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Each time I attempt to pen the deaths of my people, my mind empties out, like breath leaving the body of a corpse.The world around us has advanced so much yet our society pays no heed to the lives of manual scavengers. The government simply denies the occurrence of these deaths, but in a response to a <a href="https://sansad.in/getFile/annex/265/AU1096_V1fqD9.pdf?source=pqars">question</a> in the Lok Sabha this year, the Minister for Social Justice and Empowerment, Ramdas Athawale shared data showing that there have been more than 377 deaths from 2019-2023 &quot;due to hazardous cleaning of sewers and septic tanks&quot;.I have personally attended an innumerable number of manhole deaths in the last seven years. In Avadi, Chennai district alone, there have been 12 manhole deaths since 2022.On August 11, Hari, a 25-year-old Avadi resident and member of the Arunthathiyar community who was working as a contract labourer drowned while cleaning a sewage canal.Twelve days later I went to report on the death of Hari anna. I found his body lying inside a freezer box in his home. His wife Tamil Selvi had been asked by her family to finally carry out all the rituals a widow is expected to do. Her neighbours’ relatives smeared turmeric all over her then bathed her before cutting off her thali [symbol of a married woman]. She remained solemn and silent during these rituals.

When she moved to another room to change her clothes, the entire place was filled with silence. Their house built with just the red bricks had not been cemented. Each and every exposed brick was crumbling and eroded. The house seemed to be at the verge of collapsing.When Tamil Selvi akka came back after changing her saree, she ran towards the freezer box with a scream and began crying and wailing as she sat next to the freezer box. Her cries silenced the crowd and filled the room.“Oh dear! Wake up! Look at me, maama [term of endearment]. They are making me wear a saree. You don’t like it when I wear sarees, right? Wake up and ask them to not force me.”These words echo within me even today. Tamil Selvi akka is physically challenged having lost an arm. It is difficult for her to pin the pleats of the saree end on to her shoulder. That is why she doesn’t wear sarees. This memory stays and haunts me every day.Every such death that I’ve attended has stayed within me.Behind each and every manhole death many stories lie hidden. Deepa, aged 22, who also lost her husband Gopi in the recent manhole deaths at Avadi questioned whether 10 lakh rupees as compensation will cover the loss of her family&#39;s joy and happiness. “The 20th of August is our wedding day and 30th of August is our daughter&#39;s birthday, and he has left us in the same month as well,” she said. The monetary compensation they receive doesn’t meet all their financial needs.

Women and children of families who face manhole deaths are often not considered as victims. In Madampattu village in Villupuram district, when Anushiya akka’s husband, Maari died in a manhole, she couldn’t let out a cry as she was eight months pregnant. The couple already had three daughters; the first two daughters cried but their third daughter who couldn’t comprehend what was happening was running around the house in this eastern edge of Tamil Nadu.State compensation is seen as blood money. “I’m just unable to bring myself to spend this money. Spending this feels like gulping down my husband’s blood,” Anushiya akka said.When I followed up with the family of Balakrishnan, a manual scavenger who died in Karur district, Tamil Nadu, I observed that his wife suffers from serious depression. She said that even while working she often forgets her surroundings. It takes her time to realise her state, she said.The lives of these families get turned upside down. To us, however, these deaths are nothing more than news.

On September 11, 2023, Moses, a sanitary worker from Bheema Nagar in Avadi passed away. His is the only house with a tiled roof. Both of his daughters were able to comprehend the situation. I was at their house a day before his body arrived and his daughters were wearing tee-shirts that said ‘Dad loves me’ and ‘Dad’s little princess’. I was unsure if it was a coincidence.They spent the entire day crying incessantly, and despite others consoling them they were not pacified.Even though we may attempt to document and therefore mainstream these issues, there is a tendency to treat these deaths as merely news.

Two years ago in Kanjipattu, a hamlet in Sriperumbudur, three sanitary workers – Naveen Kumar, aged 25, Thirumalai  aged 20 and Ranganathan aged 50, passed away. Thirumalai was newly married, and Ranganathan is a father of two children. A number of workers who die are newly married and it is heart-breaking to see their widows losing hope. A few months after her husband died, others threw a baby shower for Muthulakshmi,.Manual scavenging is an <a id="4519" linktype="page">illegal act</a> in our country. Yet, we are unable to reduce the number of manhole deaths. I have no idea as to how I should take this issue further. My writing and photographs are the only way I know through which I hope to put a stop to this atrocious act.Each and every one of these deaths’ taxes me heavily. I often question whether it is okay for me to cry or not at their funerals. There is no such thing as professional grief. It is always personal. However, if not for these deaths I wouldn’t have become a photographer. To stop yet another manhole death, what more should I do? What should we all do?

‘There is no such thing as professional grief’

’پیشہ ور تکلیف جیسی کوئی چیز نہیں ہوتی‘

'ਰੋਟੀ ਕਮਾਉਂਦਿਆਂ ਮਰ ਜਾਣਾ, ਇਸ ਤੋਂ ਵੱਡੀ ਤ੍ਰਾਸਦੀ ਹੋਰ ਕੋਈ ਨਹੀਂ'

'વ્યાવસાયિક વ્યથા જેવી કોઈ વસ્તુ નથી'

‘ବୃତ୍ତିଗତ ଦୁଃଖ ବୋଲି କିଛି ନାହିଁ’

‘వృత్తిపరమైన దుఃఖమంటూ ఏదీ ఉండదు’

'തൊഴിൽപരമായ വിഷമം എന്നൊന്നില്ല'

मैनहोल में मरते सफ़ाईकर्मियों की सुध कौन लेगा?

‘ವೃತ್ತಿಪರ ನೋವೆನ್ನುವುದೇ ಇಲ್ಲʼ

‘পেচাদাৰী শোক বুলি একো নাই, যন্ত্ৰণা সদায়েই ব্যক্তিগত’

‘पेशेवर दुख जइसने कोनो जिनिस नइ होवय’

'தொழிற்பூர்வ துயரம் என எதுவும் இல்லை'

दुखवा मो का से कहूं!

‘পেশাদারি শোক বলে তো কিছু হয় না’

Chennai

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Dum-dum-dum…dum-dum-dum…! The almost hypnotic sound of dholaks being made and tuned and toned to perfection follows you through every lane of Shanti Nagar basti. We are walking along with a 37-year-old dholak maker, Irfan Shaikh.  He is to introduce us to other artisans of this migrant basti in Mumbai’s northern suburb.Almost all the artisans here trace their ancestral roots to Barabanki district in Uttar Pradesh. There are about 50 of them here in the trade.  “Wherever you see, you will find our biradari [community] busy crafting these instruments,&quot; he says, proudly proclaiming that it is from here that the dholaks travel around Mumbai and other parts of the state. (Biradari literally translates as ‘brotherhood; but is more often used to denote clan, community or fraternity).

Irfan has been immersed in the trade from childhood. The craft of making these medium-sized double-headed drums passes down through generations. The process is meticulous. Irfan and his community handpick materials from Uttar Pradesh, selecting everything from the wood to ropes and paints. “We make it ourselves; we repair it…we are the engineers,” he says with some pride.Irfan is very innovative. He has expanded his production to include the djembe, a musical instrument he discovered after seeing an African play it in Goa. “What a great instrument. People hadn&#39;t seen it here,” he recalls.Innovation and craftsmanship aside, he feels the profession has not brought him the respect he deserves. Nor has it brought great profit. In today’s Mumbai, dholak-makers face stiff competition from cheaper online sales. Here on the other hand, customers often bargain and assert that they can find cheaper alternatives online.“Those who play dholak, have their traditions. But in our communities, we do not play it, we merely sell,” says Irfan. Religious restrictions do not allow this community of artisans to play the instruments they are making. Yet, they craft these dholaks for customers who play them during the Ganesha and Durga Puja festivals.

There are women in the basti who love to play the dholak and sing but none of them either make, sell, or even play the dholak professionally out of respect for religious norms.“This work is good but it’s not interesting as there is no business. There is no profit. There is nothing today. Yesterday I was on the road. Today also I am on the road,” says Irfan.

