Watch this video about a day in the life of Rama, a fieldworker from Delhi, as she helps waste pickers in Bhalswa transition from chulhas to LPG cylinders. Rama, who has been working on the ground for the last 15 years, starts her morning juggling work calls and household chores, and ends her day with Chinese food and Kishore Kumar songs. In the video, Rama shares the challenges she faced both professionally and personally due to the nature of her work. She expresses her dream to build a shelter for women experiencing domestic abuse, and eventually pursuing a career in politics by running for MLA.

My name is Rama and I live in Jahangirpuri with my husband and two sons. For approximately 15 years I have worked on the ground with communities, first as an anganwadi helper and then as an ASHA worker. Currently, I work as a change agent with Asar as part of the Cleaner Air and Better Health (CABH) project supported by the United States Agency for International Development (USAID), and help people in Bhalswa switch to clean cooking fuel. Bhalswa is a neighbourhood located in Northwest Delhi; it is surrounded by a landfill and is predominantly inhabited by waste pickers. Most households in Bhalswa use chulhas (mud stoves) for cooking, which can cause dangerous levels of household air pollution and lead to dire ramifications on the health of the women who do the cooking. LPG gas cylinders, on the other hand, provide a cleaner alternative. They not only help combat air pollution, but are also easier to use and save the time that would otherwise be spent on collecting firewood for chulhas.

I’ve been working with women and men in Bhalswa to raise awareness about the harms of an open fire and cooking with fuels such as wood or coal. However, people are still reluctant to make this switch for several reasons, the primary one being the high costs. Launched in 2016, the Pradhan Mantrir Ujjwala Yojana (PMUY) heavily subsidises the cost of the cylinder to incentivise the transition to cleaner cooking methods. However, many in Bhalswa still lack the correct documentation—including Aadhaar card and labour card—required to avail of the scheme.

As a result, my work has evolved to not only advocate for the benefits of clean cooking but also to create awareness about the PMUY scheme and assisting community members with the documentation necessary for accessing its benefits.  

6.00 AM: I usually wake up to the sound of my phone ringing incessantly. It’s almost always someone from Bhalswa calling to ask when I’m coming to their neighbourhood or to enquire about the status of their PMUY form. Today is no different. Amid the chaos of the phone calls. My husband and I prepare breakfast for the family. We also fix our children’s school lunches. My older son is in grade 12 and my younger one is in grade 8. I have a dog, Timsi, who was a birthday gift from a relative. She also needs to be fed and taken for a walk in the morning. My husband, who is an auto driver, tends to her before heading out to work.

The entire family contributes to these chores. I believe that without all their help, it would’ve been very challenging for me to continue working in the field every day. I still remember, when I first started working in the field as an anganwadi helper back in 2011, my younger son was just one year old. My relatives would repeatedly ask me to leave the anganwadi work and take care of my son. My brother even went to the extent of promising me INR 3,000 every month in lieu of a salary. However, I continued working and would take my child to the field with me every day. I’ve always wanted to help people and I felt that was the only way I could contribute.

I usually make myself aloo parathas in the morning as they keep me full until I come back from work in the evening, especially since I can’t eat on the field. Once I’ve had my breakfast, I go over my schedule, which I always prepare the night before. On most days, my work is a combination of spreading door-to-door awareness, conducting public awareness sessions, and helping people fill out forms for PMUY.

Since I work with waste pickers, who start working early in the morning and return to their homes at around noon, I have to structure my schedule around their availability. Today, I have a public awareness session scheduled, after which I will help some of the women in the community fill out forms for PMUY. After making adjustments to my to-do list, I get ready to leave the house to make my way to Bhalswa.

10.00 AM: The bus stop is a 10-minute walk from my house. I wait here for 15 minutes or so for a bus that can drop me at the end of the road. There are days when I can walk the distance, but it’s very hot today and I don’t want to tire myself out so early. I finally board a bus after waiting for 15 minutes at the stop. Once I get off at my stop, I have to wait for a couple of minutes to take a shared e-rickshaw to my final destination. I have to wait a couple of minutes here while the rickshaw driver gathers other passengers travelling in the same direction. Eventually, I arrive at Bhalswa close to 11 am.

Bhalswa is a vast neighbourhood, with localities divided on the basis of religious and regional identities. For instance, some areas have only people from West Bengal, while others have only Muslim families. The various groups living in Bhalswa speak different languages and have distinct cultures, which can be complicated to navigate as an outsider. Although my earlier work as an anganwadi helper and an ASHA worker had its unique obstacles, I was able to establish a strong rapport with the communities I served fairly easily and quickly. At Bhalswa, however, my journey has been very challenging, particularly because communities here have previously had unpleasant experiences with nonprofits and people from the outside. For instance, a few years ago, a group posing as a nonprofit asked locals to deposit INR 500 and promised sewing machines in return. However, they never got the machines or their money back. So, I had to start the process of building this trust from scratch. The diversity in the community made it tricky as well.

In order to build trust in Bhalswa, I started cultivating relationships with people who had influence in the locality, which included ASHA workers. At the same time, I had to work towards dispelling the community’s scepticism about nonprofits. One way of doing this was tapping into my network of nonprofits in the area to help people access resources. For instance, I supported a 12-year-old girl who was disabled in getting a wheelchair by reaching out to a nonprofit I had worked with previously. Over time, both these approaches helped me connect to the community, and soon enough, my phone was flooded with calls from the women in the neighbourhood.

11.15 AM: Upon reaching Bhalswa, I make my way to the local dispensary where I meet some of the ASHA workers. I am good friends with most of them and having this supportive community of women keeps me motivated. We chat about our day and also discuss if any particular grievances from the community have come up in their conversations. They inform me that a family that has just shifted to Bhalswa had reached out to them regarding a gas cylinder and that they’ve forwarded my contact details to the family.

I catch up with some of the other women at the dispensary whom I had helped obtain cylinders before moving to the next item on my agenda—the community awareness session.

12.00 PM: Community awareness sessions are held in a temple right next to the dispensary. Today, approximately 10–15 women have gathered there. Most have come with their toddlers whom they can’t leave at home. Once everyone is settled in, I bring out the toolkit developed by Asar. It’s 17 pages long and uses illustrations to explain the concept of air pollution and its causes, and sheds light on the long-term repercussions of continuous firewood burning.

During the session, I also emphasise the detrimental effects that the prolonged use of the chulha has on the health of the women responsible for cooking, as well as other household members. These include conditions such as stroke, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, lung cancer, and acute respiratory illnesses in young children.

The women actively participate in these sessions too by asking questions and sharing their own experiences. Through these sessions, my objective is not only to disseminate information among those who are present but also for them to take this information back to their peers who may still be on the fence transitioning to LPG. There are those who are accustomed to cooking on a chulha and harbour apprehensions about switching to an LPG cylinder. One of the complaints I often hear from women, especially older ones, is that the food cooked on a chulha tastes better. To dispel this misconception, I usually encourage them to speak to other women in the community who have been using LPG. These women talk about how their eyes no longer burn while cooking, and how they’ve noticed a reduction in respiratory issues.

The transition to LPG cylinders poses a significant financial challenge for the residents of Bhalswa.

The transition to LPG cylinders also poses a significant financial challenge for the residents of Bhalswa, a majority of whom are waste pickers and cannot afford the high costs. This is often a point of debate and discussion during these sessions. To counter this, I often advise women to focus on the long-term benefits of switching to LPG. By redirecting a portion of their daily expenses from wood and other fuels for traditional chulhas, they can gradually save enough to afford LPG refills. For instance, setting aside just INR 30 to 40 per day can accumulate to cover the cost of a refill by the end of each month.

Additionally, I bring their attention to the benefits they are entitled to under the PMUY, which was relaunched by the government in 2021 to make LPG gas cylinders accessible to economically disadvantaged households. Under the PMUY, the first cylinder and its installation are free for those from marginalised backgrounds, post which they can access LPG gas connections at subsidised rates. Beneficiaries receive INR 1,600 for the first refill, which covers a 14 kg cylinder and associated installation costs. An extra INR 300 is provided for each of the subsequent 12 refills. In the past, there were frequent delays in these payments, but since the relaunch, this has been resolved to a large extent.

While the documentation process for PMUY has been simplified significantly, people still struggle to get the correct paperwork in place.

However, this throws up another challenge, which is filling out the paperwork required to access the PMUY. While the documentation process has been simplified significantly, people still struggle to get the correct paperwork in place. Some of the documents required include the ration card, proof of address, Aadhaar card, or a caste certificate. In case someone has migrated to Delhi from another state—quite common in Bhalswa—they would also need a residence proof, such as an electricity bill and a rent agreement. There are instances where people do not possess any documentation at all, and in such cases a migrant card or a labour card also suffices.

Just yesterday, a woman who didn’t have any of the required documents enquired about the scheme. I told her that she could still avail of it via a labour card. However, she didn’t have a labour card either, so currently I’m helping her get one. After that, I’ll help her apply for the PMUY.

2.00 PM: Once the awareness session is over, most people disperse for lunch. Because I usually don’t bring food to the field, I utilise this time to help people with their forms. I fill up to 15–20 forms every day. Once I have enough forms, I take them to the nearby gas agency for submission. This is a 30- to 40-minute trip that I take every other week. Once the gas agency reviews a form, they call the household to pick up the necessary equipment and then the cylinder is delivered.

I also keep a record of all the applicants in my register, making a special note of cases where sufficient documentation isn’t available. I regularly have to follow up with some of them to ensure they’re still working on getting their documentation in place.

My friends—the other ASHA workers—also join me during this time. We usually sit and chat for some time after I’m done with my work.

