Since India has a diverse geography and many social systems, the approaches taken vary from one region to the next. This photo essay documents the efforts of five nonprofits from across the country.

Osmanabad is an aspirational district in Marathwada, a drought-prone region in Maharashtra. Rainfall is irregular, which makes agriculture challenging and directly impacts both income and food security. The pervasive cultivation of cash crops in the area further depletes groundwater levels.

Swayam Shikshan Prayog (SSP) works with women farmers to help them practise an innovative model called one-acre farming. It started with six women who used 0.5–1 acre of their family land to grow food crops such as vegetables, millets, and pulses—the cultivation of which ensured food security for their families. The women relied on bio-inputs and therefore did not have to spend large amounts on chemical inputs. In addition, they sowed crops that require less water and used sustainable techniques such as drip irrigation and sprinklers. The success of this approach has led to its adoption by thousands of women, who demonstrated the model’s benefits to their families and started practising it on larger plots of land. Eventually, SSP helped women farmers widen their market by setting up a farmer producer organisation.  

Professional Assistance for Development Action (PRADAN)’s work in the plateau regions of West Bengal faced a different challenge. These areas have an undulating topography, and high rainfall and deforestation in the region have led to heavy soil erosion. This has impacted the lives and livelihoods of the tribal communities that live here. While the state government made efforts towards watershed development, there was an urgent need to include locals in designing the solutions meant for them.

PRADAN worked with women’s self-help groups (SHGs), village-level organisations, and cluster-level federations to engage the community in the process. They gathered and discussed their challenges—from food security to water scarcity—and gradually came up with the solutions that worked for them. PRADAN also set up a project management unit to coordinate between grassroots civil society organisations and gram panchayats to develop detailed plans for water conservation. This has helped in the creation of natural water harvesting solutions such as tanks and ponds in villages.  

The Gujarat-based nonprofit Vikram Sarabhai Centre for Development Interaction (VIKSAT) works in the northern districts of the state, such as Banaskantha and Sabarkantha, that have limited groundwater potential due to years of the overuse of chemicals in agriculture, among other reasons. These districts are largely populated by tribal people who have small plots of land and limited means to invest in expensive irrigational measures. 

VIKSAT, which actively involves women farmers in its programmes, has designed a water budgeting exercise; as part of this, the communities maintain a scorecard to keep track of water use in the fields. This has enabled the farmers to leverage data to make collective decisions about farming and has also encouraged them to adopt water conservation techniques such as building field bunds and check dams. Over time, they have also shifted to water-efficient wheat varieties and have started using bio-fertilisers such as cow dung that enrich the soil.

Agriculture is a critical driver of Punjab’s economy, with paddy and wheat—both water-intensive crops—grown extensively in the state. Over the years, this has contributed to depleting groundwater levels: 117 of 150 blocks in the state are overexploited.

Centers for International Projects Trust (CIPT) works with farmer cooperatives in Punjab to promote solutions for the water-efficient cultivation of paddy and wheat, including the use of new technologies. They have, for instance, introduced IoT-based soil moisture sensors that estimate the amount of water needed. When the fields require water, the sensors send advisory text messages to farmers who then irrigate their fields based on these inputs. This helps conserve both water and electricity.

In Balrampur, an aspirational district in eastern Uttar Pradesh, agriculture is increasingly becoming an unviable form of livelihood for small and marginal farmers due to rising input costs and poor yields. People’s Action for National Integration (PANI) has trained an all-women cadre of agri-water professionals. The cadre supports these farmers to adopt simple yet innovative agricultural practices that use resources more efficiently and improve farmers’ yields and incomes. Farmers are encouraged to shift away from entrenched behaviours through a range of approaches—video dissemination sessions where they learn about new irrigation methods, field demonstrations that visualise these techniques, providing access to high-quality seeds, bio-inputs, market linkages, and more.

In an earlier version of this photo essay, the location of the second photograph was incorrectly captured as Binpur village, Jhargram district, West Bengal . This was updated on March 27, 2024, to reflect the accurate location.

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Know more

• Read more about how nonprofits are making agriculture viable for small and marginal farmers.
• Learn about the right to water and how it applies to different groups.
• Learn more about groundwater in India.