Crafting the beats: Dahisar’s karigars

दहिसरचे कारागीर आणि ढुम ढुम ढमाक

গলিয়ে গলিয়ে ঢোলৰ মাত, পিছে দহিছৰৰ কাৰুশিল্পীহে দুশ্চিন্তাত

ਸ਼ੋਰ-ਸ਼ਰਾਬੇ ਵਾਲ਼ੇ ਸ਼ਹਿਰ ਵਿੱਚ ਪਿੱਛਾ ਕਰਦੀ ਢੋਲ਼ਕੀ ਦੀ ਅਵਾਜ਼

તાલને તૈયાર કરતા દહીંસરના ઉસ્તાદો

தாளங்களை வடிவமைக்கும் தாகிசாரின் கைவினைஞர்கள்

ദഹിസാറിലെ കരകൌശലക്കാർ - താളം നിർമ്മിക്കുന്നവർ

दहिसर में थमती ढोलक की दम-दम

ಗದ್ದಲದ ನಗರದಲ್ಲೊಂದು ನಾದದ ಅಂಗಡಿ

ତାଳ କାରୁକଳା ପ୍ରସ୍ତୁତି: ଦହିସରର କାରିଗର

দাহিসারের ঢোলক কারিগরদের কথা

धुन गढ़त दहिसर के कारीगर

दहिसर के ढोलक इंजीनियर आ उनकर जेम्बे

دہیسر میں کمزور پڑتی ڈھول کی تھاپ

Mumbai

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“There is no safety for girls in our village. They don’t leave their houses after eight or nine p.m.,” says Shukla Ghosh. She is referring to Kuapur, a village in Paschim Medinipur. “The girls are scared. But they also feel the need to resist and protest.”Ghosh and the girls from Kuapur are among the thousands of farmers, farm labourers and workers from across West Bengal’s villages and small towns who turned out in large numbers last week to protest the brutal rape and murder of a young trainee medical doctor in Kolkata’s R.G. Kar Hospital. The protest march held on September 21, 2024, started on central Kolkata’s College Street and moved towards Shyambazar, a distance of around 3.5 kilometres. The protestors’ demands included swift justice and exemplary punishment for the culprits, resignation of the Police Commissioner of Kolkata (a demand also of the doctors’ protests which has been accepted by the government), and resignation of Chief Minister Mamata Banerjee who holds the portfolios of health and family welfare, and home and hill affairs.

“Tilottama tomar naam, jurchhe shohor jurchhe gram [Tilottama, in your name, cities and villages are uniting]!” is the cry of the rally. ‘Tilottama’ is the name given by the city to the 31-year-old who died. It’s another name for Goddess Durga and means one who is composed of the finest particles’. It’s also an epithet for Kolkata city. “It is the responsibility of the police and the authorities to help women feel secure,” continues Shukla. “If the girls see them trying to protect the accused, how will they feel safe?” asks the district secretary of ICDS workers in Paschim Medinipur. “What have they [state] done for the safety of us farm labourers?” asks protestor Mita Ray. Girls in the village are afraid to go out at night. That is why I have come here. We have to fight for the safety of women and girls.” Ray is a farm worker from Nakunda in Hooghly district (also spelt Hugli). The 45-year-old says she would much rather have a pucca washroom than open fields for defecation. Mita owns two bighas of land on which she cultivates potato, paddy and sesame, but recent floods have ruined the crop. “We have not received any relief,” says Mita who earns Rs. 250 for a 14-hour day working as a farm labourer. She is carrying a red flag of the Communist Party of India (Marxist) on her shoulders. She lost her husband but does not receive a widow’s pension. She does get Rs. 1,000 through Laxmir Bhandar, a flagship programme of the Trinamool Congress-led government, but it is not enough to sustain her family she says.

“I have come here because I am a woman.” From Chanchal village in Maldah district, farm labourer Banu Bewa has spent all her life working. The 63-year-old is standing in a huddle of other women from her district who have joined the rally, determined to fight for the rights of working women. “Women should be able to work at night, “says Namita Mahato, referring to the directive of the government that women staff of hospitals will not be given night duty, a directive that has since been criticised by the Supreme Court bench looking over the case. In her fifties, Namita is standing with a group of women from Puruliya district (also spelt Purulia) in front of the gates of College Square –a busy area that houses three universities, schools, several book stalls and stores and the Indian Coffee House. From Gaurangdi village, Namita belongs to the Kurmi community (listed as Other Backward Classes in the state) and works as a rong mistiri (paint worker) under a contractor and is paid Rs. 300-350 for a day’s work. “I paint windows and doors and grills in people’s houses,” she says. A widow, she receives the pension provided by the state.

Namita lives with her son who works in an iron factory, and her daughter-in-law and a granddaughter. Her own daughter is married. “You know, she passed all the exams and interviews, but her joining letter never came,” she complains, “this government has not given us jobs.” The family also cultivates paddy on the one bigha land once a year and is dependent on the rain for irrigating their crops.

The R. G. Kar case of the young doctor who was assaulted and murdered at her workplace has brought the woes of working-class women into focus. Lack of toilets for fisherwomen, brick kiln and MNREGA workers, absence of creches and the gender wage gap are just some of the issues, points out Tushar Ghosh, president of the West Bengal Agricultural Workers’ Union. “The protests against the incident at R. G. Kar should also highlight the everyday struggles of working-class women,” he says.Since the incident on August 9, 2024, West Bengal has erupted into protests. From cities to towns to villages, the common people, a significant number of them women, have taken to the streets to reclaim the night and public spaces. The protest of the junior doctors from across the state has also highlighted the corruption, misuse of power and a culture of intimidation in government medical colleges. Now, more than a month after the incident, the protests show no signs of slowing down.

‘I have come here because I am a woman’

‘હું અહીં આવી છું કારણ કે હું એક સ્ત્રી છું’

‘मी इथे आलीये कारण मी एक स्त्री आहे’

’میں یہاں آئی ہوں کیوں کہ عورت ہوں‘

‘মই ইয়ালৈ আহিছোঁ কাৰণ মই এগৰাকী নাৰী’

'ഞാൻ ഒരു സ്ത്രീയായതുകൊണ്ടാണ് ഇവിടെ വന്നിരിക്കുന്നത്'

'நான் ஒரு பெண் என்பதால் இதில் பங்கேற்கிறேன்'

‘నేనొక మహిళను కాబట్టే ఇక్కడకు వచ్చాను’

‘ನಾನೂ ಒಬ್ಬಳು ಹೆಣ್ಣು ಎನ್ನುವ ಕಾರಣಕ್ಕೆ ಇಲ್ಲಿಗೆ ಬಂದಿದ್ದೇನೆʼ

‘ਮੈਂ ਇੱਥੇ ਹਾਂ ਕਿਉਂਕਿ ਮੈਂ ਇੱਕ ਔਰਤ ਹਾਂ’

‘हम एइजा आईल बानी काहें कि हम महिला हईं’

‘मैं विरोध प्रदर्शन में आई हूं क्योंकि औरत हूं’

‘আমি মেয়ে, তাই আমি এখানে এসেছি’

‘ମୁଁ ଏଠାକୁ ଆସିଛି, କାରଣ ମୁଁ ଜଣେ ମହିଳା’

‘मंय इहाँ आय हवं काबर के मंय घलो एक झिन माइलोगन अंव’

Kolkata

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&quot;Aao aao suno
apni bhavishyavani, suno apni aage ki kahani…&quot;  His voice, like a
mystical chant, echoes through the evening chaos of Juhu Beach. In the backdrop
of the setting sun on this vibrant beach in suburban Mumbai, Uday Kumar, about
27, is inviting people to come and listen to some soothsaying.



He is no self-made
astrologer, no chirologist, no tarot card reader with a rose-ringed parakeet. Instead,
he stands there with a small, roughly foot-long robot wrapped in decorative
lights, sitting on a mysterious black box that stands on a four feet tall
foldable table. “It’s called Jyotish Computer Live story,” he says, introducing
this reporter to the robot. 



The gizmo can analyse
the individual&#39;s vibrations, he explains, handing over the headphones connected
to the machine to an intrigued customer who has just walked up to him. After a
brief pause, a feminine voice, speaking in Hindi, will unravel secrets that the
future holds. All for 30 rupees.



Uday is the lone custodian of this technological
marvel he inherited from his uncle Ram Chandar, who had moved to Mumbai from his Gendha hamlet in Bihar some decades ago (and was known as Raju in the city).  Each time his uncle returned home he brought
with him stories of the city. “Chacha [paternal uncle] told us that he
has got an ajooba [a strange thing] that can tell the future, and
that is how he is making money. Many laughed and thought it was some joke. I
was fascinated!” recalls Uday. Raju had introduced his 11-year-old nephew to
the wonders of city life as well as that of the machine.

Uday’s parents, farmers toiling on a few bighas
of land they owned, often faced financial distress, which had pushed him to
leave his education after Class 4. The thought of helping the family
financially was also on his mind when he decided to leave his home in
Bihar’s Vaishali district and join his uncle  Raju in Mumbai city. He must have
been in his teens, he says. “Woh machine dekhna tha aur Mumbai bhi
[wanted to see the machine, and Mumbai as well]!&quot; Uday sounds nostalgic. 



The machine his uncle used was crafted by
artisans from Chennai and Kerala and made its debut in Mumbai in the late 90s,
recalls Uday. Raju chacha had met one of the artists and got the machine
on rent to get a hand in the business. 



“There were nearly 20-25 people in this work,”
says Uday. “A majority  them were from the southern states, a few were from
Bihar and Uttar Pradesh. They all had the same machine.” 



Like Raju they all roamed the city with the curious
apparatus and Juhu Beach held a special place for these itinerants. Uday tagged
along with his uncle as he wandered across the city. A fourth of his uncle’s
earnings went into paying the rent for the machine. The machine was too
expensive to buy, about Rs. 40,000, when Uday’s uncle Raju started his
business. But eventually he bought it.

Uday could never manage to learn the tricks of
making this robot despite many attempts. He inherited the robotic fortune-sayer
only when Raju passed away many years ago. Uday saw himself as carrying forward
the tradition that had once captivated his imagination.



A decade ago people paid Rs. 20 to get a
glimpse into destiny, a number that has inflated to Rs. 30 in the last four
years. The Covid-19 pandemic dealt a blow to his business. “Many people over
time left this trade,” Uday says. He is the only custodian of this mystical
relic after the pandemic. 



