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’

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-IMG_9237-2-RC-In_Darjeeling-women_porters_carry_the_weight.jpg

Maya Thami walked three kilometres
carrying a 30 kg gas cylinder on her back. She climbed 200 stairs with the weight and delivered the cylinder to her first customer of the day. 




Catching her breath the 32-year-old says, “now
I need to deliver another cylinder to that hill out there,” pointing to a spot
in the distance.  Collecting her fee of
Rs. 80 for the labour, she leaves almost immediately for her next delivery. For
the next six hours, she will be on her feet, carrying LPG (liquefied petroleum
gas) cylinders.



“When the load is particularly heavy, men are
preferred, and people often negotiate since we are not men,” says Maya. A
woman earns Rs. 80 per trip she makes while a man sometimes earns Rs. 100 for the same
distance. 



A busy town in West Bengal, Darjeeling is
located in the eastern Himalayas at a height of 2,042 metres. Its hilly terrain
impedes movement by road, and residents must rely on porters to get daily
essentials like vegetables, water, cylinders and even the one-off furniture
purchases brought home. Vehicles are not able to climb such inclines to reach,
and the only other options are either carrying it yourself or, the gas agency
or shop sends it…through their porter.

From Nepal, Maya Thami has been a porter in
Darjeeling for 12 years. Like her, other porters in the city are also largely
women migrants from Nepal and belong to the Thami community (listed as
Other Backward Class in West Bengal). They carry loads of vegetables,
cylinders and water cans on their backs in a doko
(bamboo basket) fastened using a strap called namlo.




“After marriage came more responsibilities so
I moved to Muglan
[India],” recalls Maya. Back in Nepal, she and her husband, Baudhey used
to cultivate rice, millet and potatoes on 2 katha (0.06
acres) of land; they also worked as daily wage labour in small shops. The
couple moved to Darjeeling in 2021 – a few hours by road from the Nepal border.



Maya delivers cylinders from the gas agencies to
the homes of customers. “I typically arrive at my workplace by 7 in the morning
and those available for cylinder deliveries take their turns,” she says. She
usually has four or five deliveries in a day, carrying up to two cylinders on
her back and can earn Rs. 500 a day for this hard labour work. “Continuously
bearing loads of cylinders using a namlo on
my head has led to so much hair fall and body ache,” says Maya and adds that
she also has fluctuating blood pressure.

The porters who deliver vegetables are
different from those who deliver cylinders. They wait at Chowk Bazaar
until 8 p.m. everyday except on Thursdays when the market is closed. “After we
sell our vegetables to our customers, we call a porter who’s nearby and the
rest is an agreement between them and the buyers,” says Manoj Gupta, a
shopkeeper from Bihar. 



“Nasakem bokchu bhanda bhanda 70 kg ko bhari bokney bani bhaisakyo
[I have become used to carrying 70 kilograms of load],” says a 41-year-old Mankumari Thami, a vegetable porter on her
way to a hotel to deliver 70 kilos of vegetables.  “If I tell them that I can’t do it, this job
will be given to somebody else, leaving me short of 80 rupees,” she adds.



“Typically, we climb up the hill for about 15 to 20 minutes, as
hotels are generally situated above Chowk Bazaar. We receive 60 to 80 rupees
for hotels located 10 minutes away, and 100 to 150 rupees for those situated
further away,” says Dhankumari Thami,
another vegetable porter. 



Dhankumari Thami, a vegetable porter agrees that
women face discrimination: “Keta le matai
sakcha esto kam ta haina raisau baini. Khai eta ta besi ladies haru nai cha
bhari bokney  [Apparently,
‘Only men can do this work.’ It is not the case at all, sister. Most of the
porters here are ladies].” She took up this work after she lost her husband to
alcoholism 15 years ago.

Porting
water is more work, say Asti Thami and Jungey Thami, a couple from Pandam Tea
Garden who deliver water cans to homes. Water scarcity in some areas in
Darjeeling ensures that they get work daily. 



“My husband and I come to fetch water everyday
from Pandam at 6 in the morning. We ensure to fill jerry cans with water and
deliver to homes that have asked us to fetch water,” says Asti. Their rented
room at Pandam is almost 2 km hike away from the place where they collect
water.



Jungey mentioned that they once tried their
hand at selling meat, but the business turned out to be unprofitable due to
Covid. The couple returned to working as porters.

Maya Thami’s husband, Baudhey Thami is a second
generation migrant. His parents also worked as porters, and delivered
vegetables to hotels in Darjeeling. Maya and Baudhey have rented a room near
Gaushala, a locality 50 minutes away from Chowk Bazaar, their workplace, for
Rs. 2,500 a month.



Several porters, along with their families,
choose to rent a solitary room in this locality, as it stands among the limited
affordable choices. 



Maya and Baudhey’s children, Bhawana
and Bhawin
are still in school; their education is Maya’s priority: “Bhawana ra Bhawin parinjal mo mero namlo le cylinder bokchu
[Until Bhawana and Bhawin finishes studying, I will carry cylinders with my namlo].”

In Darjeeling: women porters carry the weight

دارجلنگ: خواتین قلی اٹھاتی ہیں شہر کا بوجھ

டார்ஜிலிங்கின் பெண் சுமைதூக்கிகள்

ਦਾਰਜੀਲਿੰਗ ਦਾ ਭਾਰ ਚੁੱਕਦੀਆਂ ਮਹਿਲਾ ਕੁਲੀ ਘੱਟ ਵੇਤਨ ਦੇ ਬੋਝ ਹੇਠ

ଦାର୍ଜିଲିଂ ସହରରେ ବୋଝ ବୋହୁଥିବା ମହିଳା କୁଲି

ഡാർജിലിംഗിലെ സ്ത്രീ ചുമട്ടുതൊഴിലാളികൾ

ಭಾರ ಹೊರುವ ಡಾರ್ಜಿಲಿಂಗ್‌ನ ಮಹಿಳಾ ಹಮಾಲಿಗಳು

દાર્જિલિંગમાં કુલી તરીકે ભાર ઉઠાવતી મહિલાઓ

दार्जिलिंग: माई कुली डोहारत शहर के बोझा

मेहरारू लोग के कान्हा पर बा दार्जिलिंग सहर के भार

দাৰ্জিলিঙত মহিলা কুলিৰ পিঠিত দায়িত্বৰ বোজা

दार्जिलिंग: महिला कुली उठाती हैं शहर का भार

দার্জিলিং: মেয়ে কুলিরা বইছেন দায়দায়িত্বের বোঝা

Darjeeling Pulbazar (town)

01-20231009_172744-SM-Lohars_in_Sonipat_facing_uncertain_future.jpg

“Every time the bhatti [furnace] is lit, I injure myself.”

Salma Lohar’s knuckles are scarred and
two on her left hand are split open. She picks a handful of ash from the
furnace and rubs it in to speed up the healing.

The 41-year-old’s family is one of six
Lohar families who call a chain of juggis
in Sonipat’s Bahalgarh market their home. On one side is the busy market
road and on the other is a municipal garbage dump. There is a government toilet
and water tanker nearby and Salma and her family rely wholly on these
facilities. 

The juggis
have no electricity and if it rains for more than 4-6 hours, the entire
settlement floods – as it did last October (2023). At such times they have to
sit on their cots with their legs drawn up, waiting for the water to recede –
it takes 2-3 days. “It stinks a lot
during those days,” Dilshad, Salma’s son, recalls.

“But where else will we go?” Salma asks.
“I know that living here next to trash makes us ill. Flies that sit there come
and sit on our food too. But where else will we go?”

The Gadia, Gadiya or Gaduliya Lohars are
listed as a Nomadic <a href="https://sje.rajasthan.gov.in/Default.aspx?PageID=68">Tribe</a> (NT) as well as a Backward <a href="https://sje.rajasthan.gov.in/Default.aspx?PageID=67">Class</a> in Rajasthan. People
belonging to this community also live in Delhi and Haryana but while they’re
recognised as a Nomadic Tribe in the former, they are termed a Backward Class
in <a href="https://www.haryanascbc.gov.in/reservation-in-haryana/list-of-backward-classes">Haryana</a>.