4.30 PM: After concluding my tasks for the day, I leave for home. It’s usually 4.30 or 5 pm by then. I take the same journey back: e-rickshaw, bus, and then the short walk to my house. In the evenings, it can take me anywhere between 45 minutes and an hour to get back. Since I don’t feel comfortable using the washroom at the dispensary, the first thing I do when I reach home is to go to the toilet. I intentionally avoid drinking water so that I won’t have to use the bathroom. This is particularly challenging during the summer and I feel dehydrated and nauseated. But over time I have become accustomed to this practice.

While I freshen up, my older son makes tea for me. As my husband is also back home on a short break, we all sit together and catch up on our day.

7.00 PM: After taking a break for a couple of hours, I sit down to write my report for the day. When I started working with Asar, I did not know how to use a smartphone and could only make and receive calls. Eventually, I joined a computer training class, and now I use Excel on my phone to prepare my reports; I submit these over WhatsApp to the team at Asar every evening. Since I don’t understand English too well, I use translation tools to convert text to Hindi. Being able to acquire this skill gave me a big confidence boost.

After the day’s work is done, I unwind by listening to Kishore Kumar’s music and some bhajans. In the evening, I also spend some time playing and snuggling with my dog Timsi.

Even though my workdays can be exhausting, it brings me joy to know that I am making a small difference in Bhalswa. Since women no longer have to spend hours foraging for wood to fuel the chulha, they have enough free time to engage in other work, such as shelling peas, for extra income. This also helps them pay for the next LPG refill.

I’ve always wanted to give back to society and help women, who are always asked to suppress their wants and needs, live the fulfilling lives that they deserve. One day, I want to be elected as a member of parliament and contribute to even bigger changes in these communities. I also want to have enough resources to open a shelter for women experiencing domestic violence.   

As told to IDR.

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Know more

• Read this article to learn more about how air pollution impacts outdoor workers in Delhi.
• Read this article to learn about the challenges of availing of LPG connections under PMUY.
• Read this article to learn about how solid cooking fuels lead to climate change. 

My family has always invested in my education despite difficult financial circumstances. After I completed my schooling, my parents couldn’t afford to pay for college. But my mama (mother’s brother) offered to pay the fees so that I could pursue a BSc degree in biology. By the time I reached the final year, my mother had started working as an anganwadi worker and paid for the tuition from her earnings. After graduating, I could have studied pharma or done an MSc, but we did not have the resources for further studies. I moved to Delhi to live with my older brother and took some courses to learn new skills—tailoring, beauty parlour training, and a computer diploma. I wanted to continue to live in Delhi and start working there, but my mother fell sick, so I returned to the village to take care of her. To help pay for her treatment and manage household expenses, I felt that I should start earning too.

My first job was at Vigyan Foundation. After working with them for some time, I joined People’s Action for National Integration (PANI), another nonprofit with a presence in eastern Uttar Pradesh. They were hiring people to survey the agriculture and water consumption patterns of gram panchayats in Balrampur. I worked at PANI for four years. In addition to conducting various surveys, I helped farmers—especially women—learn about new farming techniques that improved their yields and conserved water. We created multiple mahila kisan sangathans (women farmer collectives) and farmer resource centres (FRCs) to make it easier for women farmers to access the right information and high-quality agricultural inputs.

At PANI, we often had visitors—other nonprofits, funders, and corporates. I would always volunteer to take them to see our work in the villages. PANI trained us rigorously, which gave me the confidence to conduct independent visits and speak without hesitation, even with new people.

One such visit was by Hindustan Unilever (HUL) and I volunteered to take them to a mahila kisan sangathan meeting. During their interaction with the women farmers, the HUL team asked them what they had learned from me and how I had supported them. They asked me about the techniques I had introduced to the farmers, and I walked them through each step. One of the visitors was the executive director of customer development at HUL. He was impressed with my work and appreciated me in front of my colleagues. Anoop sir from PANI even joked with them, asking if they wanted me to join HUL. To my surprise, HUL did make me an offer to join as a rural sales promoter (RSP)—a role that involves selling HUL products to shops in villages.

I was very content with my role at PANI, but some time later, my younger brother became gravely ill. He was diagnosed with a neurological problem and had to be taken to Lucknow for treatment. Our combined family income was could not cover his ongoing treatment. I was not due for a promotion at PANI and the RSP role at HUL would pay significantly more, so I decided to accept the offer.

I joined HUL in September 2022. I was told that there were 4,000 RSPs across the country—almost all of whom were men—and that I was one of the first women hired for this position.

5.00 AM: I always wake up at this time, regardless of the weather or the season. The first thing I do is clean the house, or else my mother chides me—she says Lakshmi mata (goddess) doesn’t come to homes that are not clean. I then spend the next few hours doing pooja, preparing breakfast and lunch with my mother, and getting ready for the day.

10:30 AM: I set out on my scooty (two-wheeler) to visit one of my ‘points’. Each RSP is allotted ‘points’ or shops, which we visit on a regular basis. Since my role requires me to travel extensively around Balrampur, I bought a scooty soon after joining HUL. I took out a loan in my name to finance the purchase and pay the monthly instalments with my salary.  

The points are usually small neighbourhood setups that sell products such as soaps and washing powders manufactured by HUL, among other things. These shops are owned or run by women who are known as shakti ammas. As an RSP, I’m the bridge between the shop owners and the distributor at HUL. Once a shakti amma is onboarded by HUL, she gets a monthly incentive depending on her chosen target of stocking and selling HUL products. For example, if her target is to sell HUL products worth INR 6,000, her monthly incentive would be INR 200. The incentive increases if they increase their target. I handle their onboarding process and help them manage their monthly targets, which can range from INR 6,000–1 lakh (for the points allotted to me). I take their product orders every week and convey them to the distributor.

When I onboard a shakti amma, I also show her two videos. These provide information about health, nutrition, sanitation, and more. The shakti ammas usually have questions about the messages in the videos and I make a conscious effort to spend the extra time needed to have these discussions. I learned how to interact and engage with people through my role at PANI, which made my transition to HUL easier. Although one is a nonprofit and the other a corporate, there are similarities in my work at both organisations. At first, I did not expect my role at HUL to include field work. I didn’t know that private sector employees also spend so much time in the field—I thought they almost always had an office and a desk job. But as I became familiar with my responsibilities, I understood why this is an important dimension of working at a corporate.

At PANI, I worked closely with women farmers—showing them videos, taking them to on-field demonstrations of new farming techniques, and answering their questions—to make the process of trying something new as easy as possible. I play a similar role with the shakti ammas by helping them navigate new situations such as managing their targets or using an app to place orders. I really enjoy interacting with these women and over time I’ve built good relationships with them, just as I did with female farmers when I worked at PANI.

1.00 PM: I’m constantly on the move—visiting points, stopping by the distribution agency—and usually cover 60–70 km in a day. Sometimes it feels like I hop onto my scooty at 10 am and keep driving till evening. I even named my scooty Dhanno for this reason! The name comes from Sholay, one of my favourite movies, in which Basanti’s character names her mare Dhanno. In fact, every morning when I set out for work, I say, “Chal meri Dhanno (Let’s go, Dhanno)” much to my father’s amusement.

In between visiting the points allotted to me, I also spend some time looking for potential points. As the number of points we manage increases, so does our target. When I started as an RSP, I had 11 points and had to sell products worth INR 70,000 every month basis. Now, with 34 points my monthly target ranges from INR 3–4 lakh. We’re supposed to achieve 103 percent of the allotted target and I can proudly say that I’ve only missed achieving my target twice!

When I first joined HUL, I learned about 300 different consumer products so that I could speak to shop owners confidently and answer any questions they may have. The distributor Sandeep sir really helped me in learning all the details. In the first few weeks, I visited the agency regularly with my diary in hand to note down details of the products and memorise everything.

I had to learn many new things and the onus was on me to acquire this knowledge. The team at PANI comprised both men and women, so in the early days at HUL it took a while for me to get used to working with an entirely male team. While I had been the person who encouraged team members to speak up at PANI, I now found myself hesitating to put my point forward or ask questions in a room full of men. But I stayed focused on the job that needed to be done and adjusted quickly. The initial days always present a steep learning curve. I never backed down or felt dejected if my questions weren’t answered. Instead, I tried to grasp as much as possible by observing the other RSPs.

It is undoubtedly challenging to be the only woman in this role, but I tried not to let this faze me. If more women are hired as RSPs in this area, I hope that I can help them manage the challenges they will inevitably face. I wouldn’t want them to give up in the face of obstacles such as travelling long distances, learning on the job with limited support, or dealing with jibes. I recall that when we first started working with farmers at PANI, they—especially the men—would make fun of us by saying, “What will these young women teach us?” But seeing our determination and knowledge, their doubts faded. I carried the same conviction into HUL and put my best foot forward each day so that I can keep growing.

6.00 PM: I reach home and after spending many hours on the road I’m glad to get off my scooty. My mother insists on cleaning the house, so I sweep the floor once again. My family then sits down to drink some chaiand we prepare dinner together. My father is also back by this time after tending to the fields. I didn’t know much about the traditional farming techniques that he used to follow. But after I began working at PANI, I introduced him to new and organic techniques that helped improve the output on our farms too. He and I often joke that I can easily identify which farms belong to whom in our village.

10.00 PM: After dinner, I spend a few hours studying, usually till 1 am or so. I’m always looking for opportunities to learn more, so I joined a course to get certified as an auxiliary nurse midwife (ANM). I pay the fees through my salary and my mama also contributes to it.

I have been working for approximately six years now and fieldwork has always been a key part of my job. I have really enjoyed these roles, which is why I’ve always given them all my effort and energy. At the same time, I do dream about having a desk job in an office someday.  

As told to IDR.

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Know more

• Learn about the many challenges women in India face when they join and navigate the workforce.
• Listen to this podcast about the crucial, yet invisible role that women farmers play in agriculture in India.
• Ashwini Deshpande unpacks the recent increase in women’s labour force participation in India.