Uday too finds it difficult to survive on the
earnings he makes with the machine alone. His wife and five-year-old son live
in the village, and he hopes to get his son to study in Mumbai. He does various
odd jobs in the morning – clerical work and even selling pamphlets. He is
willing to do any job he can find. “When I don&#39;t get any morning job, I can
always stand here with this robot and make some money that I can send to my
family,” he says.      



Uday stands on the shores of Juhu beach from 4 o’clock
in the evening till midnight. In any other place he would get fined he fears,
and it would be difficult to carry the machine. 
Weekends are his best days for business when he gets to decode the
cosmic messages for many more eager seekers than usual. On those days his earnings
could be anywhere between Rs. 300 - 500. All of this amounts to Rs. 7,000-
10,000 a month.

“In the village, people believe in astrologers,
not machines so there is no good earning,” says Uday speaking of his failed
experiments to convince his fellow Biharis from the village of the mystical
power of the machine. Mumbai is the place for his business, he claims, although
the fortune-telling apparatus is more a source of amusement and is viewed skeptically
by people on the beach. 



“Some find it funny and laugh at it; some get
shocked. Recently a man was laughing in disbelief as his friend forced him to listen
to it but later, he was impressed. He told me that the robot knew that he was
going through some stomach issue and that he shouldn&#39;t worry much. He said that
he in fact had stomach issues. So, there are many like these that I have met,”
says Uday. “Those who wants to believe can do
so.”  



“The machine had never faltered,” claims Uday
with a sense of pride in this testament to its mysterious resilience. 



Has it ever stopped working? 



If it does there is a mechanic in town to fix the
wiring around, informs Uday.



&quot;I believe what it says. It gives me hope
to carry on with my work,&quot; Uday says. Though he is not quite reluctant to
reveal the future teller’s words about his own life. &quot;There is magic
inside and I still get fascinated by what the machine says about me. I will not
tell you to believe it. Hear it for yourself and decide,” he says with a laugh.

Robo says...

پیشین گوئی کرنے والا روبوٹ

రోబో భవిష్యవాణి...

ரோபோ சொல்வது என்னவென்றால்…

ਭਵਿੱਖ ਦੱਸਣ ਵਾਲ਼ਾ ਰੋਬੋਟ

ରୋବୋ କୁହେ...

റോബോ പറയുന്നു...

ರೋಬೊ ಮಾತಾಡುತ್ತಿದೆ…

રોબો કહે છે...

अगम के बात बतावत अनोखा जंतर

जुहू बीच पर भाग बांचे वाला रोबोट

ৰব’য়ে কয় ভৱিষ্যতৰ কথা

भविष्य बताने वाला रोबोट

रोबो म्हणतो...

রোবট উবাচ…

01-IMG_5176-PD-Migrantsdont_lose_that_number.jpg

It was the
third Friday in June this year when the labour helpline rang. 

“Can you
help us? We have not been paid.”  

It was a
group of 80 labourers from Kushalgarh who had gone to work on sites in neighbouring
tehsils within Rajasthan. For two months they dug trenches two feet wide
and six feet deep to lay telecom fibre cables. Wages are paid per metre of
trench that has been dug. 

After two
months when they asked for their full dues, the contractor cited poor work,
played with the numbers and then tried to fob them off saying, “deta hoon,
deta hoon [I’ll pay up, I’ll pay up].” But he didn’t, and after another
week of waiting for their dues of Rs. 7-8 lakhs, they went to the police who told
them to call the labour helpline. 

When the
workers called, “we asked them if they had any proof. If they could give us
names and phone numbers of the contractor, and any photos of an attendance
register,” said Kamlesh Sharma, a social worker in Banswara, district
headquarters.

Luckily some of the younger mobile-savvy
labourers were able to furnish all this as well as send photos of their
workplace sites by phone to build their case.

The irony
is not lost on them – the trenches they had dug were for one of the country’s
biggest telecom providers who wants to ‘connect people’. 

Kamlesh –
a project manager with Aajeevika Bureau a non-profit working on labour issues –
and others, helped build their case. All their outreach material carries both
the Aajeevika helpline – 1800 1800 999, and the phone numbers of
officials at the bureau.

The workers
from Banswara are among the lakhs migrating in search of work. “Kushalgarh has
many pravasi [migrants],” says Joga
Pitta, sarpanch of Churada village in the district. “We are not able to sustain
ourselves with farming.” 

Small
landholdings, lack of irrigation, absence of jobs and overall poverty have made
this district a hub for distress migration among Bhil tribals, who make up 90
per cent of the population here. An International Institute for Environment and
Development <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/library/resource/social-protection-and-informal-job-market-reform-for-tackling-the-climate-migration-nexus/">Working Paper</a> 
observes that migration rises sharply after climate extreme events like
drought, flood and heatwaves.

At the
busy Kushalgarh bus stands, around 40 state buses leave every day through the
year carrying 50-100 people in one journey. Then there are the private buses of
roughly the same number. A ticket to Surat costs 500 rupees and the conductor
says they don’t charge for children.

Suresh Maida arrives early to find space, and settle
his wife and three small children into the bus to Surat. He gets off to put
their luggage – a big sack with five kilos of flour, some utensils and clothes
into the storage area behind the bus, and clambers back in.

“I will
earn around 350 [rupees] a day,” the Bhil Adivasi daily wage worker tells PARI;
his wife will earn 250-300 rupees. Suresh expects they will stay a month or two
before returning, spend roughly 10 days at home and set off again. “I’ve been
doing this for more than 10 years,” adds the 28-year-old. Migrants like Suresh usually
come home for big festivals like Holi, Diwali and Raksha Bandhan. 

Rajasthan
is a net <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/library/resource/internal-migration-in-india-and-the-impact-of-uneven-regional-development-and-demographic-transition-across-states/#section02">out-migration state</a> – more people leave than enter as
migrants; only Uttar Pradesh and Bihar see greater numbers leaving for wage
work. “Not only is agriculture the only option, but it also only one-time –
after the rains,” points out V.S. Rathod, an official in the Kushalgarh tehsil
office. 

All
workers are hoping for kayam work
where they are attached to one contractor for the entire period. It offers more
stability as against rokdi or dehadi – standing at the mazdoor mandi (labour market) every morning. 

Jogaji
has educated all his children but even so “yahan
berojgaari zyaada hain. Padhe likhe logon ke liye bhi naukri nahin [There
is a lot of unemployment here, even those who are educated have no jobs].” 

Migration
is the only foreseeable option.

When Maria
Paaru leaves home, she takes a mitti ka
tawa (clay pan) with her. It’s a critical part of her packing. Corn rotis are best made on the clay pans
which can handle the heat of wood fires without burning the roti she says, while showing me how it’s done. 

Maria and
her husband Paaru Damor are among the lakhs of Bhil Adivasis who move out of
their homes in Banswara district of Rajasthan in search of daily wage work in
Surat, Ahmedabad, Vapi and cities in Gujarat, as well as other neighbouring
states. “MNREGA takes too long and is not enough,” says Paaru, speaking of the
Mahatma Gandhi National Rural Employment Guarantee scheme that gives 100 days
of work. 

The
30-year-old Maria also carries 10-15 kilograms of makai (corn) flour. “We prefer to eat these,” she says, sharing the
food habits of her family who are away for up to nine months in a year.
Familiar food is a comfort when away from home in Dungra Chhota.

The couple
have six children whose ages range from 3-12 years, and they own two acres of
land on which they grow wheat, channa
and corn for their own consumption. “We can’t manage [finances] without
migrating for work. I have to send money home to my parents, pay for irrigation
water, buy fodder for cattle, food for the family…,” Paaru reels off his
expenses. “So, we have to migrate.”

He first migrated when he was eight years old,
travelling with his older brother and sister after the family incurred a debt
of 80,000 rupees on medical expenses. “It was winter,” he recalls, “I went to
Ahmedabad and would earn 60 rupees a day.” The siblings stayed for four months
and managed to pay off the debt. “I enjoyed the fact that I had helped out,” he
adds. Two months later he went again. It’s been 25 years of a migrant’s life
for Paaru, now in his early thirties.

Migrants
dream of a pot of ‘gold’ at the end that will pay off debts, keep children in
school and hunger at bay. But things often go wrong. The state labour helpline run
by Aajeevika receives up to 5,000 calls a month from migrant workers seeking
legal redress for non-payment of dues.

“For wage
labour, agreements are never formal, they are verbal. Labourers are passed from
one contractor to another,” says Kamlesh who estimates that the denial of wages
for just the migrants out of Banswara district adds up to crores of rupees.  

“They
never get to know who their principal contractor is, who they are working for,
so redressal of dues is a frustrating and longwinded process,” he adds. His job
gives him a ringside view of how migrants are exploited. 

On June
20, 2024, Rajesh Damor, a 45-year-old Bhil Adivasi and two other workers walked
into his office in Banswara seeking help. Temperatures in the state were at an
all-time high, but that was not the reason why the beleaguered workers were hot
and bothered. Collectively due Rs. 226,000 from the labour contractor who had
hired them, they had approached the Patan Police Station in Kushalgarh tehsil to lodge a complaint. The cops
redirected them to Aajeevika’s Shramik Sahayata Evam Sandarb Kendra, a resource
centre for migrant labour in the area. 