The market where they live is next to state
highway 11 and attracts vendors selling fresh produce, sweets, kitchen
condiments, electrical devices and much more. Many set up stalls and leave once
the market closes.

But for people like Salma, the market is
both home and workplace.

“My day starts early, around 6 a.m. When
the sun rises, I have to light the furnace, cook for my family, and then get to
work,” says the 41-year-old. Together with her husband Vijay, she works at the
furnace twice a day for long stretches, melting and hammering iron scraps into
utensils. In a day they manage to make four or five of them.

Salma’s chance for a break from work
comes in the afternoon, with a hot cup of tea which she drinks sitting on her
cot, flanked by two of her children: her only daughter Tanu is 16 and her
youngest son Dilshad is 14. Her sister-in-law’s daughters – Shivani, Kajal and
Chidiya – are also around. Only nine-year-old Chidiya goes to school.

“Will you put this on WhatsApp?” asks
Salma. “Mention my work first!”

The tools of her trade and the finished
products gleam in the afternoon sun – sieves, hammers, hoes, axe heads,
chisels, kadhais, cleavers and much
more.

“Our tools are the most precious things in this juggi,” she says, squatting before a
large metal pan. Her break over, the tea cup in her hand is replaced by a
hammer and chisel. With an ease that comes from practice, she hammers holes
into the bottom of the pan, changing the angle of the chisel after every two
strikes. “This sieve is not for the kitchen. Farmers use it to sort grain.”

Inside, Vijay is in front of the furnace
which they light twice a day – morning and evening. The iron rod he is shaping
glows red, but he appears to not be bothered by the heat. When asked about the
time it takes to prepare the furnace, he laughs, “We only know when the insides
glow. If the air is damp, it takes longer. One or two hours usually, depending
on the coal we use.” The coal costs anywhere from Rs. 15 to 70
a kilo based on the quality. Salma and Vijay travel to brick kilns in Uttar
Pradesh to buy it in bulk. 

Vijay starts hammering the glowing tip of
the iron rod flat on the anvil. The small furnace is too weak to melt the iron
sufficiently and so he applies brute force.

The Lohars claim ancestry from a <a href="https://unesdoc.unesco.org/ark:/48223/pf0000061262">weapons-making community</a> in
16th century Rajasthan who moved to different parts of north India after
Chittorgarh was captured by the Mughals. “Those were our forefathers. We live
very different lives now,” Vijay says smiling. “But we still follow the craft
they taught us. And we wear these kadhais
[thick bangles] like them.”

He is now teaching the trade to his own
children. “Dilshad is the best at it,” he says. Dilshad, Salma and Vijay’s
youngest, points out the tools: “Those are hathodas
[hammers]. The larger ones are called ghan.
Bapu [father] holds the hot metal with chimtas
[tongs] and uses the kaenchi [scissors]
to shape it into curves.”

Chidiya starts rotating the handle of the
hand-operated fan which regulates the temperature of the furnace. She giggles
as the ash flies all around.

A woman approaches wanting to buy a
knife. Salma tells her it’s worth Rs. 100. The woman responds, “I don’t want to
pay 100 rupees for this. I can get a plastic one for much cheaper.” They
bargain and settle on Rs. 50.

Salma sighs at the retreating woman. The
family cannot sell enough iron to support themselves. Plastic is a fierce
competitor. They can neither keep up with the rapid rate of manufacture, nor
match the price.

“We have started selling plastic now,”
she says. “My brother-in-law has a plastic shop in front of his juggi and my brother sells plasticware
at Tikri border near Delhi.” They buy the plastic from other vendors in the
market to sell elsewhere but have yet to turn a profit.

Tanu says that her uncles earn more in Delhi.
“City people are willing to spend on little things like this. For them, 10
rupees is not that much. For a villager, it is a lot of money and they don’t
want to spend it on us. That is why my uncles are richer.”

“I want my children to study,” says
Salma, the first time I met her in 2023. I was an undergraduate student at a
nearby university. “I want them to make something out of their lives.” She
feels this keenly since her eldest son had to drop out of secondary school
because of a lack of necessary documents. He is 20 now.

“I ran everywhere from the Sarpanch to the
district headquarters with everything they asked for – Aadhaar, ration card,
caste papers. I stamped countless papers with my thumb. Nothing came of it.”

Dilshad also dropped out of Class 6 last
year. He says, “Government schools don’t teach anything worth learning. But my
sister Tanu knows a lot. She is padhi-likhi.”
Tanu studied till Class 8 but did not want to continue. The school nearby did
not have Class 10 and she would have to walk almost an hour to attend school in
Khewara, more than three kilometres away.

“People stare at me,” says Tanu. “They
say very dirty things. I’d rather not repeat them.” So now Tanu stays home and
helps her parents with their work.

The family must bathe in the open, near
the public tankers. Tanu says softly, “Everyone can see us when we are bathing
in the open.” But a visit to a public toilet costs Rs. 10 a trip, and that adds
up to a lot for the entire family.  Their
earnings are not enough to rent a proper house with a toilet, and so must stay
on the pavement.

No one in the family is vaccinated against covid-19. If
they fall sick, they go to the Badh Khalsa primary health centre (PHC) or one
in Seoli. Private clinics are a last resort as they are expensive.

Salma is careful how their money is
spent. “When money is tight, we go to the rag pickers,” she says. “There we get
clothes for around 200 rupees.”

Sometimes the family visits other markets
in Sonipat. Tanu says, “We will go to the Ram Leela which will be held nearby
for Navratri. If there is money, we will have street food too.”

“Though my name is mussalman [Muslim], I am Hindu,” Salma says. “We worship everyone –
Hanuman, Shiv, Ganesh.”

“And we worship our ancestors through our work!”
Dilshad quickly adds, making his mother laugh.

When business in the market slows, Salma
and Vijay go around nearby villages selling their wares. This happens once or
twice a month. It is rare for them to make sales in the villages. But when they
do, they earn at best Rs. 400 to 500 from the visit. Salma says, “Sometimes we
roam so much that it feels like our legs have broken.” At times, the villagers give them cattle
– young calves which need to be separated from their milk-giving mothers. The
family does not earn enough to rent a proper house and stay on the pavement as
they have no choice.

Young Tanu laughs off the drunkards she
has had to chase away at night. Dilshad adds, “We have to hit them and shout at
them. Our mothers and sisters sleep here.”

Recently, people claiming to be from the
Nagar Nigam (Sonipat municipal corporation) have been asking them to move away.
They are told that the gate to the waste dumping grounds behind the juggis is to be built and they need to
free the government land they are occupying.

The officers who visit record data from
the family’s Aadhaar, ration and family cards yet leave behind no documentation
of their visit. So, no one here is quite sure who they are. These visits happen
about once every two months.

“They tell us we will get a plot of land,” Tanu
says. “What kind of plot? Where? Is it far from the market? They tell us
nothing of this sort.”

The family’s income certificate shows
they once earned around Rs. 50,000 a month. Now, they earn only around Rs.
10,000. When they need money, they take a loan from relatives. The closer the
relation, the lower the interest. They return the money when they sell enough
but the pace has been slow since the pandemic. “Covid was a good time for us,” says
Tanu. “The market was quiet. We received food rations from government trucks.
People would even come and distribute masks.”

Salma is more contemplative, “After the
pandemic, people are more suspicious of us. There is hatred in their gaze.”
Every time they go out, some locals verbally abuse them using caste-based
slurs.

“They won’t let us stay in their villages. I
don’t understand why they abuse our caste so much.” Salma wants the world to
think of them as equals. “Roti is roti for us and them – we all eat the
same food. What is the difference between us and the rich?”