For approximately 27 years now, I have been building traditional houses and doing carpentry work in Spiti. I spend my summers building mud houses, consulting, and helping locals undertake various types of renovation work, and devote my time to carpentry during winters.

The houses and architectural practices in Spiti have undergone considerable changes since I first started working. One of the major reasons for this is evolving livelihood patterns. While agriculture has remained the primary source of income for people in Spiti, over the years they have moved away from food crops and opted for cash crops such as green pea. Tourism has also become a popular means of livelihood. This photo essay traces the history and reasons for this shift and explores how it impacts Spiti’s culture and architecture. 

Spiti’s architecture has traditionally been dominated by wood, mud, and stone. The choice of material would also be dependent on local availability and climatic conditions. In addition, due to regional variations, some materials were extremely scarce in certain areas. For example, in the Todh valley region in upper Spiti, raw materials such as wood, good-quality soil, stone, and iron were difficult to find. Hence, the design and structure of a house would be mostly mud-based with minimal use of resources that were locally unavailable. In lower Spiti, in regions like Sham valley, easier access to building materials meant that earth was used extensively to build walls and roofs and stone was used at the base of a building for stability.

Earlier, Spitians were primarily dependent on agriculture and livestock rearing and the architectural designs were built to accommodate the agro-pastoral needs of the household and the community. Structures for cattle such as corrals, livestock pens, and storage rooms for grains and tools, as well as dry toilets, dhangtseys (open courtyards), and flat roofs were integral to houses in the agricultural society.

The communities were familiar with the local resources and materials used for construction, and the simple architectural methods meant that there was an easy transfer of knowledge. Building a house was a communal event; community members would come together to make shelters for one another in exchange for barley, vegetables, and other products.  

However, things started changing in the 1990s as the government’s encouragement for the cultivation of green pea, a cash crop, began showing rich dividends. The pea farmers started going to places such as Chandigarh in Punjab to sell their produce. While coming back, they would pick up raw materials such as thicker wood, which then started replacing the thinner varieties such as juniper, willow, and poplar that we had in Spiti. People in the towns started aspiring for the big city life including the reinforced concrete (RCC) buildings that they saw there, which favoured materials such as steel, glass, and cement. Now that they had the means to achieve it, the Spitian town architecture started distancing itself from the remote villages.  

Concrete roads were constructed and connected to other regions. As the residents of Spiti started interacting with people from other districts, they began adopting their architectural practices. For example, mistris like me would visit hotels in Kullu and study the architecture. We saw that there were attached bathrooms everywhere and tiled roofs which we didn’t have. Those were the days before internet, so we would measure the bathrooms and rooms and document how they were built, and start implementing these learnings when we came home.    

Gradually, Spitian villages such as Kaza, Tabo, Rangrik, Losar, Khurik, Shego, and Lara began attracting many tourists, which proliferated the area with homestays and hotels. The economic boom meant that young people from the community were now going to schools and colleges, and entrepreneurship and jobs became real career options.

While the need for construction grew, communal labour was neither available nor could it meet the scale of demand. Spiti required workers, and they came in the form of migrants from lower Himachal districts such as Mandi, Kangra, and Shimla, and even from as far as Rajasthan, Bihar, Odisha, Jharkhand, and Maharashtra. This worked for the building owners because, unlike the locals who only worked in conducive weather conditions such as April–May when it is neither too hot nor too cold, the migrants were ready to work throughout the year. Our elders would advise us against building houses in June–July for fear of rain, but now construction goes on under tarpaulin shades during monsoon too.

Mistris like me are still needed because we teach the workers indigenous techniques such as the use of stone in building houses. But we are slowly losing this community knowledge. Building a Spitian house was an intuitive process for the communities because they already knew the basics. It didn’t involve unnecessarily complex methods and tools for implementation. We had our gyangon-da (a rammed-earth mason), piti dor-si (stonemason), and piti shingzo-wa (woodcrafter/carpenter) to teach us, but most young people had to learn how to build a floor, a roof, or a livestock pen themselves. The shift to non-traditional, industrial raw materials is now rapidly alienating locals from their own land, resources, and indigenous knowledge that they had preserved for generations.