In April,
Rajesh and 55 workers from Sukhwara panchayat had left for Morbi in Gujarat,
600 kilometres away. They had been hired to do labour and masonry work at a
construction site in a tile factory there. A daily wage of Rs. 700 was promised
to the 10 skilled workers and the rest would get Rs. 400.

After a
month of working, “we asked the thekedar
[contractor] to pay us all our dues and he kept pushing the dates,” says Rajesh
speaking on the phone to PARI. It helped that Rajesh, who was at the forefront
of negotiations, speaks five languages – Bhili, Wagdi, Mewari, Hindi and
Gujarati. The contractor dealing with their dues was from Jhabua in Madhya
Pradesh and spoke Hindi. Often labour is unable to communicate with the final
contractor sometimes because of a language barrier, but often because it means
wading through a hierarchy of sub-contractors below him. Sometimes contractors
get physically violent when the labourers demand their dues. 

The 56 workers waited weeks to be paid their
hefty dues. They were running out of food from home and purchases in the open
market were eating away at their earnings.

“He kept
pushing the date – 20, then 24 May, 4 June…” recalls a distressed Rajesh. “We
asked him ‘what will we eat? We are so far from home.’ Finally, we stopped
working the last 10 days, hoping that would force him to pay up.” They were
promised June 20 as the final date. 

Unsure but
unable to stay, on June 9, the party of 56 took the bus home to Kushalgarh. On
June 20 when Rajesh called him, “he was rude and started haggling and cursing
us.” That’s when Rajesh and the others walked into a police station near their
home. 

Rajesh has
10 bighas of land on which his family
grow soybean, cotton and wheat, the latter for their own consumption. His four
children have all received an education, and are enrolled in schools and
colleges. Yet, this summer they joined their parents in wage work. “It was the
holidays, so I said they can come along and earn some money,” says Rajesh. He
is hopeful his family will see the earnings now that the contractor has been
threatened with a case in the labour court. 

The
mention of labour court does force erring contractors to make good their
promises. But to get there, labourers need help with filing the case. A group
of 12 wage workers who had gone from this district to work on roads in
Alirajpur, in neighbouring Madhya Pradesh were denied full payment after three
months of working. The contractor cited poor work and refused to pay the Rs.
4-5 lakh due to them. 

“We got a
call saying we are stuck in Madhya Pradesh, and we have not been paid,” recalls
Teena Garasia who often gets such calls on her personal phone. “Our numbers get
circulated among workers,” explains the head of Aajeevika’s Livelihood Bureau
in Banswara district. 

This time
the workers were able to give details of the work site, photos of the
attendance register, and the name and mobile number of the contractor for the
case to be filed. 

Six months later the contractor paid up in two
instalments. “He came here [Kushalgarh] to give the money,” say the relieved
workers who received the wages, but not the interest due on late payment.

“We try
negotiation first,” says Kamlesh Sharma. “But that is only possible if the
details of the contractor are there. 

The 25
labourers who migrated for Surat to work in a textile factory had no proof.
“They were passed on from one contractor to another and have no phone number or
name to pin the person down,” says Teena. “They couldn’t identity the factory
in the sea of similar looking ones.”

Harassed
and denied their full wages of Rs. 6 lakhs, they returned home to their
villages in Banswara’s Kushalgarh and Sajjangarh. 

It’s for such
cases that social worker Kamlesh places a lot of faith in kanoon shiksha (legal literacy). Banswara district lies on the state
border and is the scene of maximum migration. Eighty per cent of families in Kushalgarh,
Sajjangarh, Ambapara, Ghatol and Gangar Talai have at least one migrant, if not
more, says Aajeevika’s survey data. 

Kamlesh is
hopeful that since “the younger generation have phones, can store numbers, take
photos and therefore nailing defaulting contractors will become easier in the
future.”

The union government’s <a href="https://samadhan.labour.gov.in/Faqs/about_us">Samadhan Portal</a> was launched pan-India on September 17, 2020
for filing industrial disputes, and in 2022 it was rejigged to allow workers to
file claims. But there is no office in Banswara despite it being an obvious
choice.

Women
migrants don’t find a voice in wage conversations. They rarely have their own
phone and both work and wages are directed through the men around them. There
has been serious resistance to women getting their own phones. The last
government of the state, led by Ashok Gehlot of the Congress, launched a
programme for distribution of over 13 crore free phones to women in the state.
Close to 25 lakh phones were distributed to poor women till the Gehlot
government lost power. In the first phase, the phones were given to widows and
girls in Class 12 who were from migrant families. 

The
incoming government of Bhajan Lal Sharma of the Bhartiya Janata Party has put
the programme on hold “till the scheme’s benefits are examined.”  It was among the first decisions he made
barely a month after being sworn in. Locals says the scheme is unlikely to be
revived. 

For most
women the lack of
agency over their earnings contributes to the routine gender, sexual abuse and
abandonment they face. Read: <a id="27141" linktype="page">In Banswara: domestic ties
that bind and gag</a>.

“I cleaned
the wheat and he took it along with some corn flour, 5-6 kilos. He took it and
left,” recalls Sangeeta, a Bhil Adivasi now living with her parents in their
home in Churada, Kushalgarh block. She had migrated with her husband when he
went to Surat after they were married.

“I helped in construction work,” she recalls, and her earnings
were handed to her husband. “I didn’t like it there.” Once the couple’s
children were born – they have three boys ages aged seven, five and four – she
stopped going. “I was taking care of the children and the house.”

For more
than a year now, she has not seen her husband, or received any money from him.
“I have come to my parent’s house as there is nothing to feed my children there
[at her married home].”

In January
this year (2024), she went to the police station in Kushalgarh to file a case.
Rajasthan accounts for almost 10 per cent of India’s abandoned women, says the
National Crimes Records Bureau (NCRB) 2020 <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/library/resource/crime-in-india-2020-volume-i/">report</a>. But real data is hard to find as
figures for abandoned women are clubbed with miscarriage, infanticide,
foeticide. 

At the
Kushalgarh Police Station, officers admit that the number of women seeking
redressal is only rising. But they also admit that most cases don’t reach them
as the banjadia – an all-men group in
the village who take decisions – prefer to settle without the cops. “The banjadia take money from both sides,”
says a resident. “Justice is an eye wash, and women never get their due.” 

Sangeeta’s distress is worsening as relatives are
telling her that her husband is with another woman who he wants to marry. “I
feel bad that the man has hurt my children, not come to see them for over a
year. They ask me ‘is he dead?’ My eldest one abuses him and tells me, ‘Mummy
when the police catch him you also beat him up!’” she says, a small smile on
her face.

On a
Saturday afternoon in the deserted panchayat office in Kherpur, 27-year-old
social worker Menka Damor is speaking to young girls of five panchayats here in
Kushalgarh block. 

“What is
your sapna [dream]?” she asks the 20
odd girls sitting in a circle around her. All of them are daughters of
migrants, all have travelled with their parents and are likely to again. “They
tell me even if we get to school, we will only have the migration at the end,”
says Menka who manages the Kishori Shramik Programme for young girls. 

She wants
them to see a future beyond migration. Switching between Wagdi and Hindi, she flashes
cards showing people from different professions – cameraperson, weightlifter,
dress designer, skateboarder, teacher and engineer. “You can be anything you
want, and you have to work towards it,” she tells the bright faces. 

“Migration
is not the only option.”

Migrants…don’t lose that number

புலம்பெயர்பவர்களே… அந்த எண்ணை தவற விட்டு விடாதீர்கள்

ਪੈਸੇ ਲਈ ਪ੍ਰਵਾਸ ਕੀਤਾ... ਪੈਸਾ ਫਿਰ ਵੀ ਨਾ ਮਿਲ਼ਿਆ

ପ୍ରବାସୀଗଣ... ସେହି ନମ୍ବରଟିକୁ ହଜାଇ ଦେବେନି

കുടിയേറ്റക്കാരേ...ആ നമ്പർ നഷ്ടപ്പെടുത്തരുതേ

ವಲಸೆಗಾರರು ಈ ಸಂಖ್ಯೆಯನ್ನು ಮರೆಯವುದಿಲ್ಲ…

પ્રવાસી શ્રમિકો… આ નંબર યાદ રાખજો

बिपत ले भरे प्रवास के ठीहा

আৰ্থিক দৈন্য, প্ৰাপ্য মজুৰিৰ যুঁজত প্ৰব্ৰজিত শ্ৰমিক

পরিযায়ীর দল… এই নম্বরখানা হারিয়ো না

पलायन के दुश्चक्र में फंसा बांसवाड़ा

पलायन के दुश्चक्र में फंसल मजूर

بانس واڑہ کے مہاجر مزدوروں کا کوئی پرسانِ حال نہیں

Kushalgarh

01-IMG_5268-AG-They_dont_expect_much_from_my_education_because_I_am_a_girl.jpg

“My mother and I fought about it just last
night,” says 21-year-old Asha Bassi. “For the past three and a half years,” she
explains, “my parents have been asking me to quit my education and get
married”. 