Lohars in Sonipat: futures on the anvil

حالات کی کسوٹی پر سونی پت کے لوہاروں کا مستقبل

சோனிபட் கொல்லர்கள்: பட்டறைக்கல்லில் எதிர்காலம் தேடும் நாடோடிகள்

ਸੋਨੀਪਤ ਦੇ ਲੁਹਾਰਾਂ ਦੀ ਬੁਝਦੀ ਜਾਂਦੀ ਭੱਠੀ

ନିହାଇ ଉପରେ ନିର୍ଭର କରୁଛି ସୋନିପତ୍‌ କମାରଙ୍କ ଭବିଷ୍ୟତ

സോനിപത്തിലെ ലോഹാറുകൾ: കൂടക്കല്ലിൽ അമരുന്ന പ്രതീക്ഷകൾ

ಸುತ್ತಿಗೆಯಡಿ ಸಿಲುಕಿರುವ ಸೋನಿಪತ್‌ನ ಲೋಹರ್‌ಗಳ ಭವಿಷ್ಯ

એરણ પર ચડેલું સોનીપતના લુહારોનું ભવિષ્ય

बिपत मं परे सोनीपत के लोहार मन के भविष्य

सोनीपत के लोहारन के भविष्य पर खतरा

হাতুড়ি-নেহাইয়ের মাঝে আটকে সোনিপতের লোহার জনজাতি

সোণিপটৰ কমাৰৰ দোদুল্যমান ভৱিষ্যৎ

निहाई पर ज़िंदगी बसर करते सोनीपत के लोहार

Bahalgarh

01-P1210755_PD_SG_Sitarmakers-of-Miraj--fading-notes.jpg

Ahemados Sitarmaker could have gone to Paris, but his father did not allow him. “If you see the outside world, you won’t return,” he had said. Recalling those words now, 99-year-old Ahemados’s face breaks into a smile.When the fifth generation Sitarmaker was in his late 30s, two women from Paris had come to his hometown to learn the craft of making sitars, the classical string instrument. “After asking around, they came to me for help and I started teaching them,” Ahemados says, seated on the ground floor of their two-story house and workshop in Sitarmaker Galli in Miraj, where several generations of his family have lived and worked.   “At the time, we didn’t have a toilet in our house,” continues Ahemados, “we got it made in a day because we couldn’t ask them [the foreign visitors] to go to the fields like we did.” As he speaks, there is a faint sound of a sitar being tuned. His son, Gaus Sitarmaker, is at work. The two young women stayed with Ahemados’s family for nine months, but their visa expired before they could learn the final steps. A few months later, they invited him to come to Paris to complete the lesson.  But Ahemados stayed home, following his father’s instructions, and continued as an artisan in Sangli district in Maharashtra, a place renowned for the craft. Ahemados’s family have been engaged in this trade for more than 150 years, running into seven generations; at 99, he is still working.

As in Ahemados’s house-cum-workshop, bhoplas or pumpkins hang from the ceilings of almost every house in this neighbourhood.  Sitarmakers use the bhopla (also called kaddu) to make the tumba or the base of the sitar. The vegetable is grown in the Pandharpur region, about 130 kilometres from Miraj. The bitterness of the pumpkin makes it unsuitable for consumption and farmers cultivate it for the sole purpose of selling them to the Sitarmakers who craft string instruments. The artisans pre-book the crop in summer to avoid paying more when the crop is harvested in winter. The pumpkins are hung from the ceiling to prevent them from catching moisture from the floor. If left on the floor, the pumpkins develop fungus which hampers the vibrations and life expectancy of the instrument.“Earlier we paid 200-300 [rupees] per piece, but now it can go up to 1,000 or even 1,500 rupees,” says Imtiyaz Sitarmaker, who cleans and cuts the pumpkin to get the desired shape and size. Rising transportation costs have also contributed to the increase in price. Another problem, says Imtiyaz, is farmers are cultivating less of the pumpkin because of the shrinking demand for handmade instruments – making it more expensive to purchase.Once the tumba is ready, a wooden handle is fitted to complete the structure. Artisans then begin working on the design, which can take up to a week to complete. Using hand drills and plastic stencils, master designers like Irfan Sitarmaker carve the wood. “Long hours of work in a hunched position leads to back aches and other issues.” says the 48-year-old. “The job takes a toll on the body over the years,” adds his wife Shaheen.

“I have nothing against the art or tradition,” says Shaheen Sitarmaker, “I feel proud of the identity which my husband has earned through hard work.” A home-maker and a mother of two, Shaheen also believes that the income from the craft does not justify the physical toll it takes. “We eat based on the daily earnings of my husband. I am happy with life, but we also cannot ignore our necessities,” she says, standing in her kitchen.Their two sons are learning to play the sitar from their grandfather’s brother. “They play well,” Shaheen says, “in future, they both will make a good name for themselves.” Some of the Sitarmakers perform only a step in the process, like cutting the pumpkin or creating the design and are paid daily for their work. Designers and painters earn something between Rs. 350–500 depending on the amount and nature of the work. However, there are others to build the sitar from scratch – from washing the bhopla to applying the final coat of polish and tuning the instrument. A handmade sitar costs around Rs. 30–35,000. The women in the family are generally excluded from the craft. “I assure you, if they start today, my daughters can pick it up in a few days. I am proud that they both have done well in life academically,” says Gaus, a father of two young women. The 55-year-old has been polishing and fitting sitars since his childhood. “Girls will eventually get married. Often they marry into a non sitar-maker family where the skill is useless,” he adds. Occasionally, women polish the pegs or perform some other minor step in the process. But women doing manual work generally attributed to men is frowned upon by the community and they worry it will not be accepted by the groom’s family.

The Sitarmakers made a name for themselves in the business of string instruments in the nineteenth century, during the reign of Shrimant Balasaheb Patwardhan II, the king of Miraj. A patron of music, he invited musicians from other regions such as Agra and Benaras to perform at his court. But on the way, many of the instruments would get damaged and the king had to find repairmen who could solve this problem. “His search eventually led him to two brothers, Mohinuddin and Faridsaheb, from the Shikalgar community,” says Ibrahim, a sixth generation Sitarmaker. The Shikalgars, listed as Other Backward Classes (OBCs) in the state of Maharashtra, were metalsmiths and made weapons and other tools. “Upon the king’s request,” continues Ibrahim, “they tried their hand at repairing musical instruments; over time, this became their main occupation, and even their name changed from Shikalgar to Sitarmaker.” Today, their descendents in Miraj often use both titles as their last names. However, more than a historical legacy is needed for the new generation to continue in this trade. Like Shaheen and Irfan’s sons, other children have also started playing the sitar rather than learning how to make them. As software capable of producing the sounds of various instruments have advanced, musicians have largely turned away from using handmade sitars and tanpuras which has impacted the business. Machine-made sitars, which are priced much lower than the hand-made ones, have also created problems for the Sitarmakers.

To stay afloat, Sitarmakers now make miniature sitars that they sell to tourists. Priced between Rs. 3,000-5,000, these brightly coloured pieces are made with fibre instead of the pumpkin. Government recognition and aid has been slow to come. Although there are multiple <a href="https://indiaculture.gov.in/scheme-pension-and-medical-aid-artistes-minutes">schemes</a> for artists and performers, the people making the instruments are yet to be recognised. “If the government recognises us and our efforts, we can produce even better instruments. It will also help the artists financially and give them a sense that they are respected for their efforts,” says Ibrahim. Veterans like Ahemados, say they have no regrets for dedicating their lives to the craft. “Even today, if you ask me if I want any aid or monetary assistance…I would never want it. Never,” he says.The internet has opened sales as buyers now directly place orders on the maker&#39;s websites, eliminating the commission that store owners and middlemen charge. Most customers are from within the country; international customers have started connecting via the websites. Watch the video to see how the sitar is made by hand and hear the Sitarmakers speak about the problems they are facing.

