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“Now we no longer need to enter their fields. We grow our own grains; we grow our own fodder. This is our land as far as your eye takes you.” With an outstretched arm, Rajinder Kaur points towards a vast stretch of around 125 acres, which Dalits in this village reclaimed from the dominant castes here in 2014, 67 years after Independence.Almost every landless Dalit woman in village Balad Kalan carries with her a story of when they were ‘shown their place’ by upper caste men for stepping into their fields. Though the humiliations they faced are still present in memory, their epic struggle seems to have pushed those into the past.The Dalit movement has fought vigorously to reclaim their right to a one-third share of panchayat lands. That’s a right enshrined in the Punjab Village Common Lands (Regulation) Act, 1961. Their struggles have retrieved 20,000 bighas (around 4,210 acres) in 162 villages in south Punjab since 2014. And now, Dalits are once again pushing the barriers of resistance. They’re laying claim to lands held by dominant castes that exceed the limits laid down in the Land Ceiling Act, 1972.Balad Kalan, located between Sangrur and Patiala on National Highway 7, is where the movement encountered its most defining moment. It’s where women like Rajinder Kaur are happy to talk today, openly and at length about the wonders their collective struggle has achieved. Balad Kalan is not new to battles for justice. The memorials on the village periphery to those who fell fighting for the dream of a just world hold silent testimony to its history of resistance.

The battles for this land were not easily won. “It was routine for the sarpanch to till all the 125 acres meant for Dalits,” Charan Singh, a daily wage labourer, tells PARI. He heads the committee which oversees the management of the reclaimed land. “When we sought to join the lease auction,” says Charan Singh, “the Akali Dal sarpanch resisted and tried to intimidate us with the help of the administration. We blocked the Chandigarh-Bhatinda Road [local term for NH 7] and stalled the auction six times. In response, police lathi charged us. Women were picked up and taken to Ladda Kothi police station, and 41 men were jailed for two months.”Meanwhile, in the village, landlords exploited the absence of the jailed leaders and Dalit men to plough the fields and sow paddy. In response, farmers’ unions, writers, artists, and rights groups united in statewide protests. Eventually, the leaders were released unconditionally, and a written agreement granted the land to Dalits on lease. “When released, we directly headed towards the fields and hoisted the flag of the Zameen Prapti Sangharsh Committee [Committee for the Struggle to Reclaim Land] —on those very acres,” ZPSC president Mukesh Malaud tells PARI matter-of-factly. Malaud himself remained in Sangrur jail for two months during the Balad Kalan struggle. Since then, he has been living in the shadows, dodging the police at every turn. “After getting possession of the land, the biggest challenge before us was how to manage it. And obviously, the individualistic competitive model of agriculture forced upon us by the Green Revolution was never an option.“So, we opted for collective farming.”

The ZPSC formed small groups of Dalits, and the land was equally divided among them with complete freedom to sow whatever met their needs. The changes born of their struggle, later guided by the model of cooperative farming, now resonate through the village air, shaping the lives of women like Rajinder Kaur and others with newfound dignity. “Earlier. we were enslaved by the landlords. The committee liberated us and made us owners of this vast field,” she says while referring to the ZPSC.In the almost feudal nature of oppression in the village, women suffered the most, Mukesh tells us. “Before ZPSC’s influence, it was common for landlords to target Dalit girls and newly married women. They’d be waiting for them to enter the fields to gather wild grass – where harassment was routine.”A 2015 <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://www.nirdprojms.in/index.php/jrd/article/view/93251">study</a>, done by Professors Gian Singh and Dharam Pal, published in the Journal of Rural Development, found that while working in the fields, 6.83 per cent of landless Dalit women in Punjab faced sexual exploitation. The actual number is likely to be much higher as an overwhelming majority – 78.11 per cent – refused to respond.Rajinder Kaur shares a story from her younger days, when along with other Dalit women, she had gone to collect wild grass growing along the water channels, hoping to feed her lone buffalo. Noticing the ‘trespassers,’ the furious dominant caste landlord shouted at the women: how had they dared to enter his fields. Rajinder recalls how he flung their sacks outside the field, one by one. “He told us to get lost. Often, when we merely approached their fields, they would drive us away as though we were just stray cattle. I can’t even tell you what words the landlords would use,” she says.

Mukesh says “such atrocities often forced them to sell their cattle as the women always remained vulnerable while collecting the wild grass. The situation was such that sometimes women had to walk up to five or six kilometres just to collect the grass, wasting their entire day.” Today, they collect fodder from their own fields in the evening and work under the Mahatma Gandhi National Rural Employment Guarantee Act (MGNREGA) in the day.The movement to reclaim land, Mukesh says, brought more than dignity for the Dalit women. “It has completely ended the culture of begaar [forced labour] and has given bargaining power to the Dalits.”You begin to understand this is a real success story when Charan Singh talks about his group of 22 Dalit families in Balad Kalan. This group cultivates 77 bighas – each receiving 20 marlas (just an eighth of a bigha) for growing fodder, with wheat and paddy grown on the collective farm. “After the last paddy harvest, each family got 19,000 rupees as profit, besides five quintals of wheat for self-consumption and a tractor load of chaff for cattle. The rest of the wheat was sold in the market. Besides profit, the amount we got from both the crops was enough to pay the lease money for the next year,” he says.This struggle for land has brought such a change to the rural landscape of south Punjab that almost every village has scripted its own unique story. If one village has bought all agricultural implements, another has bought tents and utensils to be used for community functions. Like at Batriana, a village located around 15 kilometres from Balad Kalan. There we find Ramkaran Singh, who works as a carpenter and is a member of the committee that manages the collective Dalit farm of the village. He is preparing paddy fields with a Swaraj 855 tractor. “We bought it from the profit of our farm,” he says.

In this village, all Dalit households, around 130, are members of the 28-acre collective farm which they have been cultivating since 2015. From a Swaraj 855 tractor to a trolley, from a Happy Seeder to ploughs, you name the agricultural implement or machine – and they own it. “Even after spending around 10 lakh rupees on machinery, we have saved 7 or 8 lakhs, which we have given on 10.8 percent annual interest to arhtiya (commission agent cum moneylender) Mangat Sharma, who earlier used to lend us money,” says Ramkaran.During the harvest season in these villages, Dalit women no longer look towards the landlords. They sing their own songs in unison to celebrate the arrival of the season. “Our own houses are filled with grains. And look at these kupps [haystacks], we have stored chaff for the entire year, says Savitri Kaur in Balad Kalan. “Now almost every house in our vehra [Dalit settlement] earns by selling milk. Some even rear more than one head of cattle,” she says, pointing towards the Dalit farm where a cluster of kupps is located.The Dalit collective farming model we are seeing today in Balad Kalan and Batriana traces its roots to 2008. That’s when Dalits in Benra village (Dhuri subdivision), asserted control over their nine-acre share for the first time. However, the ZPSC says that it is not just about collective farming, it is a struggle for land. “The state’s Department of Rural Development and Panchayats leases out about 1.56 lakh acres of panchayat land annually, with one-third [52,000 acres] reserved for Dalits,” says Mukesh. “Yet for decades, powerful landlords have routinely grabbed this land at throwaway prices, using loyal Dalits as frontmen to bypass the law.”

After Balad Kalan, the movement spread like wildfire adding on average 15 new villages to the list every year. As the number of villages swayed by the movement kept increasing, so did the criminal cases against ZPSC leaders. Against Mukesh Malaud alone, 28 criminal cases have been registered, including several for attempt to murder, land grab, obstructing traffic and stopping officials from discharging their duties. “Now,” he smiles, “I am waiting for the 29th case to be registered.” That’s because the ZPSC has recently have given a new turn to the movement by starting a campaign for implementation of The Land Ceiling Act, 1972.Dalits make up around 32 per cent of the population of Punjab – the highest for any state. But they own just 3.5 per cent of its total land. “How did some people manage to get such huge chunks of land? They got these lands as gifts for their loyalty to the British or erstwhile kings. Our only demand is to implement the law of this land. If the government won’t implement it, people will,” Mukesh tells PARI.And people do seem to have already started implementing the law. On May 20, 2025 amid echoes of slogans like ‘Long live the unity of landless’, hundreds of Dalits, each clutching earthen lamps emerged from distant villages. Led by Malaud and his comrades, they started marching towards Bir Aishwan in Sangrur, where 927 acres of land of the erstwhile raja of Jind princely state is located. In the revenue records, this land is marked as bechiraag (uninhabited, but literally meaning – without a lamp).

In a firm voice, Mukesh told the crowds, “Dalits have brought these lamps from their homes to create Beghampura [poet-saint Ravidas’ imagined utopian, casteless village] on this very land. It is just the beginning. There are 153 bechiraag villages in Punjab, which together hold one lakh acres of land. Now, no village will be left bechiraag, each inch of such land will be lit soon.” Police arrested around 400 Dalits, including several leaders of the ZPSC and have been desperately searching for Mukesh since. However, as if honouring a ritual long observed, he has once again vanished into the people, just as he has for the past 15 years.Amid this very real game of hide and seek, the footprints of Mukesh and his comrades remain etched in over 100 villages in South Punjab. Balad Kalan, which has weathered many rough seasons, is where the ZPSC flag was hoisted for the first time 11 summers ago. Its fading red colour now seems to be merging with the endless green fields.

When Dalits fight to reclaim half the sky

اپنے حصہ کی زمین پر دعویٰ کرتے محنت کش دلت

సగం ఆకాశాన్ని తిరిగి స్వాధీనం చేసుకునేందుకు దళితులు పోరాడినప్పుడు...