A final year student at Savitri Jyotirao
Samajkarya Mahavidyalaya in Yavatmal city, Asha is pursuing her Bachelor’s
Degree in Social Work. She is among the first in her family to receive formal
education. “Girls who marry early are praised,” she says, adding, “But I want
to educate myself, it is the only way I can be free.” 
 Asha is from Jewali village of Maharashtra’s Yavatmal district and belongs
to the Mathura Labhan community which has been listed as a De-notified Tribe
(Vimukta Jati) in the state. Her parents are farmers and grow soya, cotton,
wheat and millets on the land they own in Jewali. 
 
The family depends on agriculture to raise their four children – three
daughters and a son. Asha is the eldest child and lives with her maternal uncle
and aunt in Yavatmal city while she earns her Bachelor’s Degree. 
  
Asha’s parents enrolled her to a zilla
parishad (ZP) school near their house at the age of 7 at the insistence of
a few local teachers. She studied there till Class 3, after which she moved to
Yavatmal city 112 kms away from Jewali. There she studied in a school
affiliated to the Maharashtra State Board and eventually enrolled in a nearby
college.

“Girls in our community usually study till
Class 7, after which they are gradually made to drop out of schools. Very few
attend college,” says Asha. Even her younger sister was married three
years ago. 
 “Our community is conservative,” Asha says.
The societal fear that girls might marry for love or people of other castes
often adds to the pressure girls face for marriage. “If a girl elopes with her
partner, her friends are pulled out of school as well,” Asha explains. “I don’t
know of any girl in my community who has married outside her caste.” 
 
Asha says that the pressure to get married heightened during the covid-19
pandemic during which she had moved back home to Jewali village. She even met a
few prospective men for marriage. “During the pandemic, more than 30 girls in
my locality who are less than 21 years of age were married off,” says Asha. 



Since girls are not encouraged to pursue
higher education in Jewali, education is seldom deemed a valid reason for
delaying marriage. “Since my younger sister is married and I am not, people
look at me with suspicion,” Asha adds. 
 “Whatever I do [for my education], I do it all
by myself,” Asha says, her disappointment evident. Since she is the first in
her family to pursue higher education, she does not receive much guidance from
them. Her father, Balsing Bassi, studied till Class 11 and her mother Vimal
studied till Class 5. “Even now, they don’t expect much from my education
because I am a girl,” says Asha, adding that seeking education has become “lotaycha kaam” for her – work that
involves a lot of physical and mental struggle. 
 “No one at home was involved in my education,”
says Asha. “I wish my mother had told me, “Tu
kar, me tuzya pathishi ahe” [You study, I have your back].” But Asha says
that her mother is the strongest critic of her seeking an education.

The nearest college to Jewali is in Bittargaon
village 12 kms away. “Parents are scared of their daughter’s safety if they
travel alone to and from school. So, girls usually travel in a group,” says
Asha, highlighting how robust educational infrastructure aids education for
girls. “If one girl’s discontinues school, other parents also ask their
daughter to drop out as companions to travel become scarce.” 
 
Asha recalls how the move to Yavatmal city for school was not an easy one. She
spoke the Mathura Labhan dialect which was distinct from the Marathi used as
the medium of instruction in her school. This made participating in class or in
school events difficult. “My classmates used to ridicule my dialect,” Asha
says, adding, “I feared they would laugh at me if I spoke in my dialect in
class”. 
 The hesitation inhibited Asha’s progress in
school. “Till Class 6, I could only write Marathi alphabets and not full
sentences. I could not even read basic words like kutra [dog] and manjar
[cat] till Class 5”.



But all her doubts faded away when she scored
79 per cent in her Maharashtra State Board Senior Secondary School Certificate
(SSC) Examination for Class 10 and managed to confidently persuade her maternal
uncle to let her study further. In Class 12, she scored 63 per cent. 



Asha’s academic achievements, still matter
little to those around her – “My parents can never proudly say that their
daughter is pursuing her graduation degree in the city because it is not a
worthy pursuit in our society.” 



The trend of getting married early saps all
enthusiasm for education from girls. “If it is certain that they will get
married off at 16 years of age, why will girls work hard to get an education?”
Asha asks. Yet, her ambitions remain fuelled. Secure in her awareness of the
merits of her education, she says, “The reason I can dream of a secure future
is only because of education”.

Asha enjoys reading. Some of her favourite
books are Hamrasta Nakartana by
Sarita Awhad and Findri by Sunita
Barde, which are texts gleaning from the lives of marginalised women. She wants
to pursue a Master’s degree in women studies and has already been selected as a
Young India Fellow at Ashoka University, Sonipat.



Moving to Yavatmal city greatly bolstered
Asha’s confidence. “Even though my relatives deem a degree in Social Work
inferior, it has been very rewarding for me,” she says. In Jewali, the
households of those belonging to Asha&#39;s Mathura Labhan community are collectively called taande. These are usually located
away from the main settlements. “This isolation,” says Asha, “makes it difficult for us to stay
connected with modern, progressive thought.” Her teachers in college mentored
her with diligence, especially Professor Ghanshyam Darane who taught Marathi.

“It is believed that women are simply not capable of achieving anything,” says Asha, more angry than sad. “I want to change that,” she says, adding, “Once I
become something big, I want to come back to my village and bring about
progressive change for girls. I do not want to run away.” 
 
But first, she has to tackle the upcoming marriage season during which the
pressure to marry will only increase. Asha says, “I am going to
require a lot of strength to hold up”.

'They don’t expect much from my education because I am a girl'

'હું ભણીગણીને કંઈક બનું એવી ખાસ કોઈ અપેક્ષા તેઓ રાખતા નથી કારણ કે હું છોકરી છું'

'ਉਨ੍ਹਾਂ ਨੂੰ ਮੇਰੀ ਪੜ੍ਹਾਈ ਤੋਂ ਬਹੁਤੀ ਉਮੀਦ ਨਹੀਂ ਕਿਉਂਕਿ ਮੈਂ ਇੱਕ ਔਰਤ ਹਾਂ'

‘பெண் என்பதால் என் கல்வியை அவர்கள் பொருட்படுத்தவில்லை’

‘പെൺകുട്ടിയായതിനാൽ എന്റെ വിദ്യാഭ്യാസത്തെക്കുറിച്ച് അവർക്ക് വലിയ പ്രതീക്ഷയൊന്നുമില്ല‘

ʼನಾನು ಹೆಣ್ಣಾಗಿರುವುದರಿಂದ ಅವರು ನನ್ನ ಶಿಕ್ಷಣದಿಂದ ಹೆಚ್ಚಿನದನ್ನು ನಿರೀಕ್ಷಿಸುವುದಿಲ್ಲʼ

’لڑکی ہوں، اس لیے میرا پڑھنا انہیں اچھا نہیں لگتا‘

‘ସେମାନେ ମୋ ପାଠପଢ଼ାରୁ ବେଶି କିଛି ଆଶା କରନ୍ତିନି, କାରଣ ମୁଁ ଜଣେ ଝିଅ’

‘त्यांना माझ्या शिक्षणाकडून फारशा अपेक्षा नाहीत कारण मी मुलगी आहे’

‘আমি মেয়ে বলে ওরা আমার লেখাপড়া থেকে বেশি কিছু আশা করে না’

‘लड़की होने के चलते मेरा पढ़ना किसी को रास नहीं आता!’

नोनी होय सेती पढ़ई-लिखई ले बेदखल

‘बेटी के पढ़ाई-लिखाई के कवनो कीमत ना होखे’

‘মই ছোৱালী বাবে সিহঁতে মোৰ পৰা বেছি আশা নকৰে’

Yavatmal

01-6D74-AKS-Daily_wage_workers-future_unknown.jpg

At 7 a.m., Sadiq Manzil Chowk in
Daltonganj town is already bustling with activity – trucks are roaring by,
shops are pulling up shutters and the distant sound of a recorded Hanuman Chalisa can be heard coming from
a temple nearby.



Sitting on the steps of a shop,
Rishi Mishra is smoking a cigarette and speaking aloud to people around him.
Their discussion this morning centres around the recently concluded General
Elections and the formation of the new government. Listening to those around
him argue, Nazaruddin Ahmed, who has been rubbing tobacco in his palms finally
intervenes, saying, “why are you arguing? No matter who forms the government,
we still have to earn our living.” 



Rishi and Nazaruddin are among the several daily
wage labourers who gather every morning in the area also known as ‘labour
chowk’. There is no work in the villages around Palamu, they say. Roughly 25-30
labourers are waiting for daily wage work at the labour chowk (junction) here
at Sadiq Manzil, one of five such chowks in town where people from nearby
villages in Jharkhand assemble every morning, looking for work.

“Wait till eight o’clock. There will
be so many people here that there won’t be space to stand,” says Rishi,
checking the time on his mobile phone. 



Rishi completed his ITI training in
2014 and can operate a drilling machine, a job he is hoping to get today. “We
voted for this government hoping for jobs. [Narendra] Modi has been in power
for 10 years. How many vacancies have been announced and how many jobs have
been given?” asks the 28-year-old from Singraha Kalan village. “If this
government stays for another five years, we have no hope.” 