I work as an eMitra, which is a platform as well as a job role—an eMitra is someone who enables people in Rajasthan to apply for government-mandated schemes and services online. In my work, I use the Jan Soochna Portal—a public information portal operated by the Government of Rajasthan and updated in real time—to track people’s entitlement delivery and application statuses. I work with the Mazdoor Kisan Shakti Sangathan (MKSS)—an organisation that was founded in Devdungri itself. Our household is run by my parents’ income and the minimum wage of INR 289 per day that I receive working as an eMitra with the MKSS.

When I was seven or eight years old, an unlicensed medical practitioner gave me an injection in the leg, which hit a nerve that it shouldn’t have. It ended up giving me a permanent physical disability. Due to societal superstitions, no one connected my disability to the injection. On the contrary, people thought that I had been possessed. I was not taken to a hospital in time to get the right treatment. Instead, I was taken to a temple, where the local priest kept giving my family false advice—telling us to come back after 2 months, then 4 months, and so on—while making empty promises that I would get better. Two to three years passed in this way, after which no doctor was able to fix the damaged nerve. This disability hindered my quality of life, and while my older brother taught me at home for some time, I didn’t receive any formal education until I was 10 or 11 years old.

I studied at a school in Devdungri till standard 12 and then completed my graduation through distance learning. But when it came to studying for my second undergraduate degree, for which I had to attend classes in person, my mother didn’t want me to leave home. She was worried that there would be no one to take care of me and that I wouldn’t be able to manage alone. I got into arguments with her—I understood her concerns, but I wanted to get out of the house and experience the world. I have often seen people with disabilities become restricted to the four walls of their houses. I did not want that to be my reality.

Over the years, I learned to walk, and even travel. That is how I was able to pursue higher education. My work as an eMitra brings me great meaning by allowing me to help other people, many of whom come from low-income backgrounds and are often unable to access government social entitlements and benefits by themselves.

3.30 AM: I wake up early and for two hours I study for various competitive exams, ranging from the Rajasthan Eligibility Examination for Teachers (REET) to the Rajasthan Administrative Services (RAS). It’s my dream to become either a teacher or an RAS officer and provide financial stability to my family. I really enjoy learning and have completed a BEd degree and three master’s degrees. Since I couldn’t get out of my house and attend school till standard 5 because of my disability, I understand the value of education.

Not being able to attend school wasn’t my sole obstacle though—taboo and superstition have followed me for most of my life. Villagers considered seeing me in the morning as a bad omen. My family, especially my mother, had to hear jibes such as, “Send him out after 10 or 11 am. He brings bad luck if we see him first thing in the day.”

But ever since I started working as an eMitra, there has been a shift in the community’s behaviour towards me. The very same people who used to shun me for my disability now wait outside my house in the early hours to ask about the status of their pension, ration, and other social entitlements.

I am happy to help them because I strongly link my work to social service. Supporting and informing people about their entitlements is integral to them realising their rights. For example, an old widowed woman living in poverty came to me because she was not receiving her pension. Though she was eligible for an old-age pension as well as a widow pension, she was not literate and so unable to complete the required paperwork. I filled out her pension form, filed for a job card for her, and tried to get her name added to the National Food Security Act scheme. Ideally, she will receive the benefits from these schemes for the rest of her life. I attend to approximately 50–60 such people on a daily basis at my eMitra centre.

The office opens at 9.30 so I have breakfast and leave for work by 9 am.

9.30 AM: The eMitra’s room is in the MKSS office in Rajsamand’s Bhim tehsil. Our office is called the ‘Godam’, or warehouse, and it is situated between four districts—Rajsamand, Pali, Ajmer, and Bhilwara. People from all these districts visit my office. My work is mainly online, where I help people apply for and follow up on government benefits and make them aware of the various Rajasthan state government schemes for which they are eligible.

The Rajasthan government has set a fixed minimal rate of INR 50 per service in our area. However, I have seen many eMitras charge more than this amount—as high as INR 100–150—even though they give the person a receipt of INR 50.

The bigger concern is the corruption prevalent in the system. I have observed eMitras take advantage of those who are supposed to receive entitlements. For example, a person who holds a labour card under the Building and Other Construction Workers Act, 1996, can avail of the Shubh Shakti Yojana, wherein their daughter receives INR 55,000 from the government if she is unmarried at the age of 18 and educated till at least standard 8. Many people get duped by eMitras who tell them that they could help them obtain their INR 55,000 sooner provided they get a cut of INR 10,000 or INR 20,000. People agree because the eMitra has connections with dishonest officials of the department, and the application form for the scheme is processed quickly. Else, the process—from the application stage to receiving the entitlement—can be very slow.

Even our centre was started as a counter to the corruption in the system. When I had started working at the MKSS office back in 2014, we found that a woman had been made to pay INR 200 instead of INR 20 by an eMitra centre. Because I couldn’t help much on the field, I was given the responsibility to run a model eMitra where people would be charged with the appropriate amount only.

1.30 PM: My colleagues and I take a break to cook and eat lunch together at the Godam. We talk about many topics, ranging from our personal lives to politics. We often discuss accountability and the fraudulent practices present in delivery mechanisms as the links between the eMitras to local officials in various government departments further exacerbates the problem.

The Rajasthan government provides more than 600 services and schemes that can be accessed through eMitra. We have organised three jan sunwais (public hearings) in the past to figure if the right people are receiving the benefits of these schemes. We conduct a social audit in the village to understand what stage each person is at in getting their entitlement. We then bring the entire village and department officials together in one place for a public hearing and rectify any errors in the execution of a scheme for each person. For example, if we’re doing a jan sunwai for the Pradhan Mantri Awas Yojana, we’ll identify the problems the people are experiencing and the relevant department can work on correcting the mistakes. It helps us understand if someone has wrongfully received money and we can hold officials accountable for it at the same time in front of the entire village.

5.00 PM: I usually work till 5 or 6 pm. Processing an application can take me anywhere between 30 minutes to an hour because it’s important to fill all the details carefully. I didn’t receive any proper training to render the services so I either rely on YouTube or learn through trial and error.

Because we have access to all the relevant information through the Jan Soochna Portal and fill multiple forms for a person, we can catch mistakes. I remember when a couple years into working as an eMitra, a woman came to us to inquire the status of her pension—it had been months since she had last received an instalment. I checked the records and realised she had been declared dead in the records because of unverified documents. Upon digging deeper, we learned that approximately 6–8 lakh people had been declared dead in Rajasthan when they were, in fact, alive. In such situations, it’s helpful to have connections with those employed in the technical arm of the government as well as officials at various levels so that we can contact them directly. We consulted the sub-divisional magistrate (SDM) and block development official (BDO) to highlight this case and find a solution. I have always associated our work with the government—they cannot function without us, and we cannot function without them. 

After work, I sometimes get called for trainings or other meetings. For instance, I closely collaborate with the School for Democracy, an organisation dedicated to democratic and constitutional rights and values. They invite me for workshops to familiarise individuals with important schemes in Rajasthan and educate them on how to use the Jan Soochna Portal. I also conduct sessions with the youth to sensitise them to the discrimination faced by persons with disabilities.

I even tell the parents whose children have disabilities to not restrict them to the home. Instead, children should be encouraged and given the opportunity to do something with their life. Without education, my life would have looked very different, and the taboos associated with me in childhood would have followed me my entire life.

7.00 PM: I reach home and watch television for an hour or so. I really enjoy watching cricket and was quite disappointed when India lost the 2023 World Cup. Other than that, I watch CID. It gets dark here quite early, so I have dinner before 9 pm. Since I don’t get the time to check my phone during the day, I reply to messages and fall asleep soon after as I have to wake up early in the morning to study.

As told to IDR.

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Know more

• Read about a day in the life of a Haqdarshika, who delivers citizens’ rights to their doorsteps.
• Read about what’s missing in government’s plan to secure accessibility for persons with disabilities.

As a bonded labourer, I worked for a man who ran a tree-cutting business in Tiruvannamalai. He paid us wages intermittently but controlled our entire day, deciding when we woke up, when we ate, and what we ate. We had no agency over our own lives. In 2013, we, along with two other families, were rescued by government officers. We were issued release certificates, which freed us of any debt or obligation to our former owner and made us eligible for compensation and rehabilitation from the government.

On our release, we settled in the village of Peranamallur near Vandavasi in Tiruvannamalai. In 2019, the Tamil Nadu government approached us with the offer to resettle us in a new housing colony they were building. We were promised proper houses, jobs, and one milch animal per family—in other words, a better life. In 2020, we moved to Dr Abdul Kalam Puram and have been living here ever since.

Today, I own five cows and work at the government-run charcoal-making unit within the colony. I am also an elected community leader, responsible for resolving disputes and conveying my people’s needs and demands to local government authorities. In this colony, we Irulars are connected by our shared history of bondage, which makes us part of one big family.   

5.00 AM: I wake up and tend to my cattle. Back in Peranamallur, we watched other people with their cows and goats and wondered if we would ever own an animal ourselves. But here, each family has been given a cow. The government has also set up a milk society through which we can sell milk directly to Aawin, the milk cooperative. When I am done milking for the morning, I deliver the milk to the society.

Around 7 am, I go to the forest to collect wood. We have been granted permission to cut velikaathaan, an invasive species of thorny shrubs. We carry it to the charcoal-making unit and burn it to make charcoal. We do this work throughout the year, except during the monsoon when the wooded areas are waterlogged. In a single cycle, we produce approximately 10 tonnes of charcoal. For each tonne, a person earns INR 6,000. This is INR 1,000 more than what people earn in neighbouring villages for making the same amount of charcoal.

Charcoal-making is just one of the occupations in the colony; we can also work at a brick kiln, a sanitary pad–making unit, a paper bag–making unit, and so on. We have formed common livelihood groups (CLGs), with a fixed number of members, for each occupation. For example, the charcoal unit has 16 people. Our work is monitored by the government to ensure all units function well.