কৃষিভূমিৰ অধিকাৰৰ দাবীত দলিতৰ সংগ্ৰাম  

অর্ধেক আকাশের পাট্টার দাবিতে সোচ্চার দলিত জনতা 

પંજાબના દલિતોનાં સાત ડગલાં આકાશમાં 

जग वालों से अपने हिस्से की ज़मीन मांगते पंजाब के मेहनतकश दलित

ದಲಿತರು ಆಗಸಕ್ಕೆ ಲಗ್ಗೆಯಿಟ್ಟ ಘಳಿಗೆ

പകുതി ആകാശം തിരിച്ചുപിടിക്കാൻ ദളിതർ നടത്തുന്ന പോരാട്ടം

पंजाबमधल्या दलितांचा हक्काच्या जमिनीसाठी लढा

ਦਲਿਤ ਤੇ ਉਹਨਾਂ ਦੇ ਹਿੱਸੇ ਦਾ ਆਕਾਸ਼  

உரிமையை மீட்பதற்கான தலித்களின் போராட்டம்

ଯେବେ ସମାନ ଅଧିକାର ଫେରି ପାଇବା ପାଇଁ ଲଢ଼େଇ କରନ୍ତି ଦଳିତମାନେ

‘एगो खेत ना, एगो बाग ना, आधा धरती चाहीं’

अजादी के 67 बछर बाद दलित अपन हक के भूंइय्या मं काबिज 

Balad Kalan

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Tell me the price of your fish, O woman, – the refrain of this song traditionally performed at weddings – is an example of the enduring relevance and adaptability of this genre. Sung by Juma Wagher, himself a fisherman from Mundra taluka, the song is traditionally meant for joyous occasions. But in the present context of what the community faces in the region, it resonates with many new social and political meanings.Waghers, a Muslim minority community involved in fishing in the region, have a centuries old relationship with the Gulf of Kachchh. Men, women and children from this fishing community move from their inland villages to the fishing grounds near the town of Mundra and live on the shore for almost eight to nine months in makeshift huts to seek a livelihood from the sea. Men harvest the fish, bring their catch of the day, while women sort, dry and sell the fish.Things began to change in year 2000 as the state government encouraged industrialisation and privatisation of the coastline. A number of projects including oil refineries, cement and fertilizer plants, salt pans, bauxite and limestone mining, and shipping-related activities, drastically affected the living environment of the community.They were losing their fishing grounds with construction and pollution; the coastal eco-system and natural tidal flows were disrupted. Waghers suffered a significant drop in income with the reduced size and diversity of their catch and were forced to go further into the sea for fishing. And with it came the loss of traditional knowledge practices, like pagadia fishing, for the community.A decade ago fisherfolk from the region even sought to file a <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://www.theguardian.com/global-development/2015/nov/10/fishermen-farmers-sue-world-bank-lending-arm-ifc-power-plant-india">lawsuit</a> against the World Bank’s private investment agency International Finance Corporation (IFC) in a US federal court for funding a mega coal plant that brought destruction to their livelihoods. The nature of ‘development’ in the region has only deepened the vulnerability of this community already living on the margins among the Socially and Educationally Backward Classes (SEBC) in Kachchh.

Type of song: Traditional folk songCluster: Songs of land, places and peopleSong: 15Title of the song: Sundho khanine…Composer: Deval MehtaSinger: Juma Wagher from Bhadresar village of Mundra talukaInstruments used: drum, harmonium, banjoRecording year: 2012, KMVS studioEnglish translation: Pratishtha Pandya

These songs, 341 recorded by a community-run radio Soorvani, have come to PARI through the Kutch Mahila Vikas Sangathan (KMVS). For more of these songs visit this page: <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/songs-of-the-rann-archive-of-kutchi-folk-songs/">Songs of the Rann: archive of Kutchi folk songs</a>A special thanks to Preeti Soni, Aruna Dholakia, secretary, KMVS, Amad Sameja, project coordinator KMVS for their support and to Bhartiben Gor for her invaluable help.

Fishing in the troubled waters of the Rann

کچھّ کی بے چین لہروں میں پھنسے ماہی گیر…

রণের অথই পানি, মৎস্যজীবীর গ্লানি 

રણના અશાંત પાણીમાં માછીમારી

कच्छ की बेचैन लहरों में फंसे मछुआरे…

ರಣ್‌: ಕಲಕಿದ ನೀರಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಮೀನುಗಾರಿಕೆ

റാനിൻ്റെ പ്രാരാബ്ധങ്ങളിലെ അതിജീവനം  

कच्छच्या रणमध्ये मासेमारी करताना...

ਰਣ ਉਹੀ, ਉਹੀ ਲਹਿਰਾਂ... ਪਰ ਭਾਈਚਾਰੇ ਦਾ ਵਜੂਦ ਮੁਸ਼ਕਲਾਂ ਮਾਰਿਆ

ரான் பகுதியில் மீன் பிடித்தல்

କଚ୍ଛର ଅଶାନ୍ତ ସମୁଦ୍ର ଲହଡ଼ିରେ କେଉଟମାନଙ୍କ ବିପନ୍ନ ଜୀବନ 

भंवर में फंसल कच्छ के मछुआरा लोग

कच्छ के उतइल लहर मं फंसे मछुआरा मन 

কচ্ছৰ মাছমৰীয়াৰ গীত 

Kachchh

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Naveen Kumar Tamta is quite used to visitors asking for photos and videos of him at work. In his fifties, he is a celebrated coppersmith – hammering out fine designs on copper artefacts and items of household use in Almora, Uttarakhand.Tamta comes from a long line of coppersmiths who are said to have arrived in the Kumaon region of the Himalayas from Rajasthan hundreds of years ago. Their first settlement was near Gosni village, Lohaghat. Later on, with the transfer of the capital from Champawat to Almora, some families of coppersmiths moved here.For the longest time, the work of copper smiths was a family affair. “Everyone used to joke and talk. There was competition too. In that competitive spirit everyone worked better,” says craftsman Pradeep Tamta.Women were an integral part of the process. They would collect wood for the furnace from nearby forests, polish finished items, rotate the furnace fan, and prepare powder for welding. Many women also took up designing and other finer tasks like heating the metal sheet before hammering, in between cooking and looking after their families.

Copper items are a part of the culture and tradition of the Kumaon region – ghadas (pots), dhols (drums), plates and more have always been in demand. “Pehle pooja mai thali lagti thi, baaja lagta tha shaadi ho toh bade bade bartan lagte the par ab sab badal gaya [Earlier copper plates were used in pooja, percussion instruments were played, and large utensils were required in marriages. But now all that has changed],” says Naveen Tamta.Locals recall a time when the noise made by 30-40 families of coppersmiths hammering away in Tamta Mohalla, would start at four in the morning and go on until late at night. “Sone bhi nahi dete the [They didn’t let us sleep],” says a resident, smiling as he speaks.The number of people doing Tamta work has since shrunk, and Naveen Kumar is among the last few coppersmiths in Almora. This once thriving community of Dalit craftspeople is now down to few men and their helpers; their craft is edged out by machine-made copper artifacts and household items. “There was a time when in a day we made four pots and sold them. Today we can barely sell that many in a month,” he points out.

Despite the delicate nature of the work, and the long hours, handmade copper items are sold by weight: a 500 gram pot (ghada) sells at Rs. 1,000 while just copper of the same weight costs Rs. 750 in the market. A machine-made pot of the same weight sells at a discounted Rs.500 or so, made by factories in Rampur and Moradabad, who are able to trim margins as they make in bulk.A handmade Tamta water filter sells at Rs. 4,000 while one made by a machine is half the price. An engraved handmade copper plate sells at Rs.700-1,000 while you can pick up a machine-made one for Rs. 300. But, say Tamta craftsmen, their work lasts three times as long as machine-made ones and can be heated and mended to extend their life.“Today customers are reluctant to spend or invest a larger sum on utensils. Machine goods are readily available, cheaper and shinier,” says Naveen. Machine-made goods also don’t have joints, and customers tell him that they prefer a smoother and cleaner finish.In recent times demand for smaller souvenir like items has increased – flower pots, diyas, bracelets and rings are easy on the pocket and preferred by tourists. The decline in local demand for utensils and instruments has hurt Tamta craft families, making their future unsustainable.

PARI met Naveen at his workshop – a ramshackle shed of tin and wood located in a narrow lane in this hill town, once a British outpost. The roof is peppered with holes and cracks; smelting fires and smoke from the two furnaces have turned it black over the years. Recent torrential monsoon rain in Uttarakhand has damaged his furnace, a makeshift one fashioned from a cycle tyre and fan. He is waiting for it to dry so that he can start work.All three men who are Tamta copper craftsmen are closely related. Naveen who started working when he was 15 years old, says he and his (paternal) cousin, 47-year-old Pradeep Kumar Tamta learnt together. “Bachpan me aag dekh kar, dhuan dekh ke badi utsukta hoti thi ki kya ho raha hai [In my childhood, the fire and smoke intrigued us. We wanted to know what was happening],” says Pradeep.Naveen was awarded a Shilpratan in 2021 by the state government in recognition of his craftsmanship, and Uttarakhand's Tamta Product was awarded a <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://www.nabard.org/GI/uttarakhand-tamta-product.aspx#:~:text=The%20artform,before%20putting%20it%20to%20dry">GI</a> (Geographical Indicator ) tag in 2021. The Tamta artists thought it would bring back business and revive their craft, but nothing changed. “We received a GI tag but what to do with it? The government should help us, if they provide raw material then it is good,” says Naveen Tamta, adding that the community has for long been promised multiple benefits by the government that have never been fulfilled.

An additional worry is the high GST (goods and services tax) on raw material and high material costs that makes it difficult for artists to sustain. “In 2010 we made 1,000 rupees each day, of which 500-600 rupees was profit. It was good,” says Hari Prasad Tamta, a close relative and also a veteran craftsman himself. “Today it [income] has not changed. How much can we earn and how much can we save?” he adds, referring to the general increase in the cost of living.Earlier most of the raw material used was locally sourced from nearby Bageshwar, and as the number of artisans was high, they sourced material directly. But now with less demand and fewer craftspeople, they have to buy material from middlemen. “The copper roll we buy from wholesalers, and they take a commission: he sells for 1,000 rupees what should be 700. We are also buying chipwood [wood from pine trees that is used as fuel for furnaces] as hardly anyone goes to the jungle,” adds Hari Prasad.

The lone woman still working in the workshop is Geeta Tamta who started working after her marriage into the family, almost 21 years ago. She says the women would go to the forest together. “The first time I went for wood I did not know anything. Other women taught me which wood to pick, how to tie wood. They taught me everything,” she recalls fondly of the strong bonds she made as a new bride.The participation of women also brought the children into the workspace. Pradeep Tamta says when women moved away, that sense of family and community in the craft took a hit. And so did their incomes: now working alone, the craftsmen say the time taken on the craft has increased. As have the prices, as wood is now purchased from the market.

“Everything has changed. When women worked with everyone, we all had fun. Now I am the only one left, some have started to work as house help while others do whatever else they can,” she adds.Many women from Tamta families have become domestic workers in homes and hotels, in search of a stable income. Geeta herself took care of others’ children in order to afford her children’s school fees. Almora’s rise as a tourist destination and the sudden boom in the hotel industry has led to a surge in jobs for local women who work as helpers and cleaners.None of the younger generation are interested in continuing this work. Naveen says the future is bleak unless the state steps in. “We want to teach young boys, but no one will do this work for free.”Seeing us take out our cameras, he says, “Aao aao photo loge ya video banaoge? Jo bhi karoge humara kya bhala usse? Jo hoga bhala, who tumhara hoga[Come come! What do you want, photos or video? Whatever you shoot will help you, not us].”