A version of this article was originally published on Himkatha.

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Know more

• Read this article to understand traditional Spitian architecture.
• Read this article to learn about how women in Uttarakhand are turning into entrepreneurs by running homestays for tourism.

Over the past three years, Land Body Ecologies (LBE)—a global transdisciplinary network exploring the deep linkages of mental and ecosystem health—has sought to understand the long-standing connections between forests, land, and people. LBE is based in the Arctic North, India, Kenya, Uganda, Thailand, and the United Kingdom. It aims to document stories of loss emanating from being at home and yet feeling that your own home is leaving you. This concept, solastalgia—coined by Glenn Albrecht—was resonant across all our research sites.

In India, we worked with communities in the eco-sensitive zone of the Bannerghatta National Park (BNP), located on the outskirts of Bengaluru city. The BNP was declared a national park under the WPA in 1974, with a notified conservation area of more than 250 square kilometres.

The BNP eco-sensitive zone comprises 16 hamlets or doddis, which are typically quite small, with fewer than 20 houses. The doddis are home to a diverse mix of people, such as settled agricultural communities, indigenous populations that have been moved out of the forests, migrant pastoralists, and other marginalised groups that have found a refuge here. For our research study, we engaged with more than 55 respondents in Bannerghatta through design research methodologies, including in-depth interviews, and activities that involved the community using polaroid photos to document spaces in their doddis and then telling us the stories of the photos they took.

The Iruligas are an Adivasi community living in the region. There are many theories about the origin of the word ‘iruliga’—some believe it comes from ‘irulu’ (darkness), while others trace it to ‘ili’ (rat)—a reference to the widely held view that Iruligas hunt and subsist on rats. However, in the Bannerghatta region, Iruligas are identified by other communities as panditru, or forest saints, in recognition of their deep knowledge of the forest—including the medicinal properties of various herbs—and their understanding of animals, rooted in centuries of lived experience.

Madamma, an old Iruliga woman, recalls how her people relied on their awareness of medicinal herbs in the forest. “When we fell ill, we would medicate by applying the knowledge passed down from our grandparents. We would use the juices of the roots and plants available to us. Why would we need to get injections and tablets when our forest can take care of us?”

For the Iruligas, the forest has been an intrinsic component of their culture—this has engendered in them a duty to care for it. Thimarayappa, an old Lambani conservationist in Bannerghatta, adds, “If they (the Iruligas) had to chop down a tree, it would be a very thought-out decision. If they had to cut greens, it would be only the top parts, not the roots. If they had to dig a root vegetable, they would not remove it completely from the roots because they believe it needs to be there for the coming year. Not one tree would be chopped down unnecessarily.”

Thimarayappa attributes his familiarity with the forest to the time he spent learning from the Iruliga elders, and is keen to give them the credit and respect they have often not received. “I want to reiterate one important thing—if the forests are surviving today, it is because of these people. They have been the unofficial forest department for centuries. But look at their plight now. For all the work they have done for the forests, they have only got humiliation and hurt in return. This is why they do not like the forests any more.”

So what has caused the Iruligas to feel a disconnect with their homes?

Based on our work in the region, the implementation of the WPA and the Forest Conservation Act has contributed to this disconnect. The WPA states that “no individuals can damage, destroy, exploit or remove any wildlife or forest produce” and that flora and fauna are categorised as “government property”. It also put in place harsh control measures in the form of penalties including a three-year prison sentence, a fine of INR 25,000, or both.

The control measures on the conservation laws have led to the state taking on the role of sole owner and guardian of the forest while alienating and meting out harsh treatment towards the Iruligas, who contest this space with the state. An elder spoke about how these acts have become an excuse to harass and detain her community. “The forest officials beat and lock us up in police stations. We have become tired of this nuisance. We do not need this. Going to the forest brings us shame, so now we have stopped going.”

It must be noted that while the Forest Conservation Act technically allows for communities to use forest produce for ‘personal use’, this does not happen in actuality. Instead, they are often stopped from even entering the forest by local authorities. 

With the passage of these two acts, the state positioned itself as the protector of the forest and viewed the local tribal communities as a threat to the flora and fauna of the BNP and as an obstacle to the preservation of the ecosystem. This in turn affected tribal livelihoods, disrupting their economic activities and eroding their cultural identity.