Sitarmakers of Miraj: fading notes

میرج کے ستار ساز

ஒலி மங்கும் சிதார் இசை

ਮਿਰਾਜ ਦੇ ਸਿਤਾਰਮੇਕਰਾਂ ਦੇ ਮੱਧਮ ਹੁੰਦੇ ਸੁਰ

ମିରାଜର ସୀତାର ପ୍ରସ୍ତୁତକାରୀ: ହଜି ଯାଉଥିବା ସ୍ଵର

മീറസിലെ സിത്താർമേക്കർമാർ: ദുർബലമാകുന്ന നാദങ്ങൾ

ನಾದ ಹೊಮ್ಮಿಸದ ಮೀರಜ್‌ನ ಸಿತಾರ್‌ಮೇಕರ್‌ಗಳ ಸಿತಾರ್‌

बिखरते सुरों को साधने की जुगत में मिरज के सितार-निर्माता

મિરજ ના સિતાર નિર્માતાઓના વિસરાતા સૂર

सुर साधत मिराज के सितारमेकर

मिराज के सितारमेकर बिरादरी: खतम होखत विरासत

মিরাজের সেতার কারিগররা: হারানো সুর

মিৰাজৰ চেতাৰ নিৰ্মাতাসকল

मिरजेचे सितारमेकरः विलंबित आणि ठाय लयीत

Nadi Ves, Miraj, Sangli, Maharashtra, 416400, India

01-4F3711DE-BEE8-4C15-B699-4B8019C7BEE7_1_201_a-AM-Kummaras-of-Kodavatipud.jpg

Tak-tak-tak! The rhythmic sounds are coming from a
tarpaulin-covered hut in Kodavatipudi. Mulampaka Bhadraraju is tapping a pot
using a chekka sutti,  a small
paddle-like wooden hammer that moulds a pot into a perfect round shape.

“The thicker chekka sutti is for closing the bottom of the pot. This regular one
is for making the bottom more smooth. The thinnest chekka sutti is for smoothening the entire pot,” explains the
70–year-old Bhadraraju who switches between hammers depending upon what is
needed.

He says the thinner, regular-sized one is
made from the branches of the palm tree (Borassus flabellifer) and the thickest one from the arjuna tree (Terminalia arjuna). He moves to the
thinnest chekka sutti and the beat
gets significantly quieter.

It takes him about 15 minutes to shape a
large pot measuring 20 inches in diameter. If he breaks or ruptures a side, he
quickly fixes it by adding clay and repeating the tapping process.

Bhadraraju has been a potter since he was
15 years old. He lives and works in Kodavatipudi, a village in Anakapalli
district, and belongs to the Kummara
community, listed as Other Backward Caste (OBC) in Andhra Pradesh. 

The septuagenarian potter gets his clay
from a pond on land he bought 15 years ago – a half an acre for Rs.
1,50,000.  Through the year, he also pays
Rs. 1,000 to get 400 kilograms of erra mitti (red
clay) delivered to his plot from a sand, soil and gravel supplier in
Kotauratla, the neighbouring village.

He built two huts on the land using the
leaves of the coconut palm and tarpaulin as roofing. The covered space allows
him to work year-round without the monsoon disrupting his work. He uses one hut
to make and shape the pots; in the smaller hut he bakes them. “When we have
200-300 pots, we bake them [over a bed of dry wood],” he says, collected from
an open ground nearby. “They [pots] dry in the hut itself,” he adds.

He paid for this land with his savings.
“They [local banks] did not give me a loan. I have asked them many times
before, but no one ever gave me a loan.” He prefers not to deal with
moneylenders as his work output is uncertain – for every 10 pots he makes, 1-2
break in the process. “Not all the pots dry perfectly, a portion of the pots
breaks apart while drying,” he says, pointing to the dozen cracked pots lying
in the corner of the hut.

The process of making pots, from start to
finish, usually takes him about a month; he works nearly 10 hours a day. “If my
wife helps, we can finish [shaping] even 20-30 pots a day,” he says as he
continues tapping, pausing only now and then to emphasise a point as he is
speaking. At the end of the month, the tally is roughly 200-300 pots.This is the sole source of income for his
family of six — his three daughters, one son, and his wife. “Only this,” he
asserts, has paid for household expenses and his children’s marriages.

Bhadraraju sells his pots to wholesalers
from Visakhapatnam
and Rajahmundry
who come every week and pick them up from the roughly 30 kummaras in the village. The pots are
sold in the market for various purposes: “For cooking, for calves to drink
from, whatever serves their needs,” says the potter.

“Wholesalers from Visakhapatnam buy it
for 100 rupees per pot, whereas in Rajahmundry wholesalers buy it for 120
rupees per unit,” says Bhadraraju and adds, “If everything goes well, I can get
30,000 rupees [in a month].”

Ten years ago, Bhadraraju worked as a
potter in an arts and crafts shop in Goa. “People of several other states were
also there, all engaged in different crafts,” he says. He would get Rs. 200-250
for each pot. “But the food there was unsuitable for me so I left after six
months,” he says.

A few metres away is the home of Kameshwararao
Manepalli, also a potter.  Here
the thudding sound of the chekka sutti has
been replaced by a slow, whirring sound from a machine-run wheel which will
shape the pot on the wheel itself. 

All the potters in the village have
switched to machine-run wheels. Bhadraraju is the only one who still manually
operates a wheel and isn’t interested in switching to a machine-operated wheel.
“I have been doing this work since I was 15,” he says, adding that he is used
to long working hours and labour. The machine-run wheels are also designed to
make much smaller pots, and not the traditional 10-litres ones that Bhadraraju
makes.

Manepalli, like many older potters,
switched to a machine-run wheel five years ago due to ill health and surgery,
“I have had an ulcer in my stomach for the past 6-7 years,” he says.  The manual wheel caused him pain when he spun
it. The automatic machine wheel was pain free.

“I bought a machine-operated potter’s
wheel for 12,000 rupees. After it got damaged, I received another one from the
Khadi Grahmina Society for free. I make pots with that now.”

“The plain [small] pot costs 5 [rupees].
If you put a design on it, it would cost 20,” he says, emphasising that they
are used for decoration only. Also from the Kummara community, the 46-year-old
has been doing this work since a teenager along with his father. He has
continued to work alone after his father passed away 15 years ago.  

Manepalli is the sole earner for his
family of six – three children, wife and mother. “If I work every day, I earn
10,000 [rupees a month]. The charcoal for burning the pots costs around 2,000
rupees. After that, I am only left with 8,000 rupees.”

The veteran potter works irregular hours
because of his poor health, often skipping work days entirely. “What else can I
do?” he says when asked if he does any other work, adding, “this is the only
job I have.”

Kummaras of Kodavatipudi

کوڈاوتی پُڈی کے کمہار

கொடவாட்டிப்புடியின் குயவர்கள்

ਕੋਡਾਵਤੀਪੁੜੀ ਦੇ ਘੁਮਿਆਰਾਂ ਦੀ ਕਹਾਣੀ

କୋଡ଼ାବାଟିପୁଡ଼ିର କୁମ୍ମାରା

കൊടവട്ടിപൂഡിയിലെ കുമ്മരന്മാർ

ಕೊಡವಟಿಪುಡಿಯ ಕುಂಬಾರರು

कोडावतीपुडी के कुम्हार

કોડાવટ્ટીપુડીના કુંભાર

कोडावटीपुड़ी के कोंहार लोग

বৈদ্যুতিক চাকায় নতুন ঘুর্ণি কোড়াভাটিপুড়ির কুমোরপাড়ায়

কোড়াভাটিপুড়িৰ কুমাৰসকল

కొడవటిపూడి కుమ్మరులు

Kodavatipudi

01-1-NA.jpg

“Hume pata hi nahi humaara beta
ekdam kaise mara, company ne hume bataya bhi nahi [We don’t exactly know how our son
died. The company didn’t even tell us this],” says Neelam Yadav.

The 33-year-old is standing inside their house in the town
of Rai in Sonipat, avoiding all eye contact as she speaks. Around six months
ago, Ram Kamal, her brother-in-law’s son, whom she has raised since her marriage in 2007, died while at work in a local food
retail factory where the 27-year-old worked in the AC repair unit.