This story is supported by a fellowship from Mrinalini Mukherjee Foundation (MMF).

Tamta: the coppersmiths of Uttarakhand

ٹمٹا: اتراکھنڈ کے ٹھٹھیرے

టమ్టా: ఉత్తరాఖండ్‌కు చెందిన రాగి పనివారు

উত্তৰাখণ্ডৰ তাম্ৰকাৰ টমটাসকল 

 জৌলুস হারাচ্ছে টামটাদের তামার কারিগরি 

ટમ્ટા: ઉત્તરાખંડના કંસારા 

टम्टा: उत्तराखंड के ताम्रकार

ಟಮ್ಟಾ: ಉತ್ತರಾಖಂಡದ ತಾಮ್ರ ಕುಶಲಕರ್ಮಿಗಳು‌

ടംട: ഉത്തരാഖണ്ഡിലെ ചെമ്പ് നിർമ്മാതാക്കൾ 

टम्टा : उत्तराखंडचे तांबट

ਟਾਮਟਾ: ਉੱਤਰਾਖੰਡ ਦੇ ਠਠੇਰੇ 

தாம்தா: உத்தரகண்டின் செப்புக் கொல்லர்கள்

ଟମଟା: ଉତ୍ତରାଖଣ୍ଡର ତାମ୍ରକାର

‘तांबा के काम त दलिद्दर काम बा’

मसीन के मार झेलत टम्टा तमेर के हाथ  

Almora

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“They had to bring elephants to demolish our houses,” says Bharatjoy Reang.“Even with that [the elephants] they would not be able to crush it. They would eventually resort to burning our tongs." This 75-year-old Reang Adivasi remembers a time when forest officers forcibly evicted and displaced him along with his wife and children from their home in Assam’s Sribhumi district (formerly Karimganj). That was in the early 1980s. The houses that he is referring to are known as tong ghar, or Gairing nok as the locals would say – a traditional dwelling common among many tribal communities in Tripura, including Bharatjoy’s own.“We the people of the hill never used to live in mud or brick houses. We always preferred tongs”, he says pointing at his own house in this para (settlement) in North Tripura district. It’s a bamboo structure resting on bamboo stilts, a foot above the ground. Traditionally, they had thatched roofs but the one on Bharatjoy’s tong is made of tin. It stands next to a long and treacherous stone-paved road coming from Bagbasa and leading up to the serene Tongchera para in Zaithang village where we’re talking to him.Bharatjoy’s is one of the first houses that you reach as you move into this settlement, resting in the arms of high mountains thickly covered in greenery and tranquil water bodies. About 25 kilometres from the city of Dharmanagar in the state of Tripura lies this rather secluded settlement of 150 families of the Reang tribe [also spelt Raing], listed as the only <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://tribal.nic.in/DivisionsFiles/SwLPVTGs.pdf">Particularly Vulnerable Tribal Group (PVTG)</a> in this state.

But if you were to spend some time in this settlement, you’d realise that it is not just the community that is vulnerable. So too are their forest lands, their language – Kaubru (one of the eight dialects of Kokborok), their way of life, and their traditional dwellings. Many in the community have moved into concrete houses made under the Pradhan Mantri Awas Yojana Gramin (PMAY-G). Bharatjoy also built a pucca house for himself in 2017, within a year of the scheme being introduced in Tripura with a changed name, from Indira Awas Yojana to PMAY.And within three years of building the house, ironically, even as the Prime Minister spoke of having brought the Ganges of development to the north-east, Bharatjoy’s house was caught in flames and destroyed. The one-bedroom pucca house that he had built with government assistance under the scheme was completely burned down. It exists today as a heap of rubble sitting right next to his tong ghar.“That was some six years ago,” he says. “It was probably a short circuit that caused the fire. We appealed to the local leaders several times for help. They all said they would but didn’t. Never. They don’t care. It is only our vote that they want.” For two years after the disaster, Bharatjoy and two of his sons who are still dependent on him, lived with an older son in the same settlement. But eventually they decided to build a new tong ghar in place of a mud house.“It took not more than two months with all the help from my family. I made this tong four years ago,” says Bharatjoy taking us inside his bamboo house. It’s not much more than 300 square feet. The floor and the sides of his house are made from woven bamboo strips. The bamboo species used for this is locally known as muli (Melocanna baccifera), he educates me. “For this size tong, you need at least 300 muli [bamboo]. These are young bamboo, usually no more than one year old.”

Everything starts with sourcing the bamboo. “Once procured, we don’t wait for long to cut the bamboo stems in different shapes and sizes. We don’t let them dry out. If you do, they will easily split. We make thin bamboo strips and weave them tightly,” he says. “For the base pillars, we like to use segun [teak] wood that’s at least 10-12 years old,” he says.Bharatjoy uses a curved iron tool with a wooden handle called daau (or dhau) for almost all purposes – from cutting down the bamboo, splitting, and even making strips that are later woven to make the sides and floor of the house. For wooden parts, sometimes he uses a hand saw. Different communities across the northeast use varied tools for processing the bamboo for construction.The Reangs are not the only tribe to make tongs. “Every tribe has their own way of making tongs. We usually don’t make verandas or balconies in our houses. People of the Debbarma community have extensions beyond floor space. Now some of our tongs are also being influenced by them”, says Bharatjoy.None of them buy bamboo or wood, but rather source that from the nearby forest area. Other than muli, they often use makal (Bambusa pallida). “Gola bet or Burmese bamboo [Bambusa polymorpha] is used for tying the structures together. But these days, it is difficult to sustain structures with so many termites around,” complains Bharatjoy.“They eat away the wooden base, leaving the stems hollow from the inside. Had it been kaaingla or kawadhyuti (sub-species of bamboo), this structure would have lasted for a century.” He speaks of extinct species of trees that were once used as major load-bearing components in building tongs that protected them from insects and termites.

“How will you get such trees to survive? People have been clearing up forests for cultivating betel nut or other things that get them more money,” laments Bharatjoy. Tripura is a densely forested state, with around <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://forest.tripura.gov.in/forest-tripura">60 per cent</a> of its land covered by evergreen and moist deciduous woods. The forests provide sustenance to many tribal communities like the Reangs and are integral to their way of life.Food is both foraged and cultivated, using jhum (a slash and burn shifting cultivation practice). Once cropping and harvesting is completed, the land is left fallow for a long time and vegetative regeneration is allowed until the plot becomes cultivable once again. But with time, the choice and availability of land for jhum began to shrink, leading to a shortening of the jhum cycle. And a reduction in the restoration period lowered land fertility, resulting in poor yields.In the 1980s when forest officials drove Bharatjoy from his house, it was to conserve forests and restrict jhum under the <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://www.icsi.edu/media/portals/86/bare%20acts/Forest%20(Conservation)%20Act,%201980.pdf">Forest (Conservation) Act of 1980</a>. Jhum was a system of mixed cropping prevalent in the hilly areas of the state for ages. “We mostly relied on jhum cultivation and would occasionally take up contractual jobs of planting trees for the forest department,” says Bharatjoy reminiscing about his life before displacement.After the ‘80s several ethnic tribes living on forest lands were uprooted. Many of them turned to settled cultivation of high yielding crops like areca nut and rubber. Ironically, the move away from jhum to a plantation economy has further resulted in a massive loss of forest cover for the state. According to a <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://fsi.nic.in/uploads/isfr2023/isfr_book_eng-vol-1_2023.pdf">2023 Forest Survey of India report</a> Tripura has seen the maximum decrease of forest cover inside the Recorded Forest Area (RFA) of 116.90 sq km in the country.“We were devastated. No one listened to our pleadings. We were left homeless overnight. All of us had to migrate to this place and built our lives from scratch. We have been living here for the last 45 years,” says Bharatjoy still troubled by his personal loss of decades ago. In the earlier days tribal settlements would move from hill to hill, build these dwellings on stilts, tong ghar, entirely out of bamboo and thatch, he explains. As they descended from the hills to the plains, Bharatjoy recalls, traditional bamboo houses were replaced by rammed earth and timber constructions. And closer to urban areas, by brick and cement buildings.

“Mud houses are vulnerable to termites. Our livelihood depended on jhum. We had to shift our house every few years from one hilly slope to another. Tong was our choice of housing. I have been making tongs all my life. Not much has changed in the process of making them in all these years. But new tongs are rare these days,” says Bharatjoy.We are sitting inside his bamboo dwelling that seems dark even during daytime, with only one window to let the daylight in. A tiny kitchen consists of a hearth, built on a raised bamboo and mud platform. “There aren’t any partitions in our tongs. Everything is in the same room,” he says.“Neighbours help each other here in making tongs. It would take 5-7 people around 2-3 weeks to make a mid-sized tong [roughly 250-300 sq ft]. I would always prefer a tong over a pucca house. But hardly anyone makes tongs these days. People desire pucca housing. I don’t blame them,” says Bharatjoy. His words sound like a nostalgic lament for the gradual disappearance of the traditional housing style. “It takes 80 to 90 thousand rupees now to make such a tong house from scratch. Who can spend that kind of money?”Very few from the 150 Reang families here have anything like a steady source of income. A few of them work in tea gardens as wage workers. Others migrate to neighbouring districts in search of a livelihood. And many gather fruits and vegetables from the jungles and sell in either in the village or at the nearest market. Those who came here in 1980s after being displaced from neighbouring Assam, like Bharatjoy, had continued jhum cultivation for a while, but were forced to give that up later when the area was declared a reserved forest zone. “We don’t have any steady source of income here,” Bharatjoy says.Initiatives by the state government like the Tripura Bamboo Mission (TBM) claim to “build the bamboo sector as a major livelihood provider and provide employment opportunities to 20,000 poor producers in the sector.” Regardless of such claims, Bharatjoy earns hardly anything substantial from his craft. “I mostly make khara,” he says pointing at a few bamboo coops sitting near his tong. These are also known as taukhaou among the locals and are used to cage domesticated poultry. “They sell for not more than 150 rupees each. But you can only sell so many of them in a month.”