People are free to switch to other business units if the work doesn’t suit them. Each CLG keeps a log of the number of days a person has worked and pays them accordingly, and when they leave they also receive the dividend earned from the interest on savings. The CLGs meet monthly to discuss the progress of the business and to plan the way ahead.

What I like best about this work arrangement is that I am the master of my own time. No one to tell me how to live my life. What’s more, I have even managed to save money for my family, children, and our future, which I couldn’t do before.

10.00 AM: On the days that I don’t go to the charcoal unit, I work for my community, resolving their disputes. The families in Dr Abdul Kalam Puram come from different villages and we have had our fair share of disagreements and quarrels, especially in the initial days of moving here. But we have always found a solution.

I remember an incident where two families almost came to blows. One of them had goats and the other had plants. The goats ate the plants and a dispute broke out between the families, which grew so heated that community leaders had to intervene. We suggested building fences around both houses. Fencing has now become a common practice here.

Life is much better now, but it is our responsibility to identify how it can be further improved.

There are 13 leaders in the colony—all chosen by the community itself through elections held at the community hall. The leaders are constantly in touch with civil society organisations that work here and with the local government to seek solutions to the challenges we face.

One of these challenges is the distance we have to travel to reach the nearest hospital, which is 5 km away. We wrote to the collector, highlighting the inconvenience this posed because public transport services are irregular. Now, the district administration holds frequent medical camps within the colony itself. We also didn’t have a ration shop, but once we brought this to the collector’s attention, a defunct room in the colony was converted into a ration shop.

We would now like a bus service that can take our children to high school. The younger children attend an anganwadi in the colony itself, and students from the first to the eighth standard travel to school in the nearby village in an autorickshaw. However, older children have to travel 5 km to a high school if they want to study beyond standard eight. The nearest college is approximately 10 km away. I request the government to think about building a residential school and a college here.

We would also benefit from better roads and transport systems because we live on the outskirts of the city. Earlier, we lived in unhygienic conditions in our native village. Our homes were dilapidated and we were prone to all kinds of diseases. Life is much better now, but it is our responsibility to identify how it can be further improved.

6.00 PM: I return home and, until dinner at 8 pm, I spend time with my children. My son is in the seventh standard now. When he was younger, he hoped to be an IPS officer. There was a police station close to where we lived and he saw the respect with which the officers were treated. Now, after moving to this colony and witnessing the collector at work, he wants to be an IAS officer and serve his community. My elder daughter, who is in the fourth standard, wants to be a doctor. The youngest is only three years old. I hope for a bright future for all of them. They will grow up in a world where they can express themselves freely. They can travel, visit relatives, and do what they like—no one will stop them.

We plan to organise our festival Masi Magam in the colony soon. It’s an important festival for the Irular people and is celebrated in honour of the Goddess Kanniamma. We are currently raising funds to build our own temple here. As bonded labourers, we were never permitted to attend any celebration as a family; some of us always had to stay behind so the others would be sure to return.

I don’t miss anything about that life, and I’ll make sure my children never experience it.

As told to IDR.

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Know more

• Read this article to understand why bonded labour is on the rise in India.
• Read this article to learn about the intergenerational nature of labour exploitation in mining areas.

I completed most of my education in Mumbai. My first job was in the share market, but it couldn’t keep my interest for long. I realised I might not be built for the typical nine-to-five job. While looking for alternatives, I came across an advertisement in the newspaper about a paraprofessional course in social work that trained volunteers in the field of development. I was curious about the social sector because, to me, it combined a study of human behaviour with contribution to the society. The three-month course took me on many field visits where I met a lot of social workers, which gave me confidence. During the course, I also learned about the master’s in social work (MSW) programme, which I undertook and completed. After the MSW, I started interning at Prerana—a nonprofit that works on anti-human trafficking and rescue and rehabilitation of women and children—in 2013. Later, I joined Naunihal—a children’s home run by the organisation in Maharashtra’s Raigad district—which provides a safe space for young girl children in need of care and protection as categorised by the JJ Act 2015. Most of the girls at the centre are survivors of violence and abuse.

I am now a superintendent at Naunihal. Working with children is not something I always aimed for, but over the years I have started enjoying it. I have realised that children, when compared to adults, are more open to discussions and learning, and they can be easily sensitised and made aware of social issues.

5.00 AM: In the months when I have morning duty, I wake up at 5 am and get the children ready for school. I check that their lunches are packed and that they have had breakfast and are wearing clean shoes and uniforms. I also handle administrative tasks such as ensuring their documents are up to date.

Our centre falls under the jurisdiction of the district’s child welfare committee (CWC), which is responsible for the care, protection, and rehabilitation of a child under the Juvenile Justice Act. Most of the children referred to us are victims of child sexual abuse, which means their cases fall under the POCSO Act. This figure used to be less four to five years ago, but recently we have noticed a jump. Of late, we’ve also noted an increase in consensual romantic relationships among underage children. Naunihal is only for female children aged seven to 18. However, in emergency cases, age isn’t a restriction and we take in any child sent to us under the CWC’s orders. We have even admitted a seven-day-old at the institution.

At any point in the last two years, with some monthly variations, we have had 20–25 children living in the facility. This means that there are always children coming and going. If a child is sent to us from a different district in an emergency situation, they are usually sent back to their own district. But as long as they are at the facility, the responsibility of their holistic development—which includes health, education, recreation, and counselling—lies with us.

9.30 AM: I start attending to the cases that the CWC has sent us either the previous night or the same morning. These cases are brought to us by the order of the district CWC. I make sure the children have everything they need, such as their welcome kit and orientation details, and then proceed for breakfast. We have a briefing meeting at 10 am with the entire staff to plan our day. Every member is assigned a task; for example, going on a home visit to a child’s place, accompanying them to their medical test, taking them to their court hearing, and escorting them when they are being sent back home.

We are with the child during every step of the process. We visit their home within 15 days of admission and inform them about their rights, the legal process, the information that’s needed, and the time frame of their case to the best of our knowledge. When there is a procedural delay from the police, the CWC, or the medical staff, we look into it and try to learn more about the cause, and communicate the same to the child in a sensitive manner.

Care requires human interaction, consistency in intervention, and a lot of time and effort.

The case is not closed after the child is restored to their home. With the order of the CWC we are officially required to follow up and then submit reports to the CWC monthly for three months, and then quarterly for a year, but we continue to follow up depending on the need of the case and support with counselling, medical, and educational needs. Care is not a vaccine that you give a dose of and get done with. It requires human interaction, consistency in intervention, and a lot of time and effort.

Cases of familial abuse call for a deeper understanding of the child’s family because the actions of people close to them put extra pressure on them. For example, a mother wanted her child to take back the complaint because the accused was the child’s stepfather. We talked to the mother and learned that the stepfather was the sole earning member of the family; her concern was that if the father was arrested, she would not be able to run the household as she had two other daughters to raise. So we helped the mother get a job, which in turn ensured that the child is not pressurised to withdraw her complaint.

However, in all situations, we ensure that we do not influence the child’s decision. If they decide not to participate in the process, such as the legal case, we don’t try to change their mind and let them choose their own pace. At the same time, we continue giving them information so they can make an informed decision. Our job is to discuss the pros and cons of the legal process with them, especially if they express the need for it. We equip them with the tools to make an informed choice. It is a difficult situation for us knowing that an accused might run free, but supporting the child is our priority.

1.30 PM: The staff eats with the children because the lunch table is an informal space for casual conversations. Children can relax and talk about things that aren’t triggering in nature and they are able to make friends with one another.

During these chats, we also get to understand how the kids perceive the children’s home and how their ideas about it are formed.

Children have told us that they have heard both extremes—from parents saying, “At the children’s home, you’ll understand how other children live, how difficult their lives are” to authorities stating, “If you live here, you can become a police officer, air hostess…” At times, the police tell them that they will be out of the children’s home in a couple of days. But this false hope doesn’t help anyone. The children give statements to the police and the district magistrate separately; we familiarise them with these processes and let them know about child-friendly procedures of the law. Then there’s a medical examination and a social investigation report for which we speak with the child, visit their house, and document every aspect relevant to the case; we submit this report to the CWC, and it plays a crucial role in the decision about the child’s restoration and rehabilitation. So, the child is often at the children’s home for a month or two if not more. There have been cases where children have stayed for six months to a year.

4.00 PM: We take a two-hour break at 4 pm. I spend this time with the kids or do other recreational activities. I really like gardening and have planted many trees. I invite the girls to plant trees with me if they show an interest. We grow items such as spinach, okra, and curry leaves. It makes the children happy, which brings me joy. Naunihal also has a kitchen garden. We encourage the children to participate in planting samplings and nurturing them—it helps them relax.

Since we’re constantly exposed to trafficking and POCSO cases, we can sometimes get desensitised.

The proceedings of the case can be exhausting for the children. They are expected to talk about and share the details of their case with multiple stakeholders such as the police, the CWC, the medical staff, the counsellor, and the caseworkers. They get so lost in the chaos that they feel tired and angry, and think they’ve made a huge mistake by reporting the case. We have to be mindful of these things. Since we’re constantly exposed to trafficking and POCSO cases, we can sometimes get desensitised to the child’s condition.  

I remember, as a fresher, I was working with a child who confided in me about the abuse she faced and I became a complainant in her case. During her medical examination, the doctor brought in four or five trainees to show them the procedure. I intervened to tell them that the child had suffered enough and this wasn’t the time for education. I was hesitant as it was my first case, even though I had undergone trainings to understand the intricacies of the POCSO Act, the Immoral Traffic (Prevention) Act, and the JJ Act. But that was theoretical knowledge, and here I was actually witnessing what a victim goes through.

8.00 PM: Our team debriefs after dinner, discusses the progress made during the day, and decides what needs to be done the next day. I make sure that child protection training is undertaken by the team every month and is implemented correctly. I also ensure that the staff to child ratio at the centre is maintained; as of now, every member handles nine to 10 cases at a time. My team should never be overwhelmed because that is good neither for them nor for the children.