It was June 29, 2023 and Neelam remembers it as a slow and
sunny day. Her three young children – two girls and a boy, and her
father-in-law, Shobhnath had just finished lunch that she had cooked, the
regular meal of daal bhaat (lentil
soup and rice). She was cleaning the
kitchen while Shobhnath lay down planning
to take a short afternoon nap.



Around 1 p.m. the doorbell rang. She washed her hands and
while fixing her dupatta, went to see
who it was. Two men in blue uniforms stood at the door, playing with their bike keys. She recognised them as from the company
where Ram Kamal worked. Neelam remembers one of them speaking and informing her, “Ram has
got an electric shock. Come to the Civil Hospital quickly.”



“I
kept asking how he was, if he was alright, in his senses. They just said he
wasn’t,” Neelam says, her voice breaking .She and Shobhnath did not waste time looking for public transport, and instead requested the men to immediately take
them to the hospital on their bikes. It took them around 20 minutes to reach
the hospital.

Motilal, Neelam&#39;s husband and Ram&#39;s uncle, was at work when he received the call from his wife.
He works at a construction site in Samchana, Rohtak and arrived at the hospital on his scooter, covering the distance of 20 kilometres
in about half an hour. 



“They
had kept him in the postmortem unit,” his 75-year-old grandfather, Shobhnath says. His aunt, Neelam
remembers wanting to cry: “I was not able to look at him. They had covered him
with a black cloth. I kept calling for him,” she says.

The now deceased young man had been sent by his parents, Gulab and Sheila Yadav, to live with his aunt and uncle. He was only seven years
old and Motilal had fetched him from their home in Nizamabad tehsil in Azamgarh district of Uttar Pradesh. “We have raised
him,” Motilal said. 



Ram Kamal had been working at the factory since January 2023
and earned Rs. 22,000 per month. He sent half the salary back home to his
family of four – his mother, father, wife and eight-month-old daughter. 



“His
little daughter was his support system, now what will happen to her? The
company people didn’t ask about her once,” says Shobhnath. The company’s owner is yet to visit the family.

Ram did not come home the night before his death, Neelam
recalls: “He said he was too busy with work. Ram had been on the work site for
about 24 hours at a stretch.” The family did not know much about his work hours.
Some days, he had to skip meals. On other days, he slept in the company’s shack
at the factory. “Our son was very hard-working,” Motilal smiles. In
his free time, Ram was fond of video-calling his daughter, Kavya.



From some of the other employees at the factory, the family
came to know that Ram had been repairing a cooling pipeline – a task
for which he had not been provided with any safety equipment or precautions. “When he went to the area with his AC-pipe spray and plier,
he was not wearing slippers and his hands were wet. If the company manager had
cautioned him, we wouldn’t have lost our son today,” says his uncle, Motilal.



A day after learning about the loss, Ram&#39;s father Gulab Yadav came to Sonipat for the last rites of his son. Days later, he visited the Rai
Police Station in Haryana, to lodge a complaint against the company for negligence. Sumit
Kumar, the Investigating Officer assigned to the case, tried to persuade Ram’s
family to settle, says the family. 



“The
police asked us to settle for one lakh [rupees]. But nothing will happen. Now,
only a court case will do,” Motilal says.

Feeling that the police were brushing him off, Motilal decided to file a court case a month after the incident had taken place. The
lawyer representing Ram in Rai’s labour court, Sandeep Dahiya, charges Rs.
10,000 for paperwork alone. For the family, with a monthly income of around Rs.
35,000, it is a high sum to pay. “We
don’t have any other option, but I have no idea how many rounds we’ll be
required to undertake in courts,” Motilal, who is now the single-earning member
of the family, says. 



The police officer also could not help Gulab and Motilal recover Ram’s scooty bike that he used to travel to the factory, located about 10 kms from their
house. Before visiting the company to ask for the bike, Motilal had called the police station. An officer told him to speak directly with the
supervisor on site. However, the supervisor, dismissed Motilal’s
request: “When I went to recover the bike the supervisor asked why we didn’t
settle? Why had we filed a case.”



Motilal also does not know where Ram&#39;s worker ID card
is. “The FIR calls him a contractual worker. But his salary was sent through
the main company. He was assigned an employee ID, but they haven’t given it to
us yet.” He also adds that the company has not provided any CCTV footage.The supervisor claims that, “it was the boy’s
negligence. He had already serviced an AC… His hands and legs were wet, which
led to the electric shock.” He dismisses any lack of responsibility on his part.

The postmortem report states that Kamal’s “electric entry
wound is present over the dorsolateral aspect of the left little finger.”
However, the family does not believe this to be true, especially since Ram was
right-handed. Neelam says, “After an electric shock, people have burn marks,
their face becomes black. His was absolutely clear.”



Incidents of factory workers’ deaths are not uncommon in
Sonipat which has emerged as an industrial hub over the past couple of decades.
Most of the workers here are migrants from Uttar Pradesh, followed by Bihar and
Delhi (Census 2011). The police says they see at least five cases of workers injured in nearby factories every month. “In various cases, when the
employee gets injured, the case does not reach the police station. Compromise
is made already,” he says.



With Ram’s case now in court, Dahiya says there is scope for
appropriate negotiation. “So many people die, who asks after them? This is a
case of IPC 304 and I will fight for the little girl&#39;s future,” he said. Section 304 of the Indian Penal Code deals with cases of “culpable homicide not
amounting to murder.” 



Despite
financial and emotional roadblocks, Ram’s family is also adamant. Shobhnath
says, “If this tragedy took place at their home [the employers], what would
they have done? We are doing the same,” and adds, “jo gaya vo toh vaapis na aayega. Par paisa chaahe kam de, hume nyaay
milna chahiye [The one we have lost will never return. Even if they don’t
give enough compensation, justice is what we want].”

In Rai: a long wait for justice

جہاں انصاف کا مطلب لمبا انتظار

ராய் நகரில்: நீதிக்கு காத்திருக்கும் குடும்பம்

ਰਾਈ: ਇਨਸਾਫ਼ ਦੀ ਲੰਬੀ ਉਡੀਕ

ରାଇରେ : ନ୍ୟାୟ ପାଇଁ ଦୀର୍ଘ ଦିନର ଅପେକ୍ଷା

റായിയിൽ: നീതിക്കായുള്ള നീണ്ട കാത്തിരിപ്പ്

ರಾಯ್‌: ಇಲ್ಲಿ ನ್ಯಾಯವೇ ಮರೀಚಿಕೆ

રાઈમાં: ન્યાયમાં વિલંબ એ અન્યાય છે

नियाव के अगोरा

न्याय के दिन देखत परिवार

সোনিপতে ন্যায়বিচারের অপেক্ষায় মৃত যুবকের পরিবার

ন্যায়ৰ বাট কিমান দীঘলীয়া?

जहां न्याय का मतलब लंबी प्रतीक्षा

Rai, Sonipat

01-1696855986421-HC-Kukdeshwars_paan_leaf__is_wilting.jpg

Prakash Bundiwaal is standing in his paanwaari. The heart-shaped paan (betel) leaves grow on thin climbers in densely packed rows; they are covered with a synthetic net to protect them from the harsh heat and winds. Paan leaves are most critical to making paan which is eaten across India after meals. Variety of seeds and nuts like saunf (fennel), supari (betel-nut), gulkand (rose petal preserve) are wrapped in the green leaf with chuna (lime paste) and kattha (catechu powder) to give it a minty aroma and a juicy taste. The village of 11,956 people is well known for its good quality paan leaves. And Prakash’s family, like many others in Kukdeshwar, has been farming the leaf since they can remember. They belong to the Tamboli community, listed as an OBC (Other Backward Class) in Madhya Pradesh. Prakash, now in his sixties, started working in the paanwaari when he was nine years old. But all is not well in Bundiwaal’s 0.2 acre field. The storm caused by cyclone Biparjoy in May 2023 has created havoc for this small farmer. “No insurance is provided to us, and the government does not offer any assistance even if everything is lost in the storm,” he says. The union government provides weather-related insurance to several agricultural products under the <a href="https://pmfby.gov.in/pdf/NAIS_SCHEME.pdf">National Agricultural Insurance Scheme</a> (NAIS), however, betel leaves are not one of them.