The result: Bharatjoy hires an auto for about 20 rupees a day and goes to the market to sell his product. He makes hardly Rs. 2,000 a month from this craft. “We mostly rely on natural resources for our needs. We are barely surviving,” he says.As livelihood options for them in the village shrink, many in the community find hope in educating their children. Nothila Reang, 52, Bharatjoy’s eldest son, who owns a tiny grocery shop inside in the settlement, reiterates the grim socio-economic scenario around the village. “Our children almost never study beyond the primary school level. Most of them drop out after Class 5 or 6. We don’t have anyone here who has a fixed job either,” he says.Bharatjoy’s daughter Pandourung Reang, 40, and her husband Rongakanto Reang, work as contract labourers at the tea-gardens near the settlement. Their six-year-old daughter Zinaru studies at the Tongchera Jr. B School (primary) located in Jubarajnagar block, walking distance from their settlement. The family has recently built a new tong ghar on a little hill, about five-minutes-walk from the settlement.“We always wanted a tong for ourselves”, says Rangakanto. “We have to go out every day to earn a living. So, it took us nearly one year of regular part-time work on the house and a total of 50,000 rupees for hired labour to build it. We moved in just a few months ago”, he adds. A single light bulb illuminates the rather large tong of about 500 sq ft.“We used chon [dried long grass] for the roof like it is done traditionally. It is very durable and keeps the hut cool,” he says. “Most people don’t have the skills anymore,” says Bharatjoy, looking wistfully at the mesmerizing if foggy view of the hills beyond the steep slope on which the balcony of the tong extends, resting on long bamboo pillars.“But my grandchildren are eager to learn.”&nbsp;This story is supported by a fellowship from Mrinalini Mukherjee Foundation (MMF).

Living on stilts in North Tripura

شمالی تریپورہ کے روایتی ’ٹنگ‘ گھر

ত্ৰিপুৰাৰ টংঘৰ আৰু বিপন্ন জীৱন-জীৱিকা   

খুঁটির উপর বসতবাড়ি উত্তর ত্রিপুরায় 

ઉત્તર ત્રિપુરામાં વાંસડા પર જીવન

उत्तरी त्रिपुरा के पारंपरिक ‘टंग’ घर

ಅಪರೂಪವಾಗುತ್ತಿರುವ ಟಾಂಗ್ ಮನೆಗಳು

വടക്കൻ ത്രിപുരയിലെ പൊയ്ക്കാൽ ജീവിതം

उत्तर त्रिपुरातल्या आदिवासींची घरं आणि संघर्ष

ਉੱਤਰੀ ਤ੍ਰਿਪੁਰਾ: ਬਾਂਸ ਦੇ ਖੰਭਿਆਂ ‘ਤੇ ਵੱਸਦਾ ਪੂਰੇ ਦਾ ਪੂਰਾ ਕਬੀਲਾ

வடக்கு திரிபுராவில் மூங்கில் தடிகளின் மீதான வாழ்க்கை

ବାଉଁଶ-ଖୁଣ୍ଟ ଉପରେ ଉତ୍ତର ତ୍ରିପୁରାର ଜୀବନଯାପନ 

बांस के चंचरी वाला अनुपम, बाकिर दुर्लभ होत घर

त्रिपुरा: खतरा मं परे बांस घर अऊ ओकर बासिंदा  

Zaithang

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An ancient wooden saddle, an old loom, a wooden polo mallet, grass slippers, old silver jewellery, a crumbling Shina poetry manuscript, traditional combs used as ornaments for women in weddings and more. These are just some of the antiques of everyday life that Bashir Ahmad Teroo has on display in his museum.Bashir belongs to the Dard-Shin tribe who live mostly in Gurez and Drass. For the last five years, from across Gurez valley, people have been handing over precious heirlooms and other old objects of daily use to the Dardshin museum that he curates and houses in Dawar.“I have seen people throwing away antiques from their houses because they think these things are of no use, burning old clothes, throwing away farming tools no longer used,” he recalls. So, what was earlier discarded as outdated, thrown away or even burnt, has now found a warm home in his museum.Bashir believes that his job as a state healthcare worker has helped him curate this museum of his people’s history. The 44-year-old state employee says people trust him, and that made the process of curating the museum so much easier. Here in Kashmir’s Gurez valley, winter snow cuts off residents for six months of the year, and state healthcare facilities are thin on the ground. Community health workers like Basheer’s work are critical, and people’s trust in him is absolute.

“I used to collect things from a very early age, be it old coins, currency, farming tools,” he said, recalling how as a child, he enjoyed listening to stories, and collecting small remembrances. He would also sit with his paternal grandfather who used to relate folk tales.“[Later], I was always looking for artifacts. It has been so much on my mind,” he said. And during covid, when he along with other healthcare workers would visit homes for the vaccination drive, he continued looking. “Now I have almost 400 artifacts in my museum. This was possible only with support of the locals of Gurez, and the administration here,” he told PARI.Like the half-a-century-old Zaildar coat, worn by prominent men in the community. Bashir says he made multiple trips to secure it, and it was on the sixth visit to Junrail village, roughly 25 kilometers away, that he finally caught the owner at home and got him to part with it.“Bringing that coat to my museum costs me around 10,000 rupees. But as it is connected to our history, the expenses seem like nothing.” he told PARI, proud and serious as he dons the warm coat, still in good condition.We are seated in a guest room adjacent to his museum, located on Mastan road in Dawar village. He has offered me hot tea with biscuits, very welcome after my long journey from Srinagar into the high mountains. He drops his serious manner for a bit and offers to sing me a Shina song before we start talking about the museum. He picks up an iron chang (an old musical instrument similar to a morsing) between his lips as he starts to sing and play. The chang is also part of his museum.

Dardic people have a distinct culture, and Gurez valley used to be the silk route for people of Kashmir who would travel from Bandipora through Gurez to Gilgit for trade and pilgrimage. This was also the route used by Haj pilgrims. The constant movement of people through the valley, brought varied influences to stay. Bashir said this can be seen in the way Shina people dress, their songs and music, similar to the Shina community in Gilgit, across the border in Pakistan, and Drass in India.The Dard-Shin are a small community (37,992 Dardic people says Census 2011). “The language we speak is different, the dialect is entirely different,” adds Bashir. Their language – Shina – is under threat from migration and militarisation of the border with Pakistan. Read:<a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://www.ruralindiaonline.org/article/in-gurez-home-is-not-where-the-word-is"> In Gurez, home is not where the word is</a>The first person to hand him artifacts for the museum five years ago, was his own mother. “My mother Taja Begum gave me 70 items including her traditional wedding cap, and watch, and told me to keep these safe. That was the moment I thought of preserving these by opening a museum at my house,” he said.Since then Bashir has travelled to every corner of the valley to collect items related to Shina culture be it clothes, tools, books and more. Sometimes visitors would bring things for the museum, underlining how the community sees it as their own. Or they would call him to come collect: “A girl called me recently to hand over her mother’s wedding ring which was some 70 years old. So, yes now people themselves call me and give me antiques that they feel should be preserved.”

But in the early months, Bashir had to work hard to make people aware of the museum and its importance in the history of Gurez valley. “Our younger generation has almost forgotten about our history. We are also losing our language. The aim behind this museum is to make our young ones aware about the beautiful past of Gurez.”Opened in 2020, the Dardshin museum is housed in a two-storeyed building, brick below and wooden above. Bashir lives alone on the ground floor. His family, parents, his wife and five children live in Bandipora. His two sons and three daughters are all studying there. The upper floor of their home in Dawar village is the museum, spread across two rooms. A collection of clothes and jewellery is neatly arranged in one room, and farming tools, musical instruments and historical documents in the other. "Traditional jewelry and wedding caps has become the main attraction says Bashir, “everyone who enters the museum, wears this jewelry and caps”. &nbsp;Five to six years after it began, the free-to-enter museum draws many visitors. “If this museum runs successfully, I am planning to keep a minimal entry fee and any revenue generated from it will be used for the benefit of widows, education of their children,” Bashir said.Basheer’s place of work – the community health centre in Dawar Gurez where he is posted – is under a minute from his home. Having his house close to his work place helps when visitors arrive as he can quickly walk over.

But when he is busy, others from the community chip in. Like 65-year-old Mohammad Hussain Akhoon who wants to help Bashir preserve Shina history. “As Bashir is a health worker, he gets very busy sometimes. So, I take the tourists inside the museum and give them a tour of the museum and speak about the items placed there,” said Akhoon.“So far, I have taken almost 30-40 groups inside his museum and all of them were very happy upon seeing how people dressed, lived and worked in Tulail once upon a time. Bashir is doing a great job and I feel it is my responsibility to help him in any way I can. He is preserving our history,” he added.Muneer Ahmad Dar is a 34-year-old vlogger who is visiting the museum from Beerwah, in district Budgam of central Kashmir, 150 kilometres away. “I was told by many to visit the Dardshin museum to get a true glimpse of Shina culture,” he said.Bashir is keen to grow his collection, and keep it going. “I am aiming to make this the best museum in Gurez valley where people will actually take a glimpse of Shina past. Our past has been so beautiful and I want many people to have knowledge about it,” he told PARI.

The Dard-Shin museum curator

درد-شِن برادری کے خوبصورت ماضی کے محافظ بشیر

దర్ద్-శిన్ వస్తుప్రదర్శనశాల పరిరక్షకుడు  

দাৰ্দ-চিন সংগ্ৰহালয়ৰ কিউৰেটৰজন

દર્દ-શિન મ્યુઝિયમના ક્યુરેટર 

दर्द-शिन समुदाय के अतीत को सहेजते गुरेज़ के बशीर

ದಾರ್ಡ್‌-ಶಿನ್ ವಸ್ತುಸಂಗ್ರಹಾಲಯದ ಉಸ್ತುವಾರಿ

ദാർദ്-ഷിൻ മ്യൂസിയത്തിന്റെ ക്യൂറേറ്റർ

दर्द-शिन संस्कृतीचं वैभव जपणारा संग्राहक

ਦਰਦ-ਸ਼ਿਨ ਅਜਾਇਬ ਘਰ ਦੇ ਸਰਪ੍ਰਰਸਤ 

தார்த்-ஷின் அருங்காட்சியகக் பொறுப்பாளர்

ଦର୍ଦ-ଶିନ ସଂଗ୍ରହାଳୟର ସଂଗ୍ରହାଧ୍ୟକ୍ଷ

बशीर के हाथ में सुरक्षित बा दर्द-शिन के धरोहर

दर्द-शिन म्यूजियम के रखवार 

দর্দ-শিন মহাফেজখানার সংরক্ষক বশির আহমেদ

Gurez Valley

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Krishna Rani has always known April to be the kindest month. The time when, after the wheat harvest season in Punjab, her handmade winnowing baskets – chhaj as they are called in Punjabi – are back in demand again. The brief period when her earnings go up, along with her confidence and sense of independence.For 17 years, April meant a familiar routine for Krishna Rani. Days that began at 5 a.m. so she could board the 6 a.m. bus from Tahli Wala Bodla, her village in Fazilka district. A bundle of chhaj balanced on her head, she would spend the day travelling to nearby villages to sell the baskets.Elderly women, her only customers in recent times, would often greet her with familiar words: “Bebe, kithe chhaj chaki firdi hai? Ajkal di kudia nu chhaj fadan vi nahi ande [Woman, where are you carrying the chhaj to? Young girls today don't even know how to hold them].”Neither their words nor the dwindling number of buyers for her chhaj ever discouraged her. Not once in nearly four decades did Krishna Rani ever think of giving up her family craft. “Why would I leave it? Jithe koi karan vala nahi si, chhadna kade vaste si? Ede tey si roti [When there was no one to provide for me, this was my roti],” she said during our first meeting in February this year. Sitting in front of her jhuggi, the fifty-year-old was busy weaving her collection of chhaj for the upcoming season.