I follow up on all administrative tasks and check if the team has submitted their case files; I also give them feedback and try to understand and address any issues they might be facing. We learn from one another by discussing how we solved a certain issue; it can be anything, including a problem someone had with the police, the CWC, or the rehabilitation process.

Although we’re a facility for institutionalisation of children in need, we also follow the principle of the JJ Act that institutionalisation should be the last resort. We evaluate each case to understand whether a child needs institutionalisation. We had a case of child abuse where the parents were from a low-income, migrant family and the mother had medical issues. We thought it was better to help the family arrange valid documents to avail government benefits, such as ration, and get the child admitted to a school rather than keep her at the children’s home for a longer term. We always make sure to assess needs before suggesting rehabilitation options.

10.00 PM: Sometimes we take the children out for dinner; otherwise, we watch movies with them. I personally like Govinda’s Bollywood movies from the ’90s; when I am alone, I also watch Comedy Nights with Kapil. Comedy shows and movies lighten the mood after a long day of stressful work and I consider them good for my mental health.

We conduct routine checks of the children’s rooms at night before everyone goes to sleep. The kids know which room belongs to which staff member and can approach us at any time if they need anything.

My parents worry about me since I live away from home. I don’t discuss my cases with them; as long as they know I’m safe, they’re happy.

I do other things to keep my mind off work. On my day off, I work at an animal shelter. Whenever I am free, I help with taking the cats and dogs to the clinic. Another interest of mine is minimalism. I recently attended a workshop on it that explained how frugality and reducing the burden on nature can make life easier for everyone.

As told to IDR.

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Know more

• Learn why intrafamilial child sexual abuse requires more nuance in justice.
• Learn more about why the juvenile justice laws need to uphold the objectives of justice and deterrence.

I now live with my husband, daughter, and son in Alwar. My husband is a daily wage worker—he whitewashes buildings and earns INR 600 per day. Soon after getting married, I realised I would have to work to meet our expenses—we lacked basic facilities such as water and proper sanitation.

Very early in my life, I understood the need for women to create their own identity. I started with working at nonprofits, where I gave jeevan kaushal shiksha (life skills education) to teenage girls to help them learn critical thinking and problem solving in their everyday lives. I realised that to be able to continue in this line of work, I had to study more. So after nine years of marriage, I got a BA and a BEd degree. I am currently a field coordinator and trainer with Ibtada, a nonprofit based in Alwar. My work involves offering career counselling to young women, facilitating their computer education, and conducting sports programmes for them. I also work on Ibtada’s programme for newly married women where I teach them communication skills and make them aware of their nutritional needs, reproductive health, etc. I help them navigate patriarchal spaces too, and aid them in understanding the layered nature of gendered violence and ways to counter it. While my life has informed my work, my experience in the development sector has equally influenced my life.

6.30 AM: By the time I wake up in the morning, my husband is done with yoga and puja, and has already made tea for both of us. Depending on the work required, we divide the chores so that everyone can start their day on time. For example, my husband chops the vegetables, I cook the breakfast, and my son sometimes helps with the laundry and irons the clothes. Then the children get ready for school. When my daughter isn’t going to school, she helps with the cooking. Depending on how busy they are, either my husband or my son cleans my scooter and packs lunch for me.

When my husband fell ill in 2016 and we were left with no source of income, he realised the importance of my contribution to the family.

Things weren’t always this way. For the first 15 years of my marriage, the household chores were solely my responsibility. It was when my husband fell ill in 2016 and we were left with no source of income that he realised the importance of my contribution to the family. I handled the hospital bills and the chores at home, and ran our household alone. This is when he understood that if I can support the family financially, he should help around the house and treat me as an equal. I was earning not just for myself, but for everyone.

We faced resistance from my in-laws. They were against letting me work. When my husband started helping with chores, they chided him and said he dances to my tune. But he held on to his beliefs. I want to see the same change in the households of the newly married young women I work with.

10.00 AM: Once I reach the office, I plan my day at work and conduct meetings with the women in the newly married young women programme. I currently work with four groups consisting of 69 women. Three of these groups were started in May 2023.

It takes a lot of work to convince the women and their families. They need to trust that I’ll be there for them without judgement and that I resonate with the situations they are in. I give examples from my own life to help them realise that I know what they’re going through. I also make them understand that change is a slow process so that they aren’t easily disheartened when patriarchal structures in their homes seem insurmountable. It requires constant communication and small incremental steps for behaviour to change.

I address the issues the women face and offer solutions so they can trust that I’m capable of helping them. For example, in one of the conversations, I asked them what the one common physical phenomenon that women deal with is, to which they correctly responded by saying infections caused by leukorrhea. But they didn’t know why it happens and how to address it. The family doesn’t consult the doctor and the girls are not knowledgeable enough to recognise the symptoms themselves. I teach them how to have conversations with their family members about the various challenges that they face and how to seek treatment when necessary.

I also call joint group meetings of daughters-in-law and mothers-in-law to specifically convince the latter. They are usually the decision-makers in matters concerning their daughters-in-law. I often face resistance from them, and sometimes even from the husbands; they question what I will teach the young women. I calmly listen to everything they say and discuss all issues with them keeping an open mind.

I develop a personal understanding with the women in the newly married programme so they can confide in me about their problems.

The mother-in-law might ask, “What will you teach our daughter-in-law? Why don’t you involve me in your group instead?” I make them see reason by telling them that they’ve already achieved a lot in life. “Your children are married, you’ve worked your entire life, you make decisions around the house, you don’t need the group. It is your daughter-in-law that needs to learn how to manage the house now. She needs to learn how to respect you and not argue or fight with you. Don’t you want her to live happily with you?” I speak to them with thoughtfulness and sensitivity.

This approach convinces them that I won’t teach their daughters-in-law anything that they consider ‘wrong’, but will instead help her pick up skills that can benefit the entire household.

I develop a personal understanding with the women in the group so they can confide in me about their problems. Sometimes they are frustrated with their mother-in-law. The husband and mother-in-law might also complain about the daughter-in-law to me. My work here is not to interfere, but to listen to all of them. I don’t exchange any information as it can create conflict. At times, I play mediator for them. If the husband has a perspective and can explain it, I try to make the wife understand his point of view. That’s how I strike a balance and keep the family’s faith in me.

12.00 PM: My afternoons are usually flexible. On some days, I visit the field for skills training. On others, we host orientation meetings for the family members of the women joining us. We introduce them to the organisation and the work we do. To make the family members value the work being done by the newly married girls, we show them videos focused on gender education. For example, the Ghar ki Murgi video attaches monetary value to the work women do and shows that their chores would amount to at least INR 32,000. The idea is to make women’s work visible. It helps the men appreciate their work and even assist them so that the burden doesn’t fall solely on the women.

The family members send the women for training only if they like what they are learning.

After that I have lunch and continue with the rest of the training. If there are regular absentees, I visit their homes to find out the reason for their absence. The family members send the women for training only if they like what they are learning. If anything even mildly challenges the status quo, they stop sending them. I’ve also been accused of misdirecting the women. My job then is to make the women aware of their rights so they can speak for themselves and negotiate with their families. I have explained to them that instead of discussing at home what I tell you, you need to first create your own understanding of things and handle situations in your own way.

At the programme, we also try to broaden the community’s perspective on violence. The general understanding that there is just one type of violence—physical. But women also go through mental, sexual, and economic violence. You are being violent when you verbally abuse someone, make racist remarks, eve-tease, or touch someone without their consent.

I saw my mother suffer through it when I was little. Before my brother was born, my father would threaten to marry another woman because we were four sisters and my father wanted a son. I understood her plight later in life when I also experienced patriarchal oppression.

When you have lived through violence, you cannot just sit and watch someone else suffer. So now if I witness violence anywhere, be it at my home or in my neighbourhood, I raise my voice against it. At home, for instance, I read aloud the paperwork for the cases of the women I am working with so that my family members also learn. This has helped in changing their behaviour.

6.30 PM: I return to my house after a long day at work. My daughter and son try to get home before me so that they can prepare dinner. My daughter cooks the vegetables and I make the chapatis. We also decide on who will wash the dishes depending on who is less tired. These chores take up most of our evening. My daughter wants to become a doctor but she’s scared of injections and cries whenever she needs to take one. My son wants to join the Border Security Force because he loves uniforms; I keep asking him to reconsider.

When all our work is done, my daughter and I watch the TV serial Yeh Rishta Kya Kehlata Hai. It captures the happy and sad moments of life. We find it relatable and our day feels incomplete without watching the show. My husband prefers comedy but I like watching such serious shows. I also listen to old songs to relax. I am trying to study computer and want to make time for a course that I have taken up, but I’m usually too tired at this point and go to sleep by 11 or 12 pm.

As told to IDR.

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Know more

• Read this article to learn how marriage impacts women’s labour participation.
• Read this report to understand why the law continues to protect the perpetrators of marital rape.
• Listen to this podcast to learn about the changing gender norms in India.

When I was younger, I didn’t really have a clear vision of what I wanted to do in the future. But I was also growing increasingly aware that the living conditions of my people were far from ideal. The rate of migration from the village was steadily increasing, and the resources obtained from the surrounding forest were not being utilised prudently. The wells in the village were in a poor state, and the availability of drinking water was a major issue. Most importantly, I noted that the women of the village were missing from important conversations such as village meetings.

I was therefore motivated to work with my community, especially its women, to improve the conditions of our village. As someone who grew up in the village and is privy to the various challenges that the community faces, I believed that I would be able to bring about meaningful change. I learned of the work being done by the Saat Kundiya Mahadev Khedut Vikas Mandal—an institution in my village supported by the Foundation for Ecological Security (FES)—on ecological restoration and enhancement of livelihoods, and it seemed to be the perfect mixture of interventions for my community. I joined the village institution in 2021 and have been working as a community resource person (CRP) ever since. 