Cultivating betel leaf is a lot of effort: “There is so much work in the paanwaari, it consumes all our time,” says Prakash’s wife, Ashabai Bundiwaal. The couple water the field every three days. Prakash adds, “Some farmers use new technologically advanced machines [to irrigate the fields], but the majority of us still rely on the traditional pot.”Paan is sown in March every year. “The soil is mixed with things found at home like buttermilk, urad dal, and soybean flour. We used to use ghee too, but because it is expensive now, we can’t anymore,” says Prakash. In the paanwari it is mostly women who trim the bel (climbers), and pluck around 5,000 leaves everyday. They also repair the synthetic net and fix the bamboo stick as support for the creepers. “The work of a woman is twice as much as that of a man,” says Ranu Bundiwaal, their daughter-in-law. The 30-year-old has been working on paan fields since she was eleven. “We have to wake up as early as 4 a.m. and do household chores, clean and cook.” They also have to carry their lunch. The family shifted their paanwaari in the early 2000s, “due to the lack of water and quality soil, to another place 6-7 kms away from our home,” says Prakash.

They spend up to two lakh on seeds, irrigation and occasionally, labour. “Sometimes, it is harder to even get 50,000 rupees [in a year] after that,” says Prakash. They own an additional 0.1 acre of land where they cultivate wheat and few fruits and vegetables to supplement their income. The family separate the good leaves from the damaged ones and stack them up to be sold in the mandi, says Ranu. “Sorting out the paan usually takes until midnight every day, and sometimes we even work until 2 a.m.,” says Ashabai. The paan are sold in bundles of 100 in the mandi, which takes place daily from 6:30 to 7:30 a.m. “About 100 sellers participate, but there are only 8-10 buyers,” says Sunil Modi, who has come to sell paan in the mandi. The leaves usually go bad after 2-3 days, so “we are compelled to sell everything quickly,” the 32-year-old adds. “Today it was not bad. It was 50 [rupees] for a bundle; more than usual,” says Sunil. “The occupation is profitable during the wedding season when it is used in poojas as it is considered auspicious. The demand rises as people prefer to have paan stalls at weddings, creating a brief period of opportunity, but other than that it&#39;s dull going,” adds Sunil. And it depends on the season.

Another pressure comes from the easy availability of tobacco pouches. “No one wants to buy paan now,” points out Prakash. A single paan is priced at Rs. 25-30 and one can buy five tobacco pouches in the amount. “Despite paan having more health benefits, people choose to eat pouch because it is cheaper,” he adds. Sourabh Todawal used to be a paan farmer but frustrated with the unstable income left the profession in 2011 and runs a small kirana (grocery shop) now. He earns up to Rs. 1.5 lakhs a year from it, almost two times what he earned as a paan farmer. Vishnu Prasad Modi switched from farming paan to operating a computer 10 years ago. He says that paan farming is not profitable: “There is no suitable time for [paan] farming. In summer, the leaves suffer from the loo [hot winds], and in winter, there is minimal growth [of the vine]. During the monsoon, there is constant danger of leaves getting damaged from heavy rain and storms.” Seeing the Banarasi paan receive a GI (geographical identification) tag in April 2023, Prakash&#39;s son Pradeep who also grows paan leaves says, “We wish that the government gives us the GI tag as it will benefit our business significantly.”

Changing climate hits Kukdeshwar's betel leaf

کُکڑیشور: پان کے پتّے پر موسم کی مار

కుక్దేశ్వర్ తమలపాకులను దెబ్బతీస్తోన్న వాతావరణ మార్పులు

மாறும் காலநிலையால் பாதிக்கப்படும் வெற்றிலை

ਜਲਵਾਯੂ ਤਬਦੀਲੀ ਦੀ ਮਾਰ ਹੇਠ ਪਾਨ ਦੇ ਮਲ਼ੂਕ ਪੱਤੇ

କୁକଡ଼େଶ୍ୱର ପାନ ଚାଷ ଉପରେ ଜଳବାୟୁ ପରିବର୍ତ୍ତନର ପ୍ରଭାବ

बदलत्या हवामानाचा फटका कुकडेश्वरच्या पानाला!

കുക്കുടേശ്വറിൽ വെറ്റിലകൾ വാടുന്നു

ಹವಮಾನ ವೈಪರೀತ್ಯದ ಸುಳಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಕುಕ್ಕುಡೇಶ್ವರದ ವೀಳ್ಯದೆಲೆ ಬೇಸಾಯ

બદલાતી આબોહવા ને કુકડેશ્વરમાં મૂરઝાતી નમણી નાગરવેલ

कुकड़ेश्वर पान पत्ता ऊपर बदलत मऊसम के मार

बदलत मौसम से लागल पान किसानन के चूना

কুকড়েশ্বরের পান পাতায় ঝাঁঝ নেই আর

কুকড়েশ্বৰত সংকটত পাণৰ খেতি

कुकड़ेश्वर: मौसम की मार खाकर फीकी पड़ रही पान की रंगत

Kukdeshwar

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“Last year we lost one lakh [rupees] overnight,” says Manjunath Gowda. “Moths flew in and destroyed our fruit. One morning, we saw tiny holes in the fruit as if someone had pierced multiple needles through it.” So this year (2023), he is not taking any chances and is putting up a mesh around his two acre pomegranate orchard in Gadenahalli. The 34-year-old hopes this will protect the crop from diseases, birds and insects. Manjunath invests close to Rs. 2.5 lakh every year on medicines and fertilisers as he says the fruit is very sensitive and can be destroyed easily.To meet this annual expense, he and his wife took a loan last year. “We are hoping that this year we make some profit and repay everything,” says his wife, Priyanka, who works on the farm with Manjunath and manages the household work. Mohan Gowda’s farm, a few kilometres away, with 400 pomegranate plants have been affected by Bacteria blight (Xanthomonas axonopodis pv. punicae). “It will spread to all plants, from one farm to another,” he says. The only solution is to treat the leaves with fungicides.

Mohan switched to pomegranate farming from chillies and marigolds two years ago. “I switched because there is less work here and more profit,” he says but he soon found out that, “there is a challenge in growing pomegranates.”Chethan Kumar, a pomegranate farmer from the same village, points out that chemical fertilisers are also harmful for their health. “Even with the mask, it is a problem. The chemicals go into my eyes. I get a cough and have difficulty breathing,” says Chethan, while pointing to his red eyes. The 36-year-old farmer has been cultivating pomegranate on his four acre farm for the last three years. But there is growing competition between pomegranate farmers Chethan adds. “If I put half a litre of fertilisers, the next person will put one litre. It is like that,” he explains.The year-long process of growing pomegranates begins in September and November with plucking out weeds. Saplings will yield fruit for 5-6 years. In March, the farmers say that they need to trim the plants frequently, water them and start spraying fertilisers and medicines every four days.

“Beforewe used only gobar [manure]. Now we need to use chemical fertilisers,” says Parvathamma, Manjunath’s 56-year-old mother, who has been working on farms for four decades “Earlier, the fruit was very good, it had all the vitamins. Now it has nothing in it. There’s no energy in it,” she says about how the taste of the fruit has been affected. “The climate has changed a lot.”Manjunath agrees with his mother and says early rains have impacted his yield. During January and February it is important that there isn’t rain for the plants to thrive. “The past three years, there has been heavy [early] rains and it causes a lot of damage to the fruit – it turns black. We can’t use it or sell it,” he says. Manjunath says that last season (2022) they got about 8 tons (8000 kilograms) of fruit.“Rain patterns are changing and in just the past two years, I can see a decrease in yield. Last year, one tree gave us 150-180 pomegranates. But this year, only 60-80 pomegranates have come. It is because of the climate and early rains,” he says.