Little did she know then that this would be a different kind of April. With temperatures in Fazilka district soaring to unprecedented highs.When I phoned Krishna Rani in April, the anticipation that I had heard in her voice just a few weeks earlier had made way for anguish. “I’m unable to go to the villages to sell chhaj. I can't walk properly and I'm not recovering. I'm on medication. Once I get better, winter will be here and I'll sell the chhaj,” she says. “Right now, it’s very hot, and I am unable to sell in this heat.”

It’s a pleasant day in February when I meet Krishna Rani for the first time. There is still a slight chill in the morning air even as the sun shines bright, reminding us that winter is on its way out. With barely two months left before the harvest season ushers in demand for chhaj, Krishna Rani is busy crafting the winnowing baskets.As she gets about her work, the fifty-year old tells the story of her life and her craft, starting with how she and her siblings – three sisters and four brothers – grew up watching their mother make chhaj: “We sisters were very young when our mother would make chhaj. We would pick up small teela [strips of sarkanda grass] and try to weave along as we watched her.”She was 14 when she began learning the craft. Krishna Rani was a quick learner. “I never made a mistake,” she insists, before quickly remembering an exception. “Once, my eldest sister, Gulzar, hit my hand with the kanna [sarkanda grass] and scolded me, ‘don’t you know the technique [janch]?’.” She recalls, with a hint of pride, how she had asked her sister “to step aside” while she corrected herself.

At 18, Krishna Rani married Jang Ram, an orphan. Making and selling chhaj became the couple’s only means of livelihood. She would weave the chhaj, which Jang Ram would then sell in neighbouring villages. Their household ran on the money they earned this way.Her life took a tragic turn when Jang Ram died by suicide just three years into their marriage. “My daughter was about two years old, and my son was only 20 days old. With no in-laws to turn to, my father brought me back home, worried about how the three of us would survive on our own,” she says. “Two years later, my son also passed away.”Her hands continue to weave a chhaj as she speaks. The act of weaving seems less like labour and more like surrender, as if her pain is being channelled into the craft that has sustained her through everything. “After we returned, I started making chhaj at home while my father cycled from village to village to sell them,” she says.Until her father, Dara, passed away 17 years ago, Krishna lived in a rather unstable jhuggi with her parents. “When it rained, water would seep in. And when strong winds blew, the whole structure would shake,” she remembers. “We would tie down the tarpaulin with ropes, securing it with manje [charpoys] and wooden poles to keep it standing.”Gesturing towards the pucca room behind her, Krishna Rani adds, “it was built with do number [poor quality] bricks, just about 22 by 12 feet, with the help of the widow’s pension of 1,500 rupees that my mother and I received every month.” Her mother, Karataro Bae, lived with her until she passed away eight years ago. The old jhuggi, still standing in front of the room, is now filled with bundles of teelas to be used for making chhaj.It’s not Krishna Rani’s life alone that is deeply connected to the chhaj. In Tahli Wala Bodla, chhaj sustains the lives of most families belonging to the Dhea community, listed as Scheduled Caste in Punjab. The community lives about 90 feet off the Malout-Fazilka roadside, on a patch of land that their families bought from a landowner whose fields bordered the road. Krishna Rani explains that there is a gendered distribution of roles in the craft: “women make chhaj at home while men go and sell them in the villages.”She herself started performing both these roles after her father’s death: “hun aap de sar tey hai pura. Aap hi banandia tey aap hi pinda vich baich kai aani aa [now, it’s all on me. I make them myself and go to the villages to sell them].”

Sarkanda grass (or Saccharum munja) is a tall, sturdy grass with a golden-white hue that grows near rivers and open fields in Punjab, Haryana, Uttar Pradesh, and Rajasthan. It is typically harvested in winter.“In peak summer, it dries up completely,” says Krishna Rani. Her niece, Jyoti, who lives next door, adds, “we usually bring it after Dussehra or Diwali.”The sarkanda for chhaj grows along the canal not far from Krishna Rani’s village. “We go there on a kaduka [a locally manufactured wooden four-wheeler that runs on a diesel generator],” she says. “The grass also grows on the boundaries of farms, but the landowner then asks for money in return.”When there is not enough sarkanda near the canals, they sometimes buy it for Rs. 2,000 per 40 kilos from Bathinda. “After all, this is our rojgar [livelihood],” Jyoti explains.Krishna Rani picks up a long stalk of the sarkanda grass, which she calls a munjhi, and peels its outer layer away. Holding up what remains, she says, “it is inside this that the teelas are found.” After extraction the teelas are dried in the sun for about 10 days and set aside before preparing other components from the grass.

"We first prepare about a hundred teelas in a month,” says Krishna Rani, as she weaves the strands of dried grass together using a rubber thread, a process she calls tallae. She points to the bundle of teelas she has joined together and says, “when combined, these form a talla.” The talla becomes the base of the chhaj.The sturdy part of the stalk that remains after the teela has been removed is called kanna. Thicker and stronger, it provides structural support to the chhaj. The tiny thorns on the kanna cause irritation when they come into contact with skin, explains Jyoti as she points to the kanna she is smoothing out with a knife.“That’s why while harvesting them we wear full-sleeved clothing, dastane [gloves] and socks to protect ourselves,” says Jyoti. “But they still stick to the skin, at times on our face and neck as well. So, when we come back home, we apply mustard oil and have a bath,” she adds.The kannas are cut short and split in half to make kathan – a joint of four small kanna pieces placed at the centre of the chhaj to support its frame. Krishna explains that a bamboo strip is woven in at this stage, else “the teelas will easily break, making it difficult to weave.”She weaves in at least three such bamboo strips into the chhaj. The bamboo, she says, is bought from Fazilka city at 300 rupees for a 30-foot piece.

Another important joint, called pewara, is also made using kanna. Some of the teelas already placed in the talla are fitted inside a sliced kanna and woven together with rubber thread. This section, up to the top where Krishna has added another bunch of kannas, is soaked in water to give it flexibility so it can be folded to create a handle for the winnowing basket.“Some pressure has to be applied when folding, but not so much that it breaks the chhaj,” says Krishna Rani as her younger brother, Mukhtiar, runs a knife along a bamboo strip where the fold will be made. Mukhtiar, who works as a driver, pitches in to help his sister get the baskets ready for the peak season.It takes Krishna Rani an hour to complete a chhaj, provided all its components are prepared beforehand. But a chhaj woven with a leather thread takes nearly 10 days to make, she says. “Each part, once woven with the thread, is left to dry. That’s how it gains strength, and doesn't break even if the teelas wear out. Unlike rubber-thread chhaj, which fall apart over time as their knots loosen.”A chhaj woven with leather thread costs Rs. 500, five times the price of the rubber one. In addition to higher input costs, this kind of chhaj also involves more effort and skill. Krishna Rani usually buys a palm-sized piece of leather from jutti (footwear) makers in Fazilka for Rs. 200-300 and carefully cuts it into fine threads. The work strains her eyes. “The elderly, who know the value of leather-threaded chhaj, place orders for it,” she says.

In her family, she alone makes this version with the leather thread; the younger generation prefers the easier option. In fact, she says, younger people in her community are increasingly disinterested in the craft itself. “Many are moving to other professions like dealing in scrap. Educated children even discourage their parents, telling us, ‘You’ve spent your whole life shaving grass’,” Krishna Rani says.“But this is the only work I know,” she says. She is looking forward to April and May, when she usually earns Rs. 6,000 selling her chhaj. “When more people buy chhaj, I earn more. If fewer people buy, I earn less. As it is, people buy fewer chhaj these days because more flour machines are in use,”Along with money comes her sense of independence and dignity. “When I’m making and selling chhaj, I don’t ask anyone for anything. I get by with whatever I’ve earned,” she says.

April of 2025, however, had other plans. Temperatures in Fazilka soared four-five degrees above the average for this time of the year to touch 39-40 degrees Celsius.Krishna Rani could neither step out of the house to sell her stock of chhaj nor make many new ones. “I am only able to make a few chhaj in the mornings, until around 10 a.m. When the sun gets harsh, I go inside [the house],” she says.As the sun beat down mercilessly and her health worsened, she was able to make only a few chhaj, mainly in the morning or late evening. She plans to sell these during Asu Katte (the seventh–eighth month of the Punjabi calendar, roughly corresponding to September to November. “Around Diwali, when the paddy is harvested, women who collect sitta [the spike of the grain plant that remains after harvesting] buy chhaj,” she says.

What Krishna Rani experienced in April-May can be classified as the effects of a mild heat wave, says Dr. Kulwinder Kaur Gill, meteorologist at Punjab Agricultural University, Ludhiana. “Fazilka is typically a warmer region compared to the rest of Punjab, as it is semi-arid and receives less rainfall,” she explains. “During a heat wave, dry winds blow, and she [Krishna Rani] may have suffered from dehydration. That’s why we advise people not to work outdoors between 12 noon and 3 p.m., when the sun’s intensity on the Earth is at its peak.”Krishna Rani’s niece, Jyoti, however, was able to make chhaj even during the heatwave. “She’s young. I have diabetes, my knees ache. If I work too long, I get fever. Jawani jawani hoti hai, budhapa budhapa hi hota hai [youth is youth, old age is old age],” she reasons. “I used to work so much but never felt tired. Now, even cleaning utensils twice a day is getting difficult for me.”Having missed out on what is usually the peak chhaj season, Krishna Rani is resigned to a difficult few months ahead. She expects losses to the tune of Rs. 5,000, if not more, and increased dependence on others to get by. “Now, with less work, I have to ask villagers for help. Some give me 100 or 50 rupees for medicines. If someone asks for a chhaj, I make one for them,” she says.This story is supported by a fellowship from Mrinalini Mukherjee Foundation (MMF).The writer would like to thank Satpal Singh and Tarsem Singh for guiding her to the story.