Since I started my work as a CRP, I have been involved in a number of activities that are aimed at the protection and management of the surrounding forest and its resources. Strengthening the village institution and revegetating the forest are the primary strategies we have adopted in order to preserve the region’s natural resources. I also work on facilitating people’s access to employment through the Mahatma Gandhi National Rural Employment Guarantee Scheme (MGNREGS). To do this, I help the institution to prepare an annual labour budget that is submitted to the block and district offices. Those seeking employment are allotted work based on the budget. The work being allotted through MGNREGS in our village includes forest conservation, constructing check dams, and digging wells. Enabling people from the village to access employment locally helps address the problem of livelihoods while also reducing migration.

6.00 AM: I wake up early and spend the next couple of hours freshening up, having breakfast, and helping with household chores. My family, like many others in the village, depends on animal husbandry as a secondary source of income. So, early in the day, I help my mother by cleaning the cowshed, giving water to the cows, and milking them.

People in my village had to consider alternative sources of livelihoods because farming alone wasn’t a viable option. There is not much land available for cultivation, and the unfriendly topography of the village makes agriculture even more challenging. The produce cultivated by each farmer would only be enough to sustain them and their families. I am now working towards assisting households with diversifying their livelihood options. While people had been practising animal husbandry and collecting forest resources, I am helping them enhance these through a varied set of interventions.

10.00 AM: Once I am done helping around the house, I head out for fieldwork. During the first half of the day, I visit various households in the village. Gathering data from these households is a major part of my responsibilities. When surveying them, I acquire data regarding the size of the household as well as the age, education level, and gender of its members. These household surveys inform the MGNREGS labour budget and gram panchayat development plan (GPDP) that I help prepare. In the first budget that I helped prepare, the focus was on securing employment. But we eventually realised that building water structures can help increase our productivity and income in the future too. These concerns are reflected in the recent budget.

The lack of access to water within the village meant that the women would have to regularly walk a kilometre to fetch water from the river. This problem could be combated by replenishing groundwater sources, for which I started conducting groundwater surveys. The surveys help us understand which areas urgently require groundwater recharging work, and involve geotagging the wells using an application called Groundwater Monitoring Tool. Geotagging helps us keep track of the wells that need to be recharged and the ones that are being used prudently. I conduct these surveys at regular intervals to assess how the conditions of the village have changed over time and what is still needed. So far, we have managed to restore 10 wells across the village, and this has been invaluable in addressing the water shortage. 

We collectively make decisions about the management of local natural resources.

I also attend village meetings during the day. We collectively make decisions about the management of local natural resources during these meetings. Not too long ago, many of the forest management rules were not being followed. For example, a few farmers were clearing out parts of the forest for resources that could supplement their income. Through village meetings, we were able to reinforce the importance of protecting the forest as a community, and instituted new rules to prevent this from happening again. But I also understood that the farmers had done this out of desperation and not disregard, so I worked to ensure that they were employed through MGNREGS.      

2.00 PM: I usually return home after my work around the village is completed and eat lunch. On days when I know I won’t come back home for lunch, I have a filling meal before leaving the house. The meal usually consists of a saag (a preparation of leafy greens) made from giloda (ivy gourd) or karela (bitter gourd), makai rotla (corn bread), and kadhi (buttermilk curry). Following lunch, I head to the panchayat office within the village. Here, I am able to help others apply for relevant government schemes and avail their benefits. The conditions for the women in the village have especially improved as a result of this. For instance, widowed women are able to collectivise and get a pension through the Indira Gandhi National Widow Pension Scheme. Additionally, we were able to establish a self-help group (SHG) in the village through the National Rural Livelihoods Mission. This has also helped improve the financial literacy of the women, who now save money collectively through the SHG.

The village has submitted a community forest rights (CFR) claim to the district office. The recognition of this claim will legally guarantee our right to protect, regenerate, and manage the community forest. It will also enable us to officially formulate rules for the use of forest resources and provide us rights over non-timber forest products. Most importantly, the ownership of the forest will pass from the forest department to our gram sabha. Unfortunately, we have not received a title in favour of the community yet. As a result, we do not know how many hectares of land are officially under the village’s protection. But since the community has traditionally protected the forest and lived off the resources it provides, we are doing our best to continue those practices in an unofficial capacity.

5.00 PM: On some days, I also visit FES’s office to meet with my coordinator or to enter the data I collect into the register we maintain. The office is 30 km away from the village, so I travel in a state bus.

In order to build a platform where different stakeholders can gather, discuss, and deliberate on common issues, we also host a samvaad karyakram once a year. The forum helps people from various villages in our block interface with officials such as the local collector, drawing and disbursing officer, and other block-level officers. The programme offers the villagers an opportunity to bring up their concerns with these officials and collectively work towards the resolution of their problems. For example, at the last programme, we discussed the wage and land issues the locals are experiencing. The government also sets up stalls at the programme, where locals can gain more insights into topics such as farming, pesticides, land conservation, animal husbandry, horticulture, and government schemes.

I help community members formulate rules for the collection of forest resources.

Utilising the collective knowledge of our womenfolk, as well as that of other community members, I help them formulate rules for the collection of forest resources such as mahua (butternut) and timrupaan (prickly ash leaves) in a sustainable manner. For example, only a limited number of households are allowed to gather these resources at one time; this prevents us from inadvertently depleting them. Similarly, we only gather dry wood from the forest and do not cut down any trees. Although the women are generally sympathetic to the cause of protecting the forest, I also encourage them to learn by example and take them for exposure visits to other villages where these practices have been adopted.

6.00 PM: When I return home in the evening, there are more chores around the house that I need to complete. I check in on the animals, cook for the family, and sit to eat soon after. As the eldest child, I bear a great deal of responsibility within the household, and I do not take my role lightly. I have gained greater recognition within my village by working tirelessly for the community. I am only 22, but even the elders call me Anita ben (sister). It makes my mother and father proud.

I hope to be an inspiration to my siblings. I would like my younger sister to follow in my footsteps and work for our community when she’s older, and my brother to have a decent job that can supplement our family’s income. I’m sure that they are both destined to do great things for our family and community.

9.00 PM: I head to bed soon after dinner. In the moments before I drift off to sleep, I sometimes think about the impact I’d like my work to have. I want women’s participation in the village to continue to increase and their opinions to be valued. Someday, we could even have a woman as our sarpanch! Ultimately, all I want is for my community to live in harmony and keep protecting the forest as we have for generations.

I would like to be able to extend the work I am doing in my village to the neighbouring villages as well. I’m certain that they may have encountered similar issues, and an exchange of local knowledge would benefit everyone involved.

As told to IDR. 

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Know more

• Read this article to understand the role community forest rights can play in addressing climate change.
• Read this analysis of land laws in India that outlines the gaps that must be addressed in order to ensure women’s land rights.

I am a journalist by training, and worked in a newsroom for two years once I completed my journalism degree. After quitting the newsroom, I launched my own YouTube channel, Aadim Samvad. Through the channel, I aim to present the stories of the Adivasi community in their own language. With the consensus and participation of the community, I am amplifying the voices that have historically remained unheard.

I am also a member of an informal network of tribal women and a documenter at the Bhasha Research and Publication Center, which works on conservation of marginalised languages. At Bhasha, I document the culture of de-notified tribes in Gujarat, Rajasthan, and Madhya Pradesh, while my work with the women’s network focuses on empowering marginalised women. The women in the network belong to a diverse array of fields and are affiliated with a number of Adivasi institutions, such as Adivasi Ekta Parishad and Adivasi Sahitya Akademi. We organise workshops and trainings based on our own expertise, and also invite experts from other fields to share their insights. We visit girls in schools and hostels, encourage them to pursue a career of their liking, and answer questions they might have about our professions. 

5.30 AM: I wake up early and meditate. Meditation helps me centre myself and prepare for the day ahead. I adopted the practice during my time at Disom, a leadership school that focuses on nurturing leaders from marginalised sections of society.

At Disom, I was encouraged to find my inner voice and reflect on the factors that subdue it. As someone who has experienced discrimination at various stages in my life, this practice helped me understand and address discrimination in a more meaningful way.

I was also exposed to a diverse cohort of young leaders. Learning about their experiences helped me recognise how it wasn’t just my community that faced discrimination. I was able to empathise with their pain, and I moved beyond only caring about ‘me and my community’ to thinking about ‘us and our communities’. Now I make a concerted effort to understand the perspectives of the communities I work with. I value their opinions and their rituals in a manner that my younger, naive self was not able to do.  

6.00 AM: Soon after waking up, I help my niece get ready for school. My own time in school was starkly different. After fourth grade, my brothers and I studied at Don Bosco, a convent school that was outside our village.

The school was too far away for me to commute daily, so I lived at the girls’ hostel on campus. As a convent-educated girl, the rituals and festivals that I witnessed in my village felt quite alien to me. At school, we were taught about the Bible. In fact, I can still quote many of its verses from memory. I was so distant from my community that a critical part of my Adivasi identity remained obscured from me, until much later.

The younger girls at the hostel would be looked after by the older ones, and we would often hear about them getting engaged after completing the 10th grade. The possibility of potentially suffering from the same fate terrified me.

I was close to the priests and nuns running the school. I would often ask them about life after school. At our graduation ceremony, Father James Tuscano, a priest who taught at the school, told me, “Right now, you’re zero—a mere dot. As you go out into the world and explore your curiosities and interests, you will begin to collect more dots; you’ll add up to a number.” This helped me realise that there’s a larger world outside the confines of my school that I had yet to discover. Many of my classmates were weeping because they knew that married life awaited them, but I was excited to do something new in the next chapter of my life.

Women from our community would have to pave their own way if they had to get educated.