Nazaruddin, 45, feels the same way.
The mason from Neura village is the single earning member in his family of
seven. “Who cares about the poor and the farmers?” Nazaruddin asks. “Every day,
500 people come here. Only 10 will get work, the rest will go home
empty-handed.”

The conversation is interrupted by
the arrival of a man on a motorbike. The men rush and crowd around him, hoping
to get work for the day. After determining the wage, a young man is selected.
The bike speeds off with him riding pillion. 




Rishi and his fellow labourers
return to their spots. “Look at the tamasha
[circus]. One comes, and everybody jumps,” says Rishi, forcing a smile. 



Sitting back down, he says, “whoever
forms the government, it should benefit the poor. Mehengai [inflation] should come down. Will building a temple fill
the stomachs of the poor?”

Daily wage workers: future unknown

پلامو کے یومیہ مزدوروں کا غیر یقینی مستقبل

ഭാവി അനിശ്ചിതത്വത്തിലായ ദിവസക്കൂലിത്തൊഴിലാളികൾ

ದಿನಗೂಲಿ ನೌಕರರು: ಇವರ ಬದುಕಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಅನಿಶ್ಚಿತ ಭವಿಷ್ಯವೊಂದೇ ನಿಶ್ಚಿತ

रोजंदारीवरच्या श्रमिकांचं भविष्य अंधारात

अधर में लटका दिहाड़ी मज़दूरों का भविष्य

ਅਧਵਾਟੇ ਲਮਕਿਆ ਦਿਹਾੜੀਦਾਰਾਂ ਦਾ ਭਵਿੱਖ

தினக்கூலி தொழிலாளர்களும், புலப்படாத எதிர்காலமும்

భవిష్యత్ తెలియని దినసరి కూలీలు

દહાડી મજૂરનું અંધરકામય ભવિષ્ય

ଦିନ ମଜୁରିଆଙ୍କ ଭବିଷ୍ୟତ ଅନ୍ଧାର

দিনহাজিৰা কৰা মানুহৰ ভৱিষ্যত

‘काय मंदिर बनाय ले गरीब के पेट भर जाही?’

পালামৌ: অনিশ্চিত আগামীর মুখে দিনমজুররা

दिहाड़ी कामगारन के अनजान भविष्य

01-_MG_0585-AM-Workers_in_Rohtak_vote_for_change.jpg

“Who
will give pensions to old people like us? No one,” an elderly man sitting in a
chair at an election rally complains loudly. The candidate answers, “tau, you will get it and tai will also get 6,000 rupees a month.”
An elderly man who is listening lifts his turban and blesses the candidate by
putting it on his head as he finishes his speech. A sign of honour in this northern
state.



The
candidate was Deepender Singh Hooda, campaigning for the 2024 Lok Sabha elections in
his constituency, Rohtak. People listened. A few of them asked questions and
shared what was on their minds. 



(Update:
Deepender Singh Hooda of the Indian National Congress won the seat with 7,83,578
votes. Results were announced on June 4, 2024.)

“Why
vote for a party which attempted to take away farmers’ land and called it
reform?”  Krishn asks PARI in early May,
well before the polling date of May 25. We are in Nigana, a village in Kalanaur
block of Rohtak district. It is the harvest season. The wheat crop is cut and
farmers are waiting for the monsoon, preparing their fields for the upcoming
paddy season. With not a cloud in sight, the dust from the roads and smoke from
burning fields move freely with the wind. 



The
mercury is touching 42 degrees Celsius; election fever is rising. In his early
forties, Krishn is an electrician and is working in a house nearby. He
gets a daily wage of Rs. 500 for work that will last for a week. He also does other
wage labour and runs a small shop. In this part of Rohtak district, most of the
people depend on farm labour, work at construction sites and MGNREGA (Mahatma
Gandhi National Rural Employment Guarantee Act) for their
survival.

On
the way to his home, we reach a junction. “Farmers and workers are at a
crossroad,” he says, “and are getting thrashed from all four sides with Saam-Daam-Dand-Bhed.”
Krishn is referring to the four key principles of rule – patience, persuasion
using gifts or money, punishment and brute force - laid down in the Arthashastra
by Kautilya, also identified as Chanakya, an Indian teacher, strategist and
royal adviser who lived in the third Century, BCE). 



But
Krishn’s mention of Chanakya is more about the modern one! 



“The
ruling party [BJP] took no responsibility for the deaths of over 700 farmers on
the Delhi border,” he says referring to the historic farmers’ protests in 2020
and condemns the BJP for its much-criticised farm laws, taken back after more than
a year. 



“Remember,
how Teni [BJP leader’s son] mowed down farmers in Lakhimpur Kheri? Ye maarne mein kanjoosi nahi karte.
[They are not misers when it comes to killing].” The 2021 incident from Uttar
Pradesh is etched in his mind. 



The
fact that BJP didn&#39;t take any action against its own lawmaker and Wrestling Federation of India (WFI)
president Brij Bhushan Singh, accused of sexual harassment, has not gone down
well with people like him. “Sakshi Malik and many renowned wrestlers had
protested for months in New Delhi last year. They were demanding his arrest for
allegedly sexually harassing several women, including a minor,” he says. 



In 2014, BJP had promised to curtail violence
against women. “What happened to all those promises?”
Krishn asks. “They promised to bring black money from Switzerland and put 15
lakhs into our accounts. What we finally got was hunger and ration.”

At
his home, his sister-in-law Babli has just finished preparing breakfast on a chulha.
She lost her husband to a liver ailment six years ago. Since then, 42-year-old
Babli has been working on the MGNREGA sites. 



“I
hardly get a full month’s work. If I do, I do not get paid on time. If indeed I
get paid on time, the payment is so low that it’s hard to run the household,”
she says. In March 2024 she worked for seven days but her wages of Rs. 2,345 is
yet to be paid. 



Haryana
has seen a <a></a><a href="https://nreganarep.nic.in/netnrega/all_lvl_details_dashboard_new.aspx?Fin_Year=2024-2025&amp;Digest=cz7jP1J6fbHTWNeFeforFA">sharp decline</a> in available work on the MGNREGA in last four years. In 2020-21, more
than 14,000 households in the state got 100 days of work as promised under the
Act. That number fell to 3,447 in 2023-2024. In Rohtak district, only 479
households got 100 days of work in 2023 as against 1,030 in 2021-22. 



“Life
was not easier a decade ago but it was not this tough back then,” says Babli.

Just
six kilometres from Nigana, at Kahnaur, for Kesu Prajapati, the rise in prices remains
the most important issue in these elections. Kesu, 44, fits tiles on the
flooring in houses and buildings. He measures inflation through prices of
staples such as salt and sugar. A daily-wage labourer and a member of Bhawan
Nirman Karigar Mazdoor Union, a labour union in Rohtak, Kesu says that a decade
ago, milk cost Rs. 30 - Rs. 35 a litre. Now, it’s Rs. 70. A kilogram of salt then cost Rs. 16 , now it’s Rs. 27. 



“Ration
was our right. Now, it feels like a government dole, for which we have to bow
down.” Presently, a yellow card holder gets five kilos wheat, one kilo sugar
and cooking oil, while a pink card holder gets 35 kilos wheat a month.
“Earlier, the government used to provide kerosene on ration. That’s been
stopped and it’s hard to refill the LPG [liquified petroleum gas] cylinders. We
also got chana [Bengal gram] and salt,” he says, which is no longer
supplied.   



With
salt no longer on the list, he says “at least, we can say ‘humne sarkar ka namak nahi khaya’ [we did not eat the salt given by
the state and therefore do not need to be loyal to the ruling government].” 



The
‘double engine’ government in Haryana with BJP in power at both centre and
state, has not done enough for someone like Ramrati, a cook in Kahnaur’s
government school. Ramrati, 48 prepares mid-day meals at a government school.
“In such heat, where a minute in front of the fire is unbearable, I make around
6,000 rotis a month.” She gets Rs. 7,000 as monthly wages for this work. She
feels that half her labour goes unpaid. Inflation has made it very difficult to
manage her family of six. She is not even counting her own domestic work. “I
work longer than the sun hours,” she says.

“I
won’t vote for mandir [Ram temple]. Nor do I have anything to do with
that Kashmir thing,” says Harish Kumar. The two achievements that the BJP takes
pride in – inauguration of a temple in Ayodhya and abolition of Article 370 of
the Constitution (relating to Jammu and Kashmir) do not resonate with this
daily wage worker. 



Harish
is busy working at the road construction site at Makrouli Kalan, 30 kilometres
from Kahnaur. Heavy vehicles pass by while Harish alongwith a few men and women
work in blistering heat. Women lift and pass concrete blocks, one after the
other. Men join the red, grey and yellow ones to make a paved road. 



Harish
is from Sampal village in Kalanaur tehsil. He gets Rs. 500 a day for this work.
“Our daily wage didn’t keep pace with inflation. Majboori mein mehnat bechne ko mazdoori kehte hain [Those who live
solely by selling their labour out of compulsion are labourers].”

As
he finishes his lunch, he hurries up as he has to return to his work of mixing
concrete. Like almost all his co-workers in India, he too is underpaid and
overworked in this harsh climate. “On my first day of work, I thought if I
earned money, people would respect me. Till date, I’m still looking for that
one bit of respect,” he says. 



“A
higher wage is not our only demand. We also seek equality.”



