled toxic gases and died in the building&#39;s basement. The other two men were Ashok Kumar and Satish Singh; all of them were contractual workers at the government-run centre for the performing arts. All three belonged to the Valmiki Dalit community, and all of them lived with their families in the Valmiki basti of Trilokpuri (Laxmi later moved with Arjun to where her married daughter Minu lives, in Lal Kuan).

Since then, Ashok Kumar and Satish Singh’s families have returned home to Meerut. Neither of them received the Rs. 10 lakhs compensation mandated by a 2014 Supreme Court order for families of conservancy workers who die doing this hazardous and dehumanising work. More than four years after Rajeshwar Singh died, Laxmi has received only Rs. 4 lakhs – ostensibly because her husband was on contract, not a permanent employee. Laxmi, in her late-30s, also once worked as a sanitation worker – sweeping, removing garbage, doing other cleaning tasks – at the same National Centre for the Arts. She and her husband each earned Rs. 3,500 a month. After her daughter Minu’s marriage in 2011, however, she says she lost interest in the work and became irregular. And after her husband’s death, she refuses to consider a job that entails cleaning or scavenging. &quot;We belong to a scheduled caste, we are Valmiki,&quot; Laxmi explains. &quot;I spent my childhood in Sanchauli village in Mathura district of Uttar Pradesh. My father, Roshanlal, was an agricultural labourer. My mother, Ramkali, worked as a cleaner in the village, sweeping, cleaning and picking up garbage, shit and dung. There were no toilets in the villages then. People from the Chamar caste would pick up the dead animals.”Laxmi was married at the age of 13 or 14, Rajeshwar was then 17 or 18 years old. He was originally from Rohtak in Haryana, but was working in Delhi, cleaning toilets and sewers. Everyone in his household was a sanitation worker. “My mother-in-law worked at the police headquarters in Delhi,” Laxmi says. “After she died, I tried very hard to get her job, but the officers refused to give it, saying that the rules had changed. My husband was earlier employed as a cleaner at Nehru Stadium, and then at Nirmal Bhavan. In the early days, he was paid only 400 rupees a month as a worker on contract. But he was a carefree man. He never worried about anything, nor did he ever give us cause for worry.&quot;

20170708_185223_copy.jpg

Their son Arjun was barely 10 when Rajeshwar died. “My father was very handsome,” Arjun recalls. “I was so much like him. My eyebrows are just like his. I am short just like him. He loved bhindi [okra] and so do I. He loved to cook, and now I find I am cooking too, but out of necessity. He was very loving, and called me Chintu.” What Arjun remembers most about his father is the song he would sing frequently – ‘Tum mujhe yoon, bhula na paogey’ (‘You will not be able to forget me easily’). &quot;My biggest problem,&quot; Arjun says, &quot;is that I cannot call anyone Papa anymore. I was not even 10 when Papa died. My mother was so distressed, she cried, and cried. Nobody helped us; all the relatives abandoned us. I feel I have to grow up as fast as possible so I can give my mother some comfort.&quot; It is 3 p.m. as we speak, time for Arjun to get his wares ready. He grabs some potatoes from a sack and begins slicing them. After he has washed the chips, he casually adds in spices, talking about the whole process as if he were a masterchef on a television show. Then he begins to prepare the momos. Finally, everything is placed on the pushcart – gas cylinder, stove, cauldron, ladle, plates, chutney. His mother helps, arranging the corncobs. Arjun sells his snacks in the mohalla every afternoon after school, making a profit of Rs. 100-150 on good days, though sometimes as little as Rs. 50. Often,  people do not even pay the Rs. 10-15 he charges per plate, and buy from him on credit. Sales are generally higher on weekends and festivals.It is a precarious livelihood, but essential to keep them going since the only other income is the Rs. 2,000 widow&#39;s pension that Laxmi gets from the government. The people nearby, she says, especially the men, are jealous of their small success, complaining that the roadside food vending dirties up the place. Mehrunnisa Khatun, a neighbour, says, &quot;These men do not like it when a lone woman makes progress, especially when the woman is from the Valmiki caste. They are just waiting for a chance to get rid of the pushcart.&quot;

Laxmi and Arjun have small dreams for the immediate future. Of selling boiled eggs, of setting up a small shop where they can sell items of daily need and increase their income. But even these small dreams need capital. The Rs. 10 lakh compensation would have provided that capital. The Safai Karmachari Andolan, a community-based organisation working to eradicate manual scavenging, is helping Laxmi fight for the compensation, but Rajeshwar Singh was a contract worker, not a regular employee, leaving a loophole that his employers can exploit to refuse payment of the entire amount.  The Andolan also helped Arjun get admission in Class 6 at a government school, the Sarvodaya Bal Vidyalaya, Tughlakabad.  The family did not have the address proof required for admission, and Arjun&#39;s previous school in Trilokpuri delayed the issue of a transfer certificate. Now that Arjun is finally back at school, he can dream bigger. He dreams of becoming a bank manager and a chef.Laxmi says she will not rest even after she gets the full compensation. She is determined to fight to abolish manual scavenging. &quot;No woman,&quot; she says, &quot;should lose her husband the way I lost mine. I am ready to go everywhere to say this. I had joined the Bhim Yatra [the nation-wide bus tour in 2015-16 to protest against, among other issues,  the deaths of conservancy workers in the sewers]. But the government is not ready to listen. If our people die, it makes no difference to anybody in this world. This is because our caste is written on our forehead. As long as manual scavenging and our caste are interlinked, we will not be released from this hell.&quot;&quot;I get very angry when I think that so many people are dying like this and the government is not doing anything about it,&quot; Laxmi continues. &quot;Is there no takneek [technology] in our country to clean sewers? There is so much hungama [commotion] about the government&#39;s Swachh Bharat [Clean India campaign], but how is this nation swachh if even today people have to go in to clean the gutters?&quot;Translation: Namita Waikar

‘Swachh Bharat, and people still clean gutters?’

‘தூய்மை இந்தியா, ஆனால் மனிதர்கள் இன்னும் சாக்கடையை சுத்தம் செய்து கொண்டிருக்கிறார்கள்’

’سووچھ بھارت، اور لوگ ابھی بھی گٹر صاف کر رہے ہیں؟‘

स्वच्छ भारत का नारा, और सीवर में मरते सफ़ाईकर्मी

ସ୍ୱଚ୍ଛ ଭାରତ, ନର୍ଦ୍ଦମାରେ ଜୀବନ

‘স্বচ্ছ ভারতে মানুষ যে এখনও নর্দমার পাঁক ঘেঁটেই চলেছে!’

‘स्वच्छ भारत, आणि अजूनही लोकांनी हातानं गटारं साफ करावी?’

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>

‘Swachh Bharat, and people still clean gutters?’

When he was 10, Arjun Singh's father Rajeshwar died while cleaning a sewer in Delhi. At 14, the schoolboy sells snacks to support himself and his mother, and dreams of becoming a bank manager and a chef

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