However, the enthusiasm was short-lived. I started pursuing a BCA course outside my district. Knowing that Chhotaudepur is an Adivasi district, many of my peers who belonged to Chaudhary and Patel communities barely interacted with me. But their callousness towards me only made me more curious about my heritage. Later, when I wanted to apply for a scholarship as a student from a scheduled tribe, they simply denied my request because they didn’t know what documents I had to provide to obtain it. Nevertheless, I reapplied the following year after collating all the necessary information myself, and my application was accepted. This experience made me see that women from our community would have to pave their own way if they had to get educated.

I availed the ST reservation to apply for a journalism degree. After submitting my application, I received a call from the institute I applied to and was informed that I was the first ST candidate for their journalism course. They told me that the course would be in English, and that I should consider withdrawing my application as I was not well versed with the language. It pained me to hear this. I wondered why my not knowing English mattered so much to them. Was it just because I belonged to a scheduled tribe? But I wouldn’t be deterred by this, so I took up English classes. In 2018, I graduated with a degree in journalism.

8.00 AM: I help my mother prepare breakfast for the household. Since she tends to the field for most of the day and my father’s police duty keeps him away from home for long hours, breakfast is the perfect opportunity for me to spend time with both of them. I cherish my relationship with my parents, and they inspire me in various ways. An active member of the community, my mother motivates me to develop a stronger connection with those around me. She manages not just our household but also our farm, and ensures they both flourish. 

As an Adivasi policeman, my father is in a peculiar position. The job of a policeman is not viewed as a favourable career choice in our community because the police has a history of violence against Adivasis. My father took it up because after my grandfather’s death, the family needed that income.

But he chose to work in the non-weaponry department, and eventually as a driver for police vehicles, to avoid directly being part of police oppression of Adivasi people. He has been transferred several times during his career. But he won’t accept bribes, harass the poor, or get involved in busting the local liquor businesses, which is a traditional occupation of some Adivasi communities. When I once told him that the police should be stricter towards those who sell liquor, he urged me to be more empathetic, noting that it may be the only source of livelihood for the people who neither have land nor access to forests.

Despite having a job in the city, he would travel back to the village to look after our farm. He was always a farmer first. I feel I am repeating that cycle from city to village and gradually returning to my roots and my community.    

9.30 AM: I finish my breakfast and start with my work. Some days, I work from the Bhasha office; on others, I travel to visit the tribes that I document. It is often difficult to go to the remote locations where these communities are located. Once I’m there, the community’s elected officials, such as the sarpanch, occasionally object to my presence because they are suspicious about my intentions as an outsider.

I have benefited more from the communities I work with than they have from me.

When this happens, I sit with them and explain the objectives of my work to them. If they are willing, I take them with me so that they can observe my work and witness how it benefits the community. Then, I encourage them to join me if they can. Despite its challenges, the work can also be really rewarding. I have benefited more from the communities I work with than they have from me. I still feel like I have a long way to go before I understand their conditions and comprehend the vastness of their knowledge.

Recently, I worked on a documentary, How Your Papers Can Define Our Identity, on the issue of Rathwa-Koli caste certification. For an ST certificate, individuals from the community had to appear before the Tribal Advisory Council and verify that we’re ‘legitimate Adivasis’. We needed that certificate for education scholarship and even for government jobs. To make the documentary, I first had to create greater awareness regarding the issue within the community. The rest of the documentary team and I would speak to other members of the community to inform them about the issue and ask them about their views on it. I would often do multiple follow-up interviews as the issue developed further. The entire experience taught me a lot.    

12.00 PM: On days when I don’t go to the office, I help out my mother at the farm. When I was younger, my grandmother would take me to the farm and teach me about the various crops there. In line with the Adivasi way of life, she encouraged me to develop a closer relationship with nature. My grandmother is also a great inspiration for me. Despite being a young widow, she managed to acquire rights over her husband’s land so that she could pass it on to her children. This was unprecedented in our village, where widows would often get labelled as ‘witches’ and their land would get taken from them by their extended families or others eyeing the land. She would often tell me stories, and I have written some of them down. One of the stories, which I wrote in Rathwi, our native tongue, even got published as part of a collection of short stories.

6.00 PM: I’m responsible for preparing dinner at home, so that’s what I get to first after returning from work. We try to eat food together as a family, and since my father’s work timings can vary greatly, we occasionally have dinner as late as 10 PM. Once the food is prepared, I work on editing videos and researching for my YouTube channel. I launched the channel after being disillusioned by my two-year stint in a newsroom, where I realised that the voices of the marginalised were rarely represented in the media.

I quit my job in 2020, just five days before the nationwide lockdown due to COVID-19, and launched the self-funded Aadim Samvad YouTube channel. I use my own equipment and I am the channel’s sole videographer and editor. Aadim Samvad documents the Adivasi way of life, including community rituals and knowledge.

I now want to work more closely with my community, particularly for the benefit of our women.

Having been away for years for my education and then for my career, I now want to work more closely with my community, particularly for the benefit of our women. I must share my learnings with them and help them get the education and exposure that I got. Journalism is one way of connecting with them, but I also give back to the community through the work I do as part of a network of Adivasi women from various states. Recently, we have been working on providing a platform for bead workers to showcase their craft and connect them to the market.

11.00 PM: Before sleeping, I journal about my day and prepare for the following day. I also reflect on my hopes for the future. Discrimination and hierarchies are not engendered in the Adivasi community. Instead, every living creature, including plants and wildlife, is valued and respected in Adivasi society. Even a dry twig is understood to have value, for it can be used as kindling. I hope for a similar world view—one that encourages relating to each other on a deeper level—to be adopted by society at large. I think doing so can help resolve various structural problems.

As told to IDR.

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Know more

• Learn how a UPSC aspirant wants to build a better life for people engaged in manual scavenging.
• Understand how caste shapes experience for students in Indian universities.

I am Priti Bele, a community resource person (CRP) for my village Murli in the Ghatanji block of Yavatmal district, Maharashtra. I am a single mother of two young children and shoulder multiple responsibilities, including being a parent, homemaker, and provider for my family.

Ghatanji is in the drought-prone Vidarbha region—an area characterised by agrarian distress, which affects rural livelihoods. This crisis has compounded over the years due to excessive use of chemicals, cash cropping, overextraction of groundwater, and degradation of forests. My role as a CRP is to help my community improve their livelihoods, foster collective action for the preservation of natural resources, and work towards increasing community—especially women’s—participation in decision-making processes.

5.30 AM: I wake up and spend a few hours on household chores—washing the previous day’s utensils, making breakfast and lunch, and getting my children ready for school. I also clean the house, draw rangolis, and do puja.

10 AM: I step out to interact with my fellow community members, either in smaller groups or in meetings, to share information about different social security schemes and other such provisions they can access and benefit from. I recently organised a camp in the village to help community members apply for PAN cards and link Aadhaar cards to their bank accounts. These processes are tedious and require a lot of documentation, multiple visits to government offices, and constant follow-ups. I do all these things for people who can’t do it themselves.

On some days, I use this time to visit farmers and assist them in preparing organic fertilisers/pesticides, depending on their need. I started doing this in 2019 when, under the guidance of the Foundation for Ecological Security (FES), I began working as a CRP for my village. I attended several training programmes on organic farming, and learned how to conduct demonstrations on using organic fertilisers and pesticides. At first my demonstrations were met with resistance and even ridicule from the community, but this started to change when a farmer named Santosh Ghotne showed interest in adopting these practices and asked for a demo.

Realising the importance of practising sustainable agriculture, he asked me to help him form a farmers’ group under the Panjabrao Deshmukh Jaivik Sheti Mission. We mobilised a few other farmers, and eventually formed and registered a group of 20 farmers in 2021, who now practise organic farming. These farmers have received organic pesticides and some equipment (such as pumps, a tank for making organic pesticides) at subsidised prices from the government.

I have a very keen interest in sustainable agriculture, and I strive to encourage more farmers in the village to adopt sustainable, organic methods of cultivation. Since Yavatmal is drought-prone, we also need to think about how we manage water. For the past three years, I have been conducting the groundwater game and crop water budgeting exercise with community members to raise awareness about the importance of managing water resources. As a result of these activities, some farmers have switched from flood irrigation to sprinkler or drip irrigation, whereas some others have switched to less water-intensive crops or decreased the area under water-guzzling crops.

2 PM: I come back home and have lunch. Then I start prepping for dinner and finish other chores around the house. I step out to buy vegetables and groceries if needed, and also help my sons with their studies. It is not easy to look after two young boys by myself.

6 PM: In the evenings, I usually facilitate a meeting with women from the community. In these mahilasabhas, we discuss women’s concerns, along with other larger issues in the village. These spaces are extremely important because they allow women to share and discuss problems that might otherwise go unsaid and unheard. We also talk about how these issues can be raised in the gram sabhas.

I first started working with women through the SHG movement. Five years ago, I didn’t know what a self-help group was. My family didn’t allow me to join an SHG as it would have meant going out of the house to attend meetings, which were sometimes conducted at night. Out of curiosity, I spoke to a group of women who I knew were saving money through SHGs. As their group was operating at capacity, they told me I should start my own. So, I decided to form a new SHG with the help of friends and neighbours—this was in August 2018. Initially, I just went from door to door to encourage women to save INR 100 a month. That’s all we did—save money. Gradually, I learned how to document the accounts, and the group unanimously chose me as its secretary. Each of them also contributed INR 10 a month to pay me for the role.

A few months later, in 2019, I heard about a vacancy for the post of udyog sakhi in the Maharashtra State Rural Livelihood Mission (MSRLM). I submitted my documents and applied for the position. I had no formal work experience and was very underconfident, but I passed both the written test and the interview. After my selection, I was asked to attend a training programme at the district headquarters. Around this time, my husband fell very sick and passed away. The training session was scheduled for the sixth day after his passing. I put aside my sorrow and attended the training, and with my mother-in-law backing my decision, I did not care about other people’s opinions. Had I not taken up this opportunity, my future would have looked very different.