More
than a century ago, Kalanaur tehsil had witnessed a milestone moment in
the Indian freedom struggle. Mahatma Gandhi and Maulana Abul Kalam Azad
addressed a public meeting in Kalanaur. On November 8, 1920, at a conference in
Rohtak, a resolution was passed to promote the non-cooperation movement in the
region. It proved to be a milestone in India’s freedom struggle.



In 2024,
people of Rohtak were again at the crossroads waiting for yet another turning
point in their nation’s tryst with democracy, and their own struggle for
survival.

Workers in Rohtak vote for change

দিনবদলের আশায় ভোট দিলেন রোহতকের মজুরেরা

மாற்றத்துக்கு வாக்களிக்கும் ரோஹ்தாக் தொழிலாளர்கள்

റോത്തക്കിലെ തൊഴിലാളികൾ മാറ്റത്തിനായി വോട്ട് ചെയ്യുന്നു

रोहतक में कामगार लोगन के वोट बदलाव खातिर

تبدیلی کی خاطر روہتک کے مزدوروں کا ووٹ

रोहतकच्या श्रमिकांचं मत बदलाला

રોહતકમાં શ્રમિકોનો મત બદલાવને

మార్పు కోసం వోటు వేసిన రోహ్‌తక్ శ్రామికులు

ਰੋਹਤਕ: ਅਜ਼ਾਦੀ ਦੀ ਲੜਾਈ ਤੋਂ ਰੋਟੀ ਦੀ ਲੜਾਈ ਤੱਕ ਦਾ ਸਫ਼ਰ

ପରିବର୍ତ୍ତନ ପାଇଁ ଭୋଟ୍‌ ଦେଲେ ରୋହତକର ଶ୍ରମିକ

ರೋಹ್ಟಕ್: ಬದಲಾವಣೆಗಾಗಿ ಮತ ಚಲಾಯಿಸುತ್ತಿರುವ ಕಾರ್ಮಿಕರು

গণতন্ত্ৰৰ সন্ধিক্ষণ আৰু জীৱিকাৰ সংগ্ৰাম

रोहतक मं मजूर मन बदलाव सेती डारिन वोट

रोहतक: बदलाव की बयार और मज़दूरों का मुश्किल संसार

01-58-HC-People_question_our_identity_all_the_time.jpg

“We&#39;ve spent our entire lives
presenting documents and proving to the government and fellow citizens that we
belong to this country just like everyone else here.” 



Baharul Islam is busy segregating
waste. He is making different piles – of plastic bottles, wet garbage,
cardboard and thermocol, shoving each into separate plastic sacks. The
35-year-old is part of 13 migrant families from the districts of Barpeta,
Bongaigaon and Goalpara in Assam. They all live together on a plot of land in
Asawarpur town of Haryana, and their livelihood is waste picking and
segregation.



“People question our identity all
the time, both here and in Assam.” Baharul says that officials keep turning up
at his slum demanding documents from everyone. “When we go to pick up the waste,
people ask us where we are from. Upon hearing Assam, they assume that we are
Bangladeshi.” He adds that the police often ask for police verification from
Assam to ensure they don’t have a criminal record. “What we say doesn&#39;t
matter,” says Baharul who is aware of the National Register for Citizens (NRC)
being conducted in Assam but says he is not worried as he has land ownership
papers. 



Also living in the same compound, brothers Riyaz
and Nur Islam say they left Assam as the constant flooding of their land near
the Brahmaputra made it impossible to rely on farming. Back in Barpeta, their
parents farm 800 square feet of land where they cultivate green chillies,
tomatoes, and other vegetables. “During heavy rainfall, the river water enters
our houses, and we have to leave. We use banana tree logs to travel from one
place to another,” say the brothers According to the <a href="https://www.nrsc.gov.in/sites/default/files/pdf/DMSP/FloodAffectedAreaAtlas_Digital.pdf">National Remote Sensing Centre (NRSC)</a>, about 28.75 per cent of land in Assam state has
been affected by floods between 1998 and 2015.

Baharul, Riyaz and Nur now live
thousands of kilometres from their homes in Assam, as do 11 other migrant
families – all from the districts of Barpeta, Bongaigaon and Goalpara in Assam.
They work and live together, lending support to each other in this alien
environment and helping cope with the daily stigma of migrancy they encounter. 



Baharul says, “if someone here needs
money, we lend it to each other. Since only a few can [afford to] return to
Assam and their families, we celebrate festivals like Meethi Eid and Bakrid together
here. During Ramadan, we occasionally share sehri
as well.”



Most of the families arrived before
the pandemic in 2017, and the rest followed in 2021. Together they rent this
space for Rs. 17,000 a month, each family paying up a little over a thousand
rupees. Women like Baharul’s wife Mofida help too. Mofida, also from Bongaigaon,
is a Class 10 graduate and can read and write English, besides Assamese. She helps
with measuring and noting down the waste collected by each family in a small
book. 



All the families work around waste: some collect
garbage from residential areas, while others like Baharul collect waste from
the neighbouring factories and industrial areas. Young children also help doing
chores like segregating the waste, and they sometimes even go along with the
adults to help in gathering waste.

“We start our day at 7 in the
morning, going inside the city to pick up waste and then come back at around 3
p.m.,” says Nur Islam, but adds that if the volume of work is more, they might
return at 9 p.m. Once the waste is collected, it is segregated into roughly
30-35 categories: used bottles, plastic sacks, chapatis, thermocol, glass products and more. “We then sell the
waste to local dealers,” says Baharul. The dealer decides the price based on
the demand, and the waste pickers must accept it. “The price of a kilo of
thermocol varies from 15 to 30 rupees,” says Baharul. 



Family earnings range from Rs. 7,000
to 10,000 a month – the higher amount coming through in the summers when more
water sold in plastic bottles is consumed. 



“Almost half of our income is spent
on rent, electricity, and water bills. Electricity and water charges are
separate. The electricity bill reaches around 1,000 rupees,” says Baharul. The
families also have to buy the drinking water from a supplier, as the tap water
available in the plot is unfit for consumption. 


Baharul mentions that spending on
food adds more to their expenses. “We receive ration at home [in Assam],” he
says referring to foodgrains given through the PDS (Public Distribution
System). “But here [in Haryana], a Haryana ID card is needed for rations, which
we don&#39;t possess.”



Baharul is unaware of the <a href="https://static.pib.gov.in/WriteReadData/userfiles/one_nation.pdf">ONORC</a> (One Nation One Ration Card) – a nation-wide portability
scheme since 2019 which is aimed at ensuring food security for all, including
internal migrants within India. “I am not aware of it,” he tells this reporter.

Their makeshift homes are made with
tarpaulin stretched on bamboo poles. Their homes and the piles of sorted and
unsorted waste spill into each other, and their children run and scamper
around. According to this <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/library/resource/a-study-on-access-to-education-by-children-of-migrant-workers/">report</a>, only 55
per cent of children who migrate to cities with their parents are likely to
attend school. Many children living in this locality are choosing to work
instead of continuing their education. Anwar, Riyaz’s 12-year-old son,
discontinued schooling after completing Class 3. He now assists Riyaz with
waste picking and segregation. “Nobody wanted to come near the son of a kabadiwala. I had no friends. To help my
father, I dropped out,” says Anwar. 



Before he arrived in Sonipat,
Baharul worked as a college security guard for three years in Chennai. “I moved
here following the footsteps of a fellow villager,” he says. 



“If I were to tell my parents and
village people that I engage in this work, I would feel ashamed,” says Baharul.
“I say I work in small jobs in schools.” He says he feels the challenges in
migration in other ways too: “In Assam, fish is a key part of our diet.
However, some neighbours look down on us if we eat fish here; we have to cook
and eat it very secretly.”



His dream is to earn enough money to buy a small
plot of land in Assam and go back to living with his people. “No one likes to
lie to their family members, we all want to live dignified lives.”

‘People question our identity all the time’

'எங்கள் அடையாளத்தை எப்போதும் கேள்வி கேட்கின்றனர்'

ਮਸਲਾ ਸਾਰਾ ਹੋਂਦ ਦਾ!

‘ଆମ ପରିଚୟକୁ ନେଇ ଲୋକମାନେ ସବୁବେଳେ ସନ୍ଦେହ କରନ୍ତି’

'ആളുകൾ എല്ലായ്‌പ്പോഴും ഞങ്ങളുടെ പൗരത്വം ചോദ്യം ചെയ്യും'

‘ಜನ ಯಾವಾಗಲೂ ನಮ್ಮ ಅಸ್ಮಿತೆಯನ್ನು ಪ್ರಶ್ನೆ ಮಾಡುತ್ತಾರೆʼ

‘हमर सरी जिनगी अपन पहिचान बतावत गुजर गे’

‘लोग हरदम हमनी के पहचान पर अंगुरी उठावेला’

‘সারাক্ষণ আমাদের পরিচয় নিয়ে লোকে প্রশ্ন তোলে’

‘মানুহে সততে আমাৰ পৰিচয়ক লৈ প্ৰশ্ন কৰে’

‘लोग हमें शक की नज़र से देखते हैं’

Asawarpur

01-15-RM-TB_in_India-the_scourge_continues.jpg

Zamil is skilled in embroidery that uses fine zari (gold) thread. The 27-year-old
worker in Howrah district adds glitter and shine to expensive garments, sitting
for hours on the floor with his legs folded. But, soon after he contracted bone
tuberculosis (TB) in his twenties, he had to put this needle and thread away.
The disease had made his bones so weak that folding them for long hours was no
longer an option for him.