‘I am unable to sell [chhaj] in this heat’

’اس گرمی میں چھج بیچنا مشکل ہے‘

 लू के मार झेलत छज 

‘এত গরমে [ছাজ] বিক্রি করতে পারি না’ 

‘এই গৰমত মই চ্চজ বিক্ৰী কৰিব পৰা নাই’

‘આ ગરમીમાં મારાથી [છાજ] વેચી શકાતાં નથી’

‘इतनी गर्मी में छज कैसे बेचूं’

ʼಈ ಸೆಕೆಯಲ್ಲಿ [ಛಜ್] ಮಾರಾಟ ಮಾಡಲು ಸಾಧ್ಯವಾಗುತ್ತಿಲ್ಲʼ

‘ഈ ചൂടിൽ എനിക്ക് കുട്ട വിൽക്കാനാവില്ല’

या उन्हामुळे मी ‘छज’ विकू शकत नाही

‘ਇਸ ਲੂੰਹਦੀ ਗਰਮੀ ਮੈਂ ਛੱਜ ਕਿਵੇਂ ਵੇਚਾਂ’

‘இந்த வெயிலில் என்னால் கூடை விற்க முடியவில்லை’

‘ଏହି ଗରମରେ ମୁଁ ବିକ୍ରି [ଛାଜ୍] କରିପାରୁ ନାହିଁ’

‘एतना गरमी में सूप कइसे बेचीं’

Tahli Wala Bodla

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HP-COVER-IMAGE-VP-The weight she carries in her heart.jpg

It was soon after her wedding in 2012 that Anju Rani’s life began to unravel. “My husband was addicted to alcohol, and we would have arguments every day. I was breaking apart inside,” says the 34-year-old mother of two.Her husband contributed nothing to household expenses. There was not enough money to raise their daughter. “Our electricity bills were often left unpaid,” she says. “Debts piled up, and moneylenders would visit and harass us. I spent those days in fear.”Every time she visited her parents’ home in Ayadnagar, a village located 30 kilometres from her marital home in the town of Siyana, in western Uttar Pradesh, neighbours and relatives downplayed the strain her marriage placed on her. They would insist that she return to her husband, and for years, she did, her daughter in tow.Anju’s mother has lived alone since her father died of cancer 15 years ago. “One day, I left everything and went back to my parental home for good. He never came for me, and I never went back,” says Anju, seated next to her mother on a threadbare charpai (cot).She began to work as an agricultural labourer, earning Rs. 200 to Rs. 250 in daily wages, depending on the season and if work was available.In 2017, she decided to try marriage one more time, and a second daughter followed. “I tried to live my life again, but the second marriage turned out to be even worse. This husband also drank and beat me. He would sell essential household items for liquor—first the grains and the cooler, then even my sewing machine. He later started stealing from people’s homes. I was humiliated.”

Weary but determined to protect her daughters, Anju returned to her mother’s home. “The people around me thought there was something wrong with me because I couldn’t make either marriage work.”An unskilled labourer who works on harvesting vegetables, weeding and sowing, Anju struggles on many days to find any work at all.During an overcast afternoon in August, Anju is working in the paddy fields. She sometimes shares her emotions with other women workers; this gives her the courage to live.“It lightens my mind,” Anju says. “Sometimes, when my frustration overwhelms me, I tell them that I feel like dying, and they say, ‘No, no, don’t think like that. Who else do these children have besides you? Take care of yourself, think of these children. Your husband decided to leave you. Let him stay gone.’ This gives me some comfort.”Despite the sisterhood in the fields, Anju finds herself struggling to fall asleep on many nights as traumas of the past creep back into her thoughts. At Raksha Bandhan this year, she rued the loss of her brothers early in her childhood. “My two daughters don’t have a brother either. I wonder if their condition will be like mine, with neither a father nor a brother in their lives.”Anju belongs to the Chamar community (listed as a Scheduled Caste in Uttar Pradesh), formerly associated with leather work. Large numbers of this caste group are landless agricultural labourers who continue to endure stigma and disparities in access to basic services.Her challenges, not uncommon among women in rural India, are felt more acutely by Dalit women, she says. These struggles inside and outside the home contribute to deeper mental health issues, but unable to access medical care for stress, many women accept their struggles as fate or misfortune.

Anju, like other Dalit women interviewed for this piece, pauses when she narrates the story of her life, the silences conveying almost as much as her narration. Those moments of silence, when the women seem lost in thought, explore the mind’s spaces from sorrow to emptiness.Often unaware of the nature of her mental stress, Anju, like tens of thousands of other Dalit women, has never viewed her darkest moments as symptomatic of worsening mental health or a mental disorder. However, no specific data exists on the incidence of mental illness—the <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/library/resource/national-family-health-survey-nfhs-5-2019-21-uttar-pradesh/">National Family Health Survey</a> records mental disorders only under the broad umbrella of ‘disability’.“My only dispute was over his drinking habits,” she says emotionally. “My failure to compromise on that one thing has punished me, leaving me alone to bear my sorrows.”The education of her two daughters is a solitary source of inspiration, but this too does not bring respite from stress. “I have given up hope of finding happiness in my own life,” she says. “Now, whatever I have to do, I will be doing only for them. My own life is hell anyway.”Similarly resigned to her fate is Shivani, 23, who also belongs to the Chamar caste. A resident of the Valmiki neighbourhood of Ayadnagar, she was married off while still in Class 10, missing her tenth grade exams as the wedding date had been fixed.Shivani has now been bedridden for eight months. Her frail body hurts if she walks, steadying herself with a palm on the wall. Struck first by jaundice and then tuberculosis, she is battling both illnesses.Longing to hold her daughter close, Shivani is eager to recover soon. As she dwells on her inability to take care of the three-year-old girl, she feels overcome by helplessness. Prone on her charpai, she watches her daughter build minars (castles) from mud, wipes away a tear, and props herself upright.She says, “Before my illnesses, I could easily handle household chores. Now, my family does my share of the work. I feel suffocated with shame as I lie in my bed and watch my parents-in-law do all the work. I hope I can recover enough to resume my duties towards the family.”Her long illness has taken a toll on her appearance, and on her complexion, she thinks. “I don’t even feel like looking at myself in the mirror.” Her mother-in-law agrees: “She used to be so beautiful, but the illnesses have blackened her.”

Only 17 years old when she was married, Shivani’s first child was a boy, who died when he was 18 months old. “Everyone says he had the same illness I have. Mucus built up in his chest, but we found out only after he passed away.”Her little girl is sick too, with a congenital defect, an abnormal opening in the wall of her heart. “She has a hole in her heart.”Her husband is a labourer, but with a disability in one leg, he struggles to find work. Before her illness, Shivani could sometimes supplement the household income by working in the fields during the harvest of chillies or paddy.For her treatment, Shivani has to travel to her parental home in Hapur town, 10 kilometres away, where medical facilities are better than in Ayadnagar.With a population of about 4,400 as per the 2011 Census, the village has a health centre under the National Rural Health Mission. A community health officer conducts health check-ups and provides care for common illnesses such as fevers, sore throats or digestive disorders here. For more complex cases such as Shivani’s, the only option is to travel to Hapur, to visit a private hospital.Shivani is dispatched to her parents for every illness. “They think that my illnesses originate from my parental home. At my in-laws’, I am in no state to work while sick and they don’t even take me to the doctor. At home, my mother would bathe and wash me. My brother would carry me to the toilet and bathroom.” She would stay with her parents for months, returning to her marital home when she felt a little better.“I feel like I am becoming a burden on my family,” she says sadly. “I am still alive only because of them.” Her father is a mason earning a daily wage, and he has taken several loans in recent years to pay for her treatment.

Not very far from Shivani’s home lives Kiran, 28, who belongs to the Koli community, classified as a Scheduled Caste in Uttar Pradesh. Kiran suffers from a fungal skin disease that causes sores on her upper body, which spread if untreated. The chronic illness is not her only source of mental trauma. In 2019, her five-month-old baby boy died in her arms, after months of the family trying, in vain, to diagnose his condition.Doctors in Hapur town advised them to visit the All India Institute of Medical Sciences (AIIMS) in New Delhi, about 60 km away, where tests revealed a heart defect. By the time they could save enough money to return to Delhi a second time, the child’s health suddenly deteriorated.“Some time later, he stopped crying,” she says, defeatedly. “He could have been saved.”The tragedy occurred during the monsoon, when her husband was away for thes annual ‘Kanwar yatra’, a Hindu pilgrimage in which thousands of men walk, some of them barefoot, to collect water from the Ganga in Haridwar to offer to Shiva temples in their hometowns or villages.“I had asked him not to go, but he brushed me off and said that he wanted to use this excuse to travel. All the men of my family were away in the Kanwar yatra,” Kiran says.A year later, Kiran became pregnant again, but lost the foetus during the second trimester. She later gave birth to twins.To cope with her family’s poor financial situation, Kiran does tailoring work and teaches sewing. Her husband is a labourer. Kiran says, “Some women in the neighbourhood bring their clothes to me for sewing. Thus, I am able to earn one thousand to two thousand rupees a month.” It is not adequate for their expenses, including rent and interest on various small loans. In the face of all these responsibilities, Kiran says, her skin disease “feels small”.

Despite the discomfort, she works hard to stay busy with housework and sewing. “Otherwise, I cannot continue living. It is still hard for me to get over the trauma of losing two children.”Kavita Rani, an Accredited Social Health Activist (ASHA worker) in Ayadnagar, says the women she meets everyday are too powerless to talk about their poor mental state or pay any attention to it. “Forget about getting treatment for depression,” she says, “even for any physical illness that their family members contract, there is no money to spend on medical care.” On rare occasions if women gather the courage to seek treatment, they are compelled to borrow money, Kavita says. “And if there’s no money, how would they repay it?”Kavita herself had a lengthy bout of fever in November 2024, and had no choice but to borrow money from a neighbour for medical expenses. Like most women in the villages around Hapur, she too approached a “jholachhap” (quack doctor), who gave her medicines for a few days. “I would take my medicines on an empty stomach and go to sleep. One day, my health deteriorated severely. There was no one to look after me. I felt I wouldn’t survive. Only one thought kept troubling me: If something happened to me, who would take care of the children?” she says.Like Anju, Kavita too could expect no support from her husband. “Whatever little he earns is spent on alcohol.”On the wide gaps in awareness about depression and socio-economic stressors that may exacerbate or contribute to mental health disorders, she says women find that stress and anxiety are part of their daily lives. “They get lost in their own minds and overthink until their heads start bursting with pain. Sometimes they tie a dupatta around their head and lie down. If that doesn’t work, then they fetch some Saridon from the chemist, and thus the cycle continues.”Anju acknowledges the inclination to dismiss their own emotions. It has become a habit now to suppress her feelings, she says, and to focus on her family instead. “I cannot receive anything more than what God has written in my fate. I have tried many times to live life on my own terms. All I found was loneliness.”This story was originally reported in Hindi.The opinions and views expressed are those of the author. Laadli and UNFPA do not necessarily endorse the views.