Thus, I started working with MSRLM as the udyog sakhi for my village in January 2020. My first task was to conduct a survey of all the enterprises in the village, such as small shops, eateries, and flour mills, to understand who runs them and how they are run. This was mainly done to analyse the needs of the village and help women get into entrepreneurship.

Then, I formed a group of 14 small and marginal women farmers who were interested in running a business. These women received a loan of INR 2 lakh under the MSRLM programme to kickstart a farm-based enterprise. We decided to start selling vegetables, and would go to the local farmers’ market to understand the process of procurement and sale. Eventually, we established contact with some organic farmers from our own village and nearby villages who practise sustainable farming. With the support of MSRLM, which helped us get into a contract with a farmer producer organisation in Yavatmal, we managed to sell vegetables worth INR 35,500 in just a few days. This motivated us to continue making efforts to grow our enterprise. We decided to do farming on our own and used the remaining loan amount to lease four acres of land for community farming. In 2022, we have grown soyabean using organic methods; we now plan to distribute the seeds to those farmers in the village who are willing to adopt organic farming practices instead of buying hybrid varieties of seeds from the market.

I belong to the Kunbi community, and traditionally our women are not allowed to step out of their houses. Now, many of them are members of SHGs and actively participate in gram sabhas. I also encourage them to start their own livelihood enterprises and become financially independent. I have helped at least four or five women to run their own businesses—they sell sanitary pads, sarees, etc. within the village. That’s when I realised that many women did not have their own bank accounts. So, I started with helping them open bank accounts to deposit their savings.

I want to create sustainable livelihood opportunities for the women so they have work available all year.

Although it was a tough journey, I was persistent and did not accept defeat. My vision for Murli is that the women become self-reliant, and collectively act for the development of the village. I want to create sustainable livelihood opportunities for the women so they have work available all year.

9 PM: I have dinner with my family and wrap up the kitchen work. After that, I finish some of the documentation work, such as writing minutes of the meetings conducted during the day. Before going off to sleep, I also plan for the next day, which includes calling up people to set up meetings. Proper planning helps me in managing my work and multitasking, and gives me some time to spend with my children. As they are growing up, I am trying to inculcate in them the habit of doing their work themselves. They also help out with household chores. Since they are boys, some people laugh at them when they see them sweeping the courtyard or buying groceries. I tell them to ignore such people and keep doing their work. It is very important to be independent, and all this is going to prove useful when they go away for higher education and start living by themselves. I want to prepare them for every situation.

I have a strong network of friends, both within and outside Murli. Due to my work, I have made good connections with people, some of whom have supported me in several ways, even financially and emotionally. My mother-in-law too helps me as much as possible.

As told to Khanjan Ravani.

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Know more

• Read about the state of organic farming in India.
• Read this article to learn how a krishi mitra in Odisha is promoting organic farming in her village.

Growing up in Kothi gram panchayat, I was athletic and played cricket, volleyball, and kabaddi with the boys. I was often the only woman in a large group of men. I rode a motorbike, had short hair, and dressed in pants and shirt, but was openly accepted by everyone.

As my father is a tehsil-level teacher and my mother taught in the anganwadi, people from all over the area come to us for help with paperwork. The rate of literacy is not high, and most residents can’t cope with official documents. After completing standard 12 at Shivaji Madhyamik Ashram school in Chandrapur, I too started helping with this paperwork—updating passbooks, depositing and withdrawing money, filling out forms for caste certificates, land documentation, and more.

Kothi gram panchayat had not had a sarpanch since 2003. This led to the community facing a lot of hardship. Government administrative officers took charge of village projects, but the toilets, schools, and roads existed only on paper or were of bad quality. Corrupt officials would cheat us of basic facilities. The tehsil office was 25 kilometres away. After hours of travel, when we would make it there with our documents—for caste, domicile, or land—we would be turned away or asked to return on another day. We desperately needed a sarpanch who could act as the go-between.

We also needed someone to fight for our needs. We are often treated disrespectfully. Officials talk down to us about our clothes, our food, our way of living, and allege that we’re all Naxalites. Male members of our community are often harassed by the cops on suspicion of Naxal links. When the land is ours, why are we treated so badly in our own home?

So, in 2019, I traded my dreams for the hopes of my community. I had been enrolled in college for barely six months, for a bachelor’s degree in physical education, when I was unanimously selected as the sarpanch at the gram sabha. I had trained as a boxer and volleyball player and my ambition was to be a sports teacher. Although I took some time to make up my mind, I have never looked back. The day I filled my form for the post of sarpanch as an independent and the only candidate is the most memorable day of my life. I was surrounded by people from nine villages, a woman among many men.

I spend almost all my time meeting people from these villages—a population of 2,298.

6.00 AM: Sometimes when I wake up, visitors are already waiting for me at home. They come for help with paperwork—birth registration, death registration, land papers, etc. Instead of sending people on the long trek to the taluka office, I help them with the technicalities, call the taluka office, and coordinate with the online operators or send the paperwork with the peon. People also come to give me updates about anything that needs my attention. Sarpanches usually enjoy a lot of social standing, but I prefer not to throw my weight around and make it a point to sit on the ground with everyone else.

8.00 AM: After meeting visitors and preparing breakfast for my parents, with whom I live, I set out for the villages on my Bullet (bike). To reach three of them, I need to take the boat. The commute gets difficult during rains. But I make it a point to visit at least one or two villages daily. Connectivity and network are big challenges here and meeting people in person is the best way to stay abreast of all the issues. Each village is about five to eight kilometres away from mine, which is the only one with some connectivity, although that too is usually patchy.

Apart from helping with documents, I hold discussions at the gotul (a youth dormitory and a place commonly used for gatherings) on important issues, such as electricity, education, medical facilities, and toilets. I share information about government schemes that could benefit us. I also distribute sanitary pads and host group discussions on the taboos around menstruation.

Five of our villages don’t have electricity even though the poles have been set up. The government won’t give us electricity until residents agree to set up meters. And residents are apprehensive because they have heard of villages where people are charged for having meters even though they don’t have electricity.

Where there are teachers, there are no resources, and the teaching methods are ineffective.

Education is also a challenge. There are four schools in the nine villages that I serve, and three of them enroll students only till standard 4. There is one ashram (a residential school) that provides education up to standard 10. Some schools don’t have teachers. Where there are teachers, there are no resources, and the teaching methods are ineffective. There is another ashram school in Chandrapur that admits students up to standard 12. I try to get all the children from our villages enrolled there. While we want to retain our cultural identity, without education we cannot understand the rights given to us by the Constitution and fight for them.

1.00 PM: On most days, I’m in one of the villages during lunchtime and the villagers insist I stay back to eat at their homes. This way, we can continue working for longer.

However, my days frequently take an unpredictable turn. From showing women a video on menstrual hygiene, I may have to suddenly switch to ferrying a patient on my motorcycle to a hospital many kilometres away. When we have a health emergency, we can’t contact an ambulance because of network issues. Even if we do, the ambulance takes hours to reach us.

One tragedy is forever etched in my mind. A six-year-old child was playing outside and got a nosebleed. We took him to the health subcentre but they didn’t have a suction machine to help him breathe. We called the ambulance but were told that it would take hours to arrive. So, we rode our two-wheelers to the nearest hospital. I had the child with me on my Bullet, and my heart broke when he passed away on the journey itself before we could get him emergency care.

One other time, a few of my friends had gathered at my house to celebrate a birthday. Before we could start, my friend who is a nurse got a call about a childbirth complication. We headed to that village and discovered that the pregnant woman was in distress and could barely stay awake. The infant was stuck but we didn’t have the equipment to help. I used a pair of gloves to pull the baby out. But then the child wouldn’t breathe. We were in so much anguish that I remember crying. I had previously enrolled for a first-aid course and so I tried mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and that worked. Within a few hours, the torment of a near-death situation was replaced by the joy of a birth.

I insist on speaking plainly about our rights and the rules that officials need to follow.

Another unusual day that I remember well is when we protested police harassment with a rally. The film Jai Bhim accurately depicts how the police target Adivasi men under the guise of fighting Naxalism. When men from our community go into forests to forage for food or firewood, the officials capture them and compel them to wear certain uniforms and run so they can stage an encounter killing. Innocent Adivasis are invited to photo sessions on the pretext of launching/availing government schemes and then those pictures are used to frame them. This harassment is still going on. I’m not scared of the cops. I insist on speaking plainly about our rights and the rules that officials need to follow. In fact, to make my point I have a tattoo that reads ‘comrade’. After all, the word stands for someone who works for others, a friend. Why is it so reviled? Men here are scared to even whisper the word.

On days when something urgent doesn’t require my attention, I work on documents at the gram panchayat office.

6.00 PM: This is when I usually return home. However, even if I am delayed, my parents don’t worry. They have stopped calling to check on me, as they’re confident that I can manage no matter what situation I find myself in. Often there is somebody waiting for me, and after meeting them I have an early dinner with my parents. Then I go back to more meetings and discussions.

My life can be hectic and I have to multitask. I also take care of my parents. I do get tired, but it is fulfilling to do something for my community. Balancing everything has taken a toll on my education, and boxing and volleyball practice are on the back burner for now. I have somehow managed to complete my graduation and have enrolled for a postgraduate degree. I have special permission from my principal to study remotely and visit the college—Rashtriya Sharirik Shikshan Mahavidyalay in Visapur—for practicals. In the past year, I also attended the Tribal Leadership Programme where I learned a lot from the experience of other Adivasi leaders.

1.00 AM: Yes, I sleep late, and not enough. After a long day, I like to unwind by watching movies late into the night. I enjoy South Indian films where I get to see the tactics used by local politicians and learn from them.

As told to IDR.

Know more

• Read about Navendu Mishra, a grassroots activist who promotes constitutional literacy in rural Madhya Pradesh.
• Learn about why recent legislation on forest conservation hurts India’s indigenous communities and its forests.