“This is my age for working, and [my] parents should rest. But
the exact opposite is happening. They have to work to support my medical treatment,”
says the young man who lives in Chengail locality of Howrah district and
travels to Kolkata for treatment. 

In
the same district, Avik and his family live in the Pilkhana slum in
Howrah, and the teenager also has bone TB. He had to drop out of school in
mid-2022 and although he is recovering, he is still unable to go to school.

I
first met Zamil, Avik and others when I began covering this story in 2022. I
would often visit them in their homes in the slums of Pilkhana to get to know
them as I photographed them going about their daily life. 

Unable
to afford private clinics, Zamil and Avik initially came for check-ups to a
mobile TB clinic run by a
non-governmental organisation working to support patients in rural areas of
South 24 Parganas and Howrah district. They are not alone.

“Tuberculosis
has  re-emerged  as 
a  major  public 
health  problem,” says the recent
National Family Health Survey 2019-21(<a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/library/resource/national-family-health-survey-nfhs-5-2019-21-india/">NFHS-5</a>). India
accounts for 27 per cent of all TB cases worldwide (World Health
Organisation’s <a href="https://cdn.who.int/media/docs/default-source/hq-tuberculosis/global-tuberculosis-report-2023/top-findings-and-messages-in-the-2023-report.pdf?sfvrsn=2d4dd1bd_18&amp;download=true">TB Report</a>, published in
November 2023). 

The mobile team of two doctors and 15
nurses would travel roughly 150 kilometres in a day, visiting four or five
different locations to offer healthcare services to those who can’t afford to
travel to Kolkata or Howrah. Patients at the mobile clinics included daily wage
labourers, construction workers, those who work in stone-crushing, beedi rollers and bus and truck drivers. 

Most
of the patients I photographed and spoke to at the mobile clinics come from
rural areas and urban slums.

These mobile clinics were a special
initiative during the Covid period and have since stopped. Tuberculosis
patients like Avik now go for follow-ups to the Bantra St Thomas Home Welfare
Society in Howrah. Like
this young boy, others who visit the Society are also from marginalised
communities and will lose a day’s earnings if they go to the crowded state-run
facilities. 

While
speaking to the patients, I found that few knew about tuberculosis, leave alone
precautions, treatment and care. Many infected patients live with their
families and occupy the same room because they don’t have an option. Those who
work together also share rooms: “I live with my co-workers. One has TB, but I
can&#39;t afford a separate room for my stay. So I share a room with him,” says
Roshan Kumar, who migrated from South 24 Parganas 13 years ago to work in a
jute factory in Howrah.

The
number of children with TB in the country is 28 per cent of the global
childhood TB burden, says a 2021 National Health Mission <a href="https://tbcindia.gov.in/showfile.php?lid=3633">report</a> on adolescents
and TB.

When Avik was diagnosed with TB, he had to drop out of school as he could no longer
walk there from his home, a short distance away. “I miss my school and friends.
They have also progressed and are one class above me now. I miss sports too,”
says the 16-year-old. 

In
India, an estimated 3.33 lakh children aged between 0–14 years become ill with
TB each year; boys are more likely to get it. “It is difficult to diagnose TB
in children…the symptoms among children are similar to other childhood
illnesses…” says the NHM report. It goes on to say that higher doses of
medication are needed for young TB patients. 

Seventeen-year-old
Rakhi Sharma is recovering after a long battle and she still cannot walk
without support or sit for long hours. Her family have always lived in the
Pilkhana slum. The disease cost her an academic year. Her father, Rakesh Sharma
who works in a food court in Howrah, says, “we are trying to catch up by
appointing a private tutor at home. We are trying to support her in the best
possible way, but we have financial limitations.”

Rural
areas have higher cases of TB; those living in homes where the cooking fuel is
straw or grass, those not having a separate kitchen and living in close
quarters are most likely to get it, says the recent NFHS 5.There
is a general consensus among healthcare workers that not only is tuberculosis
caused by poverty and consequent food and income deprivation, the disease
itself is capable of worsening the poverty of affected people.

The
NFHS-5 also notes that families with a TB patient are likely to keep it under
wraps for fear of stigma: “...one in five men would want the TB status of a
family member to remain a secret.” Getting healthcare workers for a TB hospital
is also difficult.   

A
quarter of TB patients in India are women of reproductive age (15 to 49 years),
says a National Health Mission <a href="https://tbcindia.gov.in/showfile.php?lid=3589">report </a>(2019). Although fewer women
get TB than men, those who contract it are likely to privilege familial ties
over their health. 

“I
want to go back [home] as soon as possible.I am afraid my husband will marry
someone else,” says Haneefa Ali, is a TB patient from Bihar, who is worried
about her marriage. She is most likely to stop taking her medications, says
doctors at the Bantra St Thomas Home Welfare Society in Howrah. 

“Women
are the silent victims. They hide the symptoms and keep working. And later,
when they are diagnosed with the disease, it&#39;s too late. The damage is done,”
says Monika Naik, secretary of the Society. She has been working in the field
of TB for more than 20 years and says that recovering from TB is a long process
and takes its toll on the whole family. 

“There
are several cases where even if the patient has recovered, the families do not
want them back. We really have to convince the family members,” she adds. Naik
has received the prestigious German Cross of the Order of Merit for her
tireless work in the field of TB prevention. 

Alapi
Mandal, who is around 40, has recovered from TB and says, “I am counting the days
to go back to my family. They left me alone during this long battle…”

For
healthcare workers, the risk of contraction is high and a mask is mandatory. At
the clinic run by the Society, patients with highly infectious TB are kept in a
special ward. The out-patient department serves 100-200 patients per day twice
a week and 60 per cent are female patients. 

Doctors
working in the field point out that many patients develop clinical depression
as a side effect because of prolonged use of drugs related to TB. Proper
treatment is a long and complex process – after discharge, patients must take
medicines regularly and they need a healthy diet. 

Since
most patients are from lower-income groups, they often stop medications mid-way
which puts them at risk to develop MDR TB (Multi-Drug Resistance Tuberculosis),
says Dr. Tobias Vogt. A doctor from Germany, he has been working on TB in
Howrah for the last two decades. 

Multidrug-resistant
TB (MDR-TB) remains a public health crisis and a health security threat. Only
about two in five people with drug resistant TB accessed treatment in
2022.  The
WHO’s <a href="https://www.who.int/publications/m/item/factsheet-global-tb-report-2021">Global TB repo</a><a href="https://www.who.int/publications/m/item/factsheet-global-tb-report-2021">rt</a> says that, “In 2020, 1.5
million people died from TB, including 214,000 people with HIV.” 

Vogt
further adds: “Tuberculosis can damage any part of the body, including the
bones, spine, stomach, and even the brain. There are children who contract
tuberculosis and recover, but their education is disrupted.” 

Many TB patients have lost their livelihoods.
“After I was diagnosed with pulmonary TB, I can&#39;t work anymore even though I
have recovered fully. My strength is gone,” says former rickshaw puller, Sheikh
Sahabuddin. A strong man who once ferried passengers in Howrah district, he is
helpless now. “I have a family of five. How to survive?” asks the resident of
Sahapur.

Panchu
Gopal Mandal is an elderly patient who comes for treatment to the Bantra Home
Welfare Society clinic. He was a construction worker and now, “I don&#39;t have Rs.
200 with me and I don&#39;t have the strength to stand. I came here to check my
chest. Recently I have started coughing up pink phlegm,” says the 70-year-old
resident of Howrah. He says all his sons have moved out of the state for work. 

The
web-enabled patient management system for TB control – NI-KSHAY – aims to
provide a comprehensive, single-window to see how treatment is working. Keeping
track of TB patients and making sure their recovery is on track, is a critical
component of care. “We feed all the patient’s details in it [NIKSHAY] and can
keep track,” says Sumanta Chatterjee, administrative head of the Society. He
also adds that Pilkhana slums have a high number of TB-infected patients
because it is “one of the most congested slums in the state.” 

Worldwide,
TB is the second leading infectious killer after Covid-19, <a href="https://www.who.int/news-room/fact-sheets/detail/tuberculosis">says</a> the WHO, despite
the fact that it is curable and preventable.

Further,
the Covid-19 pandemic exacerbated the social stigma of coughing and appearing
unwell, which potentially drove TB patients to conceal their illness from
others until the severity of the disease and infectiousness worsened. 

I regularly cover health issues, but I had no
idea that so many people are still suffering from tuberculosis. Since it&#39;s not
a fatal disease, it is not that widely reported. I saw that although it may not
always be fatal. it can immobilise a family by affecting the primary
breadwinner. Further, recovery is a protracted procedure, financially burdening
families who already live at the margins. Some names have been changed in this story. The reporter would like to thank the members of Jayaprakash Institute of Social Change (JPISC) for their help with this story. JPISC works closely with children diagnosed with TB, trying to ensure their continued access to education.