It is the farm labourers, mostly women, who farmers like Chethan hire, that do many tasks – removing weeds, adding fertilisers and more.

As the bright red pomegranate flowers bloom in May, the male flowers and weeds need to be plucked. “I need to wear these gloves while working because of the thorns. Sometimes, if I don&#39;t see properly while plucking, I get hurt anyway,” says Shivamma K. M., who was one of the six women working in Chethan’s farm when PARI visited them in June 2023. Shivamma’s days start at 6:30 a.m. with cleaning her home and cooking for her family. Then she walks a kilometre to the field, where she works till 6:30 p.m. Like other labourers, she earns a daily wage of Rs. 350-400 and works six days a week. “I don’t get any free time or rest. I get a holiday on Sunday but I need that time to clean the house and wash clothes,” the 36-year-old mother of two children says. In June, right before the onset of monsoon, the labourers need to secure the growing fruits to wires, providing support to the fruit to prevent the plant from getting weighed down. “I get problems while working in this heat. My head, back and shoulders, everything hurts,” says Narasamma , a 43-year-old farm labourer says while doing this work. “While I am here I feel happy being with my friends. We have all been working together since the beginning,” she adds.

By September, the fruits are ready for plucking. “One pomegranate weighs 250-300 grams,” says Chethan. This marks the arrival of bidders from different parts of the country. The farmers say that the traders carefully assess the quality of the pomegranates and propose a rate for their purchase. If the farmers find the offer satisfactory, they agree to sell their produce. “You cannot tell if you’ll make a profit or incur a loss. It depends on the season and market. One time I had a loss of 2.5 lakhs,” recalls farmer Mohan Gowda.Priyanka adds, “last year, we sold at a rate of 120 rupees per kg. It was 180 rupees per kg a week before and we thought it would increase so we didn’t agree to that rate. But the price decreased. What can we do?”

Pomegranates are losing their shine

انار کی کھیتی بنی گھاٹے کا سودا

জেল্লা খোয়াচ্ছে গাডেনাহল্লির বেদানা

ಹೊಳಪು ಕಳೆದುಕೊಳ್ಳುತ್ತಿರುವ ದಾಳಿಂಬೆ

Gadenahalli

FEATURE-IMAGE-AS-The_beauty_business_in_Kamlehar_village.jpg

Renu Thakur is hard at work,
deftly using thin thread to pluck the eyebrows of her customer. “All college
girls from Kamlehar
get their eyebrows shaped by me,” says the beauty entrepreneur from Kamlehar
village. 

“This is the most difficult task in make-up.” She is applying a thin
layer of foundation on her customer Jyoti’s face, stroking the brush around her
eyes. “This cream will make the skin smooth so that the make-up has a better
glow,” says the 32-year-old.

Renu has been in the
beauty industry for 11 years, starting when she was 21. “I had thought of
learning beauty parlour work since my childhood. I really like this field and
wanted to learn it right from the time I was a little girl.” When she was 16,
she went to Delhi, where her father was working at the time, to spend her
vacation. There, she learnt about a six-month make-up course for Rs. 3,000. “I
decided to do the course because no one in my village did that,” says the
beauty entrepreneur.

After her marriage at 21, Renu told her husband, Amit Thakur,
about wanting to start a beauty parlour and he readily agreed. But her in-laws
opposed it. “Will you wear the pallu in
the village or do your work?” they would say referring to the custom where
young brides must cover their head and stay out of the public gaze. But for
Renu, the display of her skills at her convenience was important. 

To open her shop, she had secured a loan of Rs. 45,000 nine years ago
at an interest rate of 1 per cent from Punjab National Bank in Draman
village of Kangra district. However, despite her best efforts she says, “I’ve
been unable to repay the loan and it has now increased to 60,000 rupees.”  

Renu earns between Rs.
200 to Rs. 300 a day but it depends on the number of customers that come in. “I
charge 30 rupees for threading eyebrows. For eyebrow threading plus upper lip
hair removal, I charge 40.” The earnings go up significantly when Renu is
called for a bridal makeover – then she earns around Rs. 3,000 a day. If the
bride owns the required make-up products, Renu charges only Rs. 1,000 for the
makeover. “Some days I earn nothing,” she says.

Her shop in the village, with a population of 393 (Census 2011), was
always bustling with customers. “Business was good,” she says until covid-19
struck and “my husband shut down my shop. He feared that we might get infected
with the virus.” Since then, Renu has been carrying out her work from her own
home.  

With many parlours springing in the neighbourhood, Renu has seen a
decline in customers. Eight years ago, there wasn’t a single beauty parlour in
Kamlehar when Renu started her business. “Now there are many more beauty
parlours in the village,” she says.

Kamlehar’s neighbourhood
is full of shops run by men and Renu’s is the only woman-run business in the
region, well equipped with all the products required for everything from a
haircut to mehendi, waxing, facial
and make-up. To procure her make-up supplies for the parlour, Renu takes a bus to
Palampur.
She buys the supplies from a wholesaler in bulk to avail cheaper rates.

Being fluent in Hindi as well as Pahari – languages spoken in the
neighbouring villages – Renu easily chats with her customers who come from as
far as the Nanahar
and Rachhiara
villages, located almost a kilometre away from her village. 

Renu’s husband, Amit, runs a chicken shop and is a driver. Renu’s
elder daughter Riddhima, 10, is in class 6. Her younger daughter Smaira is
three and stays at home with her mother. With the income from her beauty
parlour business, Renu pays Riddhima’s school fees. 

Renu is happy to see women from her village not being confined to
household chores. “Women [here] are creating their own space and their families
are also being supportive,” she says. These are women who knit, farm, and run
small businesses like her to earn a living. “I hope more women do it,” she
says. 

Our thanks to Parveen Kumar, Amrita Rajput and Naomi Fargose, former PARI interns,
for helping with this piece.

The beauty business in Kamlehar

کملیہر کی بیوٹیشیئن

রেণু ঠাকুরের বিউটি পার্লারে সেজে ওঠে কমলেহর গ্রাম

कमलेहर की सौंदर्य-व्यवसायी

Kamlehr 

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Nisha is seated on the ground, fanning herself. The temperature is rising in the hot June afternoon and the smell of tobacco and dried leaves makes the air heavy. “I could make only so many beedis this week,” she says, showing the roughly 700 beedis wrapped in bundles of 17 each. “They’ll probably be worth less than Rs. 100,” says the 32-year-old beedi maker, talking about her week&#39;s work. A thousand beedis bring in Rs. 150 here in Damoh district of Madhya Pradesh. Every Wednesday and Friday, beedi makers bring the beedis they have made, and also collect raw materials for the next round of rolling. Many factories are located on the outskirts of Damoh city. They employ thekedars (contractors) who in turn contract the work out to primarily women. The women will pick up their supply of the raw material and work through the week rolling tendu leaves with cut tobacco and tied with fine threads into neat kattas (bundles) of beedis. They do this work after they are done with the household chores to add to their average monthly household incomes of roughly Rs. 10,000-20,000 which has to feed and sustain families of 8-10 people. Most of the women are agricultural labourers or have small holdings.  “The dry tendu leaves need to be soaked in water till the leaf veins pop out. Then, the leaves are cut into small rectangles using a farma [iron stencil]. Zarda [flavoured tobacco] is added inside and then the leaves are rolled into a beedi,” explains Nisha. Each must also be fastened with a coloured thread which also acts as a brand indicator, differentiating one company from another. These are then brought to be sold to the beedi  ‘factory’ – essentially a beedi making brand’s processing and packaging unit and storehouse. They hand over their work to contractors who accompany them to the factory or pay them directly. Within the factory, they are sorted, baked, packed and stored.

The beedi makers here are mostly Muslim women but other communities are also engaged in this livelihood.  The roughly 25 factories in Damoh owe their genesis to the proximity of several tendu forests in the surrounding districts of Madhya Pradesh which has a forest cover of <a href="https://emfp.mp.gov.in/index.aspx">31 per cent</a>. Seoni, Mandla, Sehore, Raisen, Sagar, Jabalpur, Katni and Chhindwara are rich sources of tendu leaves – a crucial component in the production of beedis  – used as wrappers for the tobacco.