The weight she carries in her heart

تکلیفوں کا انبار سمیٹے یہ دلت عورتیں

గుండెలో బాధల సముద్రాన్ని మోస్తోన్న ఆమె

বুকুত তাই কঢ়িয়াই লৈ ফুৰা হা-হতাশাৰ গধুৰ বোজা 

হৃদয় ভরা দুখের বোঝা

સ્ત્રીઓના હૈયાનો ભાર

ಎದೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ನೋವಿನ ಸಾಗರವನ್ನೇ ಬಚ್ಚಿಟ್ಟುಕೊಂಡಿರುವ ದಲಿತ ಮಹಿಳೆಯರು

ഹൃദയത്തിലേറ്റുന്ന ഭാരം

दिलों में तक़लीफ़ का समंदर समेटे बैठी हैं ये दलित औरतें

आसू सरले, हुंदके उरले! 

ਬੀਮਾਰੀ ਤੇ ਜ਼ਿੰਮੇਦਾਰੀ ਦੇ ਭਾਰ ਹੇਠ ਨਪੀੜੇ ਜਾਂਦੇ ਦਿਲ

இதயத்தில் அவர் சுமக்கும் சுமை

ଅନ୍ତରରେ ତା’ର ଯନ୍ତ୍ରଣାର ବୋଝ 

‘अब त अइसहूं जिनगी नरके बा’

हिरदे मं पीरा के समुंदर धरे दलित महतारी मन  

Ayadnagar

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For the past seven years, through photographs, I have been documenting the lives and struggles of sanitation workers. In these years, I have never once seen sanitation workers carry out their work wearing proper masks or protective equipment. Whatever little gear they use, they prepare and manage on their own.Even as scientific progress in India has scaled great heights, we continue to send human beings into underground sewers, where they risk – and often lose – their lives. This makes it clear that, while science has advanced, caste prejudice remains frozen deep in our society.Society remembers sanitation workers as “frontline workers” only during extraordinary moments – the covid pandemic or natural disasters. At all other times, they are remembered only as the ones who clear garbage.From August 1 to 13, 2025, sanitation workers staged a continuous sit-in protest outside Chennai’s Ripon Building – headquarters of the city’s municipal body, the Greater Chennai Corporation -- against the privatisation of sanitation work. On the thirteenth day, the Tamil Nadu government forcibly evicted them with the help of the police.The workers from Zones 5 (Royapuram) and 6 (Thiru Vi Ka Nagar) have been protesting since August 1, after the Greater Chennai Corporation decided to hand over solid waste management in these areas to private contractors.For these workers, most of them Dalit women who have spent years cleaning the city, privatisation is not just a question of wages but of dignity and survival. Losing direct employment with the Corporation means losing even the possibility of permanent status under existing labour laws. Their resistance is both a fight for livelihoods and a refusal to let their invisible labour be further devalued in the name of efficiency.

Elected representatives never step into a venue without sanitation workers first cleaning it thoroughly, sprinkling bleaching powder, and making it presentable. And yet, the very people who protect this society from disease are, because of caste, denied dignity and recognition as fellow human beings. They have been cheated generation after generation.During those 13 days of protest, I spent five days with them, documenting their lives and struggles. It became clear to me that sanitation workers have seen not even a drop of progress in their lives. For generations, they have given away their youth and most of their life to sanitation work, and in return, they have lost everything.Striking workers spoke to me on condition of anonymity. One worker told me, “Brother, they changed our jobs without any notice. If there had to be changes, they should have informed us all, gathered us, and explained. Instead, they just told us – you no longer work here, go join the private company. After 16 years of breaking my back in this Corporation, suddenly they tell me this? I have worked without water, without leave, with delayed wages. My children study only because we borrow money. If this job is taken away, how will we repay our debts? We are not even asking for permanent jobs – only for the same wage we were already earning.”Among the more than 2,000 workers who had gathered in protest, many had been working continuously for 16 or 20 years. They were employed under the Greater Chennai Corporation through the NULM (National Urban Livelihood Mission) and were paid Rs. 23,000 per month.Then suddenly, without any prior notice, their work was being privatised, and their monthly wage was cut from Rs. 23,000 to Rs. 16,000. Against this, they protested for 13 straight days outside Ripon Building. For over 20 years, workers had been labouring with the belief that their jobs would one day be made permanent. Instead, their work was handed to private contractors and their wages reduced below what they had been earning. Society refuses to recognise what this means for their mental state.Their protest was not for permanent jobs. It was simply to retain the same wages under the Corporation instead of being shifted to lower-paid contract work. Leaving their children hungry at home, they sat day and night under the scorching sun and pouring rain in front of Ripon Building for 13 days. Three-fourths of the protesters were women, many of them widows.A woman worker said, “For many women, their husbands are dead, or drunkards. In such situations, this broom is our husband, this garbage work is our family.” Another added, “Our children ask us: ‘Amma, what will we do for next month’s rent?’ Our grandchildren say, ‘You don’t buy us anything anymore.’ What do we answer them?”

In the previous regime, the majority of sanitation workers had been converted into contract workers. This government has continued the same practice. The ruling party’s election promise to make sanitation workers permanent has remained only in its manifesto.The Chennai Corporation issued a press release alleging that the protest by sanitation workers had caused major inconvenience to the public and traffic congestion near Ripon Building, and that sanitation lapses would affect more than two million residents.But in reality, the workers conducted their protest peacefully, without causing any disruption.One worker explained, “Every flood, every cyclone, they promise us permanency. But nothing happens. In cyclone times, we leave home at 5 a.m. to walk through flooded streets to work. Dogs and cats that die in the storm – we pick them up with bare hands. We finish work at night, exhausted, without gloves, without raincoats. If an officer visits, only then do they give us gloves or coats. Otherwise, we buy our own. Once a year, they give us one dustbin. Not even a spade.”The same press release also claimed that privatisation would bring many benefits to workers including free uniforms, equipment for garbage removal during the rainy season, provident fund, medical insurance, bonuses, festival allowances, marriage assistance (up to Rs. 20,000), educational aid (up to Rs.12,000), accident and death compensation, and annual medical check-ups. But whether these promises exist in practice is highly questionable.

Another worker said, “Five years ago, there were only two trucks of garbage a day. Now it’s four. For years before motorised vehicles, we pulled handcarts. Nobody segregates waste; we separate it with our bare hands – diapers, sanitary pads, broken glass. If we take leave, even a day’s wage is cut. If we get hurt, we pay for our own treatment. Sometimes residents will not even give us water to drink.”When the protest ended, sanitation workers employed by Ramky – a private company with multiple fraud cases against it – were brought in garbage trucks, without protective gear, to clean up the protest site. Protesters questioned why work was entrusted to a company facing such allegations.It is also entirely false to label temporary workers appointed through self-help groups as “contract workers.” The Corporation has recently outsourced work in Zones 5 and 6 to Ramky contractors through tender. But without a written tender process, calling self-help group workers “contractors” is nothing but fraud. This was pointed out in the High Court, in the two judge bench headed by Justice Suresh Kumar following the judgements of retired Justice Hari Parandhaman.As one worker put it: “This is treated as a low, degrading occupation. They stop our children from progressing. If we earn Rs. 23,000 and climb a little, they push us back to Rs. 15,000 so our children can never escape. They want us tied to garbage generation after generation.”

The protest was led by the Workers’ Rights Movement, LTUC, AICCTU, and UUI unions. For all 13 days, no government official came to directly meet the workers. Talks were held only with union leaders, but since the government was firm on privatisation, no agreement was reached. On the 13th day, the government used police power to forcibly remove the protesters and arrested them all. They were released the next day after much struggle.Privatisation has silenced the voices of sanitation workers. If they question authority, they are immediately dismissed. Once, while I was documenting sanitation work in Coimbatore, a worker shared his struggles with me. By that evening, the contractor had fired him. That is what privatisation means: crushing their voices.One worker lamented, “We have been working 8, 10, even 15 years. No gloves, no masks, nothing is given. We buy everything ourselves. Even then, no government has given us an opportunity. This job is our only livelihood. We did it during corona, during cyclones, and now in return, they hand us over to contractors.” Another added, “If Kalaignar Ayya [DMK patriarch M Karunanidhi] were alive, he would have ensured permanency for us. We sit on the road, drenched in rain, scorched in sun, and still work.”

Health concerns weigh heavily too. “Some of us now suffer from uterine swelling, kidney disease, and many other health problems. Even women above 55 and 60, who have worked 15 years, are suddenly told they have no job. What benefits do they see now for all these years of toil?”Others spoke of despair: “From the Rs.23,000 salary, we hardly received six months of full wages before they struck us down. Now we borrow to survive. Interest piles up. We don’t know how to go on. Our lives have become a question mark.”“If even engineers and accountants in the Corporation were put on contract, would that be acceptable? Why then are only we privatised? What is the government for, if not to protect Tamil Nadu’s people? If Tamil Nadu itself is brought to such humiliation, then what is left?”Society’s idea of “social justice” seems to be sitting beside them for a cup of tea, sharing a meal, and pretending for a moment that they are like us. It is totally absurd. True social justice is standing with them, securing their rights, bringing their demands into reality, and ensuring that those who clean our cities are treated with dignity. Anything less is hypocrisy.

This story was originally reported in Tamil.

‘This job is our only livelihood’

صفائی ملازمین اب پرائیویٹ ٹھیکیداروں کے حوالے

‘ఈ ఉద్యోగమే మాకున్న ఏకైక జీవనాధారం’

‘এই কামটোৱে আমাৰ একমাত্ৰ জীৱিকা’

‘এই কাজই আমাদের রুটিরুজি’ 

सरकार सफ़ाईकर्मियों को ठेकेदारों के हाथों में क्यों सौंप रही है?