On a warm summer afternoon, dressed in brightly-coloured salwar kameezes, half a dozen women are waiting to get their beedis counted. From the nearby mosque, you can hear the sound of the Friday namaaz over the sound of their chatter and arguments with the thekedar. The women are seated with their taslas (iron wok-like vessels) that hold a week’s work. Amina (name changed) is unhappy with the counting: “There were more [beedis], but the thekedar rejected them while sorting” she says. The women refer to themselves as beedi majdoor (labourers) and they say that the price of Rs. 150 for a 1,000 beedis is unfair for the effort. “I would rather start sewing. That would pay me much more,” says Janu, a former beedi maker from Damoh. However, when she started, at the age of 14, “I didn’t have much skill or choice,” she says.

The hours of hunching cause severe back and neck problems for the workers, and numbness in the arms, making regular household chores difficult. The women get no compensation or medical aid, the factory owners discounting their difficulties: one of them told this reporter, &quot;women are just sitting at home and rolling beedis,” completely disregarding their work-related ailments. “They can earn up to 500 rupees a week,” he said, and added that he thought it is a good ‘deal’ for meeting household expenses. However, his estimate of Rs. 500 a week would require a worker to make almost 4,000 beedis  –  what they currently manage in a month. All the women we spoke to complained of physical stress and injuries. The continuous rolling of wet leaves and the constant contact with tobacco leads to skin problems as well. “Haath aise kate rehte hain, nishaan tak pad jaate hain [My hands are covered with cuts, sometimes they even leave marks behind],” says one of the workers, holding her hands out for me to see the calluses and blisters of 10 years of working. Seema (name changed), another worker, says she tries to offset the constant exposure to wet leaves by “applying Boroline [a soothing ointment] on my hands before sleeping, or my skin peels off after being exposed to the tobacco and wet leaves.”  The 40-year-old adds, “I don’t consume tobacco, but I used to start coughing even at the smell of it.” So around 12-13 years ago, she finally quit and began working as a domestic worker in the city, earning upto Rs. 4,000 a month. Razia (name changed),  has been rolling beedi for longer than she can remember. She chides the thekedar who is weighing tendu leaves:  “what kind of leaves are you giving us? How will we make good beedis from them? You’ll just end up rejecting all these while checking.”

The monsoon is another worry. “Jo voh barish ke 4 mahine lagte the, mano poori beedi kachre mein jaati thi [During the four months of monsoon, it feels like almost all beedis go in the garbage].” The tobacco, rolled in wet tendu leaf, is unable to dry properly and becomes mouldy, ruining the entire bundle. “We can barely dry our clothes [during the rainy season], but we have to dry those beedis,” or they will not earn.   When a thekedar rejects a beedi, besides the loss of labour time, the money for the raw materials used to make it is also deducted from their earnings. “Khoob lambi line lagti thi ginvaayi ke din. Jaise taise number aata tha, toh tab aadhi beedi toh nikal dete the [There used to be a very long queue for getting the beedis counted. And when our number finally came, the thekedars used to remove half of them],” says Janu, recalling the wait and anxiety.The beedis are rejected on the basis of several criteria like length, thickness, quality of leaves and rolling. “If the leaves become brittle and tear slightly while rolling, or if the thread is fastened loosely, then the beedis get rejected,” explains a beedi majdoor in her sixties. The workers say that the thekedars keep the rejected beedis for themselves sell them for a cheaper price. &quot;But we didn’t get any remuneration for it. Neither do we get those rejected beedis back.”

The central government started making <a href="https://www.vvgnli.gov.in/hi/node/94753">beedi cards</a> for all those who are engaged in beedi making in 1977 under the <a href="https://labour.gov.in/sites/default/files/thebeediworkerswelfarecessact1976.pdf">The Beedi Workers Welfare Fund Act, 1976</a>. Although the main purpose of beedi cards is identification of workers, it also enables them to avail several government schemes such as free treatment at government hospitals, childbirth benefits, cash for last rites of deceased, optical checkups and spectacles, scholarships for school-going children, school uniform grants, etc.  <a href="https://www.indiacode.nic.in/bitstream/123456789/13186/1/beedi-and-cigar-workers-conditions-of-employment-act-1966.pdf">The Beedi and Cigar Workers (Conditions of Employment) Act, 1966</a> enables them to avail these benefits. Mostly, the beedi workers who have the card, use it to get free or subsidised medicine from specific dispensaries.  “Zyada kuchh nahi lekin badan dard, bukhaar ki davaai toh mil jati hai [It’s not much, but we at least get basic medicines for body ache, fever],” says Khushboo Raj, a 30-year-old beedi cardholder from Damoh. She had been rolling for 11 years but left recently to work as a sales assistant at a small bangle store in Damoh city.

To avail of the card, “we have to make a few beedis in front of the officer,” says Khushboo, “sarkari officer dekhte hain ki humse sahi mein beedi banti bhi hai ya sirf aisehi card banva rahe hain [The government officer checks if we genuinely know how to make beedis or are we just getting a fake card made for benefits],” she adds.“If we get our card made, they cut funds”, said one woman who had a card in her old village and is wary of pointing fingers at the malpractices. But she did say that the owners cut the money from the workers and use that for the fund. The government also contributes an equal amount to this fund under the <a href="https://lddashboard.legislative.gov.in/sites/default/files/A1976-62.pdf">1976 Act</a>. The workers can either withdraw this money under some of the mentioned schemes, or they get the entire deposit back once they stop making beedis for good. Khushboo received Rs. 3,000 as fund money when she stopped making beedis two months ago. To some workers, this fund system seems beneficial, but to many others, it seems like they are getting even lesser immediate wages for their labour. In addition to this, there is no guarantee that the fund money would be returned to them in the future. Although the beedi card seems beneficial, the process to get it made is unsupervised and can be exploitative for some. One of them recounted an incident where she had gone to get her beedi card made at the local centre and was sexually harassed by the sahab (officer) there. “He swept his gaze over me and asked me to come the next day. When I went there the next day, I took my younger brother with me. He asked me why I brought my younger brother with me, [he indicated] I should have come alone,” she says. When she refused to get the card made, he continued pestering her and staring at her. “The other day, as I was passing by that area, he saw me and started calling out to me. He made a scene,” she adds. “Don’t think that I am a gullible woman, I haven’t come here to get involved with your dirty intentions, and if you continue with this, I’ll get you transferred,”  she had said. As she recounts the incident, her fists are clenched and her voice is raised. “Bohut himmat lagi thi tab [It took a lot of courage],” she says, “he had done the same thing with 2–3 other women as well, before getting transferred.”

When the women come together to sell their wares, they also joke and laugh, forgetting their aching backs and painful hands as they wait for their turn. The bi-weekly meetings also give them a sense of community. “All this jest and talk in these meetings…It makes me feel nice and happy. I can get out of the house,” some women told this reporter. The air is buzzing with chatter – gossip about the latest family drama, antics of their children or grandchildren and genuine worries about each other&#39;s health are shared. Seema  is recounting how her four-year-old grandson got kicked by their cow when he was being a nuisance while his mother was milking the cattle in the morning; another chips in with the latest update of a neighbour&#39;s daughter’s wedding.  But when they leave for their homes, the happy noises die out as concerns about managing the household with very limited earning returns. As the women walk back with their meagre earnings, the trade they make for their labour and their health seems unfair. Seema recalls the pain and problems she experiences: “Back, hands, arms… everything used to hurt a lot. These fingers that you see used to thin down and become lumpy from rolling beedis.” Despite their woes and worries, the beedi makers of Madhya Pradesh continue to toil, trying to sustain themselves on very low wages. As one of them says, “Ab kya karen, sabki apni majboori hoti hai [What can one do, everyone has their own compulsions].”Some names in this story have been changed.