'ഇതാണ് ഞങ്ങൾക്കറിയാവുന്ന ഒരേയൊരു ജോലി'

या नोकरीवरच तर आमचं पोट आहे

‘ਸਾਨੂੰ ਪੱਕਿਆਂ ਕਰੋ ਨਾ ਕਰੋ ਪਰ ਠੇਕੇਦਾਰਾਂ ਹਵਾਲੇ ਨਾ ਕਰੋ’

‘ଏହି କାମ ହିଁ ଆମର ଏକମାତ୍ର ଜୀବିକା’

सरकार, मजूरन के ठिकेदार के गुलाम काहे बनावता?

 ‘इहीच काम हमर रोजी-रोटी के जरिया आय’   

ʼಈ ಕೆಲಸವೊಂದೇ ನಮಗಿರುವ ದಾರಿʼ

‘આ નોકરી જ અમારી રોજીરોટીનો એકમાત્ર સહારો છે’

‘இந்த வேலைதான் எங்களுக்கு வாழ்வாதாரம்’

Chennai

MOBILE-COVER-IMAGE-PK-‘This job is our only livelihood’.jpg

HP-COVER-IMAGE-AD-The tiger-chasing superman of the Sundarbans.jpg

“It’s utter chaos when the Royal Bengal Tiger enters a village,” says Lutfor Mollah.As soon as the news of a tiger’s arrival in a village spreads, Lutfor with his gang of men enters the scene to chase it out. For the past four-five years, Lutfor has been in charge of one of the two ‘quick response teams’ the state forest department has set up which cover the villages of Sundarbans’ Kultali block.On learning about this leader of a tiger-chasing team, we set off for his village, Purba Gurguria, under the Maipit Coastal Police Station.The rugged road without asphalt coating leads to a bumpy dirt track. Alongside the winding road, flow the deep, dark waters of river Matla. We sighted not a single boat in the Matla during our half-hour walk. On the other side of the river stands a vast, dense forest.Purba Gurguria is home to almost 5,600 people (Census 2011) – mostly Hindus but also with significant numbers of Muslim residents. Fishing and farming are the two important sources of livelihoods in this village under Bhubaneswari panchayat.Reaching the Bat Tola locality where Lutfor lives, we asked around for his house. A boy in his late teens clutching a bag full of crabs is waiting in the courtyard of the Kali Mandir adjacent to Bat Tola. Seeing us, he asked: "must be coming from Kolkata? I am Lutfor Mollah's elder son. It’s you I have been waiting for."Lutfor's home is nearby. Built under the Pradhan Mantri Awas Yojana on about 1,000 square feet of land, the single-storeyed house has three modest brick rooms, a concrete roof, and a veranda. Stepping into the largest room, I hear a feeble voice from a reclining human figure on a bed: "What can I say? This fever has taken over me for a few days." This is Lutfor Mollah? This frail man!

Lutfor, 40, and his wife Saleya have two sons. The eldest, Selim, 17, has epilepsy and dropped out of school after Class 9. The younger son, Salauddin, 12, is a student at a madrasa in Raidighi and stays in a hostel. Selaya, 33, runs the household. The couple had no education themselves but ensured it for their children. Lutfor says: “Neither I nor any of my siblings ever got the opportunity to go to school. Newspapers or books – I can read nothing." However, he did want us to know he had learned to write and sign his name all by himself."I dream of educating Salauddin and making him go places…" Saleya says.We hope Lutfor will launch into his tiger stories now, but he returns to his own life story. For this son of fisherfolk who grew up in a household of great scarcity, Bengal tigers (Panthera tigris tigris) could never be a source of mystery and excitement, as it is for distant visitors like us. For Lutfor, it’s part of everyday life. And so he continues, narrating all the other stories equally relevant to him."My parents were very poor. Both were working, yet the money could barely make ends meet. They used to catch fish and crabs in the rivers and creeks. We – three brothers, three sisters, and our parents – spent years in a straw-and-mud house with such hardships... the backbreaking work took a toll on ma and baba’s health and they both fell ill. I could not cure my parents’ sickness, and they died in agony in front of my eyes."My struggle for life began at the age of 14. I used to catch min [tiger prawn seedlings] and bagda [tiger prawn] in the river. When I grew up a bit, I started voyaging in other people's boats to catch fish and would return home every seven days."

Shrugging off his feverish lethargy, Lutfor now gets up from his bed and arrives at the riverbank. There’s a boat moored nearby that he starts mending, squatting on the muddy bank, while still talking. “The fear of tigers is present all year round. During their breeding season in winter, they often come to the villages. Also, when two male tigers are in the same area, territorial rivalry sometimes sees them land up in nearby villages” around the same time.Lutfor’s lived experience has earned him clarity about the tiger’s movements in and around human settlements. “The shortage of prey in their forest is also a reason,” he says.He speaks of the struggles of people in the Sundarbans delta – and its tigers – in the face of changing <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/article/sundarbans-not-a-blade-of-grass-grew...">climatic conditions</a> and how that’s made their lives more difficult these past few years. Lutfor sums up the “daily problems of the Sundarbans.” Rising water levels in the sea, islands getting submerged due to erosion of rivers, saltwater flowing into the farmland through rivers and creeks, and the shrinking of the mangrove forests. As a result, “tigers lose their homes [habitat] and come to the villages searching for food,” leading inevitably to human-tiger conflict. Read: <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/article/hunting-for-crabs-in-the-shadow-of-the-bengal-tiger">Hunting for crabs in the shadow of the Bengal tiger</a>

"Tiger chasing involves many tricks,” says Lutfor and goes on to reveal them. “As soon as the animal enters the village swimming across the river, we go prepared with sticks and ‘chocolate bombs’[locally made firecrackers stuffed with gunpowder] provided by the forest department."Sure, you don’t need cannon fire to chase tigers away, but their feeble armoury has us worried. Lutfor, though, is beaming with confidence, "We take a net with us and surround the area with it and vigorously hit the nearby tree with sticks, explode the chocolate bombs, and shout in chorus at the top of our voices. Soon a scared mama [tigers are often referred to here as mama or maternal uncle] runs into the forest." Lutfor proudly proclaims the effectiveness of his humble ammunition. "Mind you, so far, no danger has dared touch me while chasing away the tigers."It dawns on me that Lutfor Mollah and his team actually save the lives of both humans and tigers.By scaring and chasing the four-legged visitors back to the jungle, they ensure that the villagers do not kill the <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://nc.iucnredlist.org/redlist/amazing-species/panthera-tigris/pdfs/original/panthera-tigris.pdf">endangered</a> creatures. And those who execute that risky and courageous task are ordinary villagers from both Muslim and Hindu communities, all of whom depend on the forests and rivers of the Sundarbans for their livelihoods. Lutfor says they cannot afford to be afraid of the fearsome predators. The two quick response teams active in Kultali comprise 12 or 13 people each. Yet, the teams receive no training. Nor is there any arrangement by the forest department to ensure their safety.“We get 1,000 rupees each for chasing tigers. Such episodes occur at least three or four times a year. Yet, chasing tigers doesn’t fill our bellies,” Lutfor says nonchalantly. Which means the best they can each get is Rs. 4,000-5,000 in a year. Obviously not an amount they can live on. So Lutfor also does other work, including catching fish and crabs in rivers and creeks for nine months of the year.

"During the months of Chaitra, Baishakh and Jyaishtha, [mid-March to mid-May] fish eggs hatch in the river. We don't go to the river at that time. I go to the forest to collect honey. At other times of the year, I depend on fishing and manage somehow." Lutfor’s earnings from all these activities together average Rs. 8,000-10,000 a month.Over the years, Lutfor has built and owned three boats that he says, help “provide income for nine months a year to at least 20 fisherfolk, including both husbands and wives from some families. They go floating together to catch fish and crabs." They are locals who go out with him as these are not trips one undertakes alone. He explains that during these fishing trips, they are away from home for about 8-9 days at a stretch and their boats are on the river for most of that time. They work up to 18 hours a day, facing all sorts of danger. There is hardly any time to rest. After getting back to the village, they take a break of five or six days and then resume their riverine sojourns. Saleya’s words and fears come back to me: "I get very scared during this time [fishing trips in the rivers] and pray constantly for their safe return from the river and that they remain away from maladies. Allah is the only hope…"Mithun Mondal, a resident of Kultali and an activist of the Association for Protection of Democratic Rights, explains why these fishing trips in the delta region are becoming difficult to sustain. National Tiger Conservation Authority estimates <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ntca.gov.in/assets/uploads/Reports/TR_profile/Illustrative_profile_tiger_reserves.pdf">88 to 100 tigers</a> are living in the Sundarbans Tiger Reserve which is spread across 2,584 square kilometers. Mitun says, “The forest department is systematically redrawing the buffer zone of the forest and including more of it in the core area. The tiger zone [Critical Tiger Habitat] has increased in the last few years. The core area is reserved for tigers to roam. While honey collection is allowed in this area, the collection of fish and crabs is strictly prohibited. Fishing is only allowed within the buffer zone. The irony is, as the buffer zone decreases, fisherfolk like Lutfor are compelled to enter the core area for survival.”Tigers, however, need no permission to enter. When a tiger arrives in the village, Lutfor and his team are called in to discipline it. Yet, it is hard to find any statistical acknowledgement in the government records of either the number of lives saved, or the names of people whose bravery saved these lives. “High hopes!” says Mithun Mondal, “Quite often, [officials] term the deaths resulting from tiger attacks as ‘<a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://sundarbantigerreserve.org/web/pdf/Tiger%20Conservation%20Plan%20Book_2017-2027_new.pdf">illegal’</a> due to lack of proof.” The families of those who die in tiger attacks in the core area are also not eligible for any compensation.

Even if Lutfor and his companions save tigers and humans from each other, they continue to live with both hunger and a perpetual risk to life and limb from the predators.Back at the riverbank in Purba Gurguria, Lutfor is still mending the boat. "Our survival depends on this hard labour. I can't think of a life of leisure with my hands idle." Uncertainty looms large in his voice.He bids farewell, with a faint smile, "Allah willing, we will meet again."I start walking hurriedly, desperate not to miss the train to Kolkata. I look back. The silhouette of this superman of the Sundarbans engrossed in mending his boat gradually fades in the dying light.Postscript: On August 19, 2025, the National Board of Wildlife (NBWL) of the Ministry for Environment, Forest and Climate Change (MoEFCC) approved the West Bengal government’s proposal to re-draw the boundaries of the Sundarbans Tiger Reserve (STR) and include the tiger-inhabited areas in the 24-Parganas (South) divisions. The revised STR will now stretch across 3,629.57 square kilometres, and it will become the second-largest tiger reserve in the country. Residents of the area, now falling within the new STR boundary, particularly fishing folks, are worried and skeptical. They believe the rules and prohibitions will impact their day to day movement for survival.The story was originally reported in Bangla.