This loss has further given rise to an intergenerational conflict within the community. The Iruliga elders, regarded as unofficial stewards of the forest, now face the painful reality of their children trying to shed this identity and seek a new one.

An elder we spoke to lamented about how their generation worked hard to raise their children, who now turn around and accuse them of having done nothing. “The youth don’t understand our circumstances and how much we struggled. Now the forest department comes and imprisons them and uses them as scapegoats if anything happens in the forest. That is why they are angry.” Thimarayappa adds, “They are not interested in learning about medicines or the forest any more.”

“There is no work for us here,” says a young man. “We too want a ‘standard’ life. None of my friends here are married and nobody will let their daughters marry someone who lives near the forest. They say we don’t have any facilities or a future here. We are looking for opportunities in Bengaluru so we can move away.”

Today, the Iruliga youth are in search of a new identity that commands respect; for example, living as a gainfully employed person in Bengaluru. This decision to move away has been met with disappointment and concern and is echoed by Madamma, who says, “In my time, we were struggling to survive and nobody drank that much. Now the youth are confident of earning INR 1,000 wherever they go. With this, they do not mind buying alcohol and drinking. They have learned everything and none of us are able to control them or help them get off alcohol. We are trying to help them salvage their lives, but they do not listen to us any more.”

Through all this, the role of the state must be examined. The implementation of the WPA and the Forest Conservation Act has been successful, to some degree, in achieving its goals of increased forest cover and protection of wildlife. However, it has failed to provide alternatives to the communities it has upended, while also falling short in curbing commercial activities such as mining within and outside the boundaries of the forest. Communities like the Iruligas that live in the BNP region must be meaningfully integrated into the state’s efforts to preserve the forest and wildlife. Scholars who have highlighted the varied kinds of mistreatment and discrimination faced by the communities have also emphasised the need for the state to take on measures such as providing alternate livelihood opportunities as well as revisiting and easing the strict control of forests. This will allow communities like the Iruligas to reforge their connection with the forest in a way that can revive a culture on the brink of disappearing.

Romit Raj contributed to this article.

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Know more

• Listen to this podcast to learn more about solastalgia.
• Read this article about increasing incidents of human-wildlife conflict caused by climate change.
• Read this report to understand how forest-dwelling communities in Madhya Pradesh are systemically prosecuted under wildlife protection laws.

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A shop-floor worker is in contact with only his petty contractor, an agent assigned by a higher-level contractor to source labour. In essence, these enterprises function as unregistered shop floors, each of which employs 20–30 workers who operate three or four machines within a unit. The workers are answerable to their direct petty contractor and not the company’s management or the primary employer. A common thread connecting these business set-ups and trades is the ‘boiler’, a furnace-type container that generates steam, necessary at every step of garment processing.

The boilers are required to operate all the time, except during maintenance, which means that the operators must work overtime. Since these boilers continuously produce high levels of heat and smoke, they can be hazardous to the workers’ health. Moreover, there are other risk factors such as explosions and burns.

This photo essay provides a glimpse into the lives of those employed in Narol’s boiler industry and shows how the workers’ socio-economic backgrounds and the informal nature of their work heighten the challenges in their lives.

Migrant workers, informal labour, and poor pay

Boiler work is typically carried out by seasonal migrant workers—hired on contract by petty contractors—belonging to scheduled tribes and denotified tribes. They mostly come from the border districts of Gujarat, Madhya Pradesh, and Rajasthan. A majority are landless labourers who migrate to cities like Ahmedabad to earn a meagre but continuous income, which isn’t available at their native place. They migrate with their families and their spouses usually work with them in these factories. Even when they go back to their villages during the agricultural season, they are employed as farm labourers in other people’s fields. There’s also no guarantee that their factory job will be secure when they return because their employment hinges on a verbal contract spanning six months to a year.

The contractor provides the workers a kharchi (advance) at the time of joining, and the remaining amount is paid in the first week of the month. These workers are paid below the minimum wage of INR 11,752 per month as required by law in Gujarat. The amount is much lower than the earnings of the workers involved in the processes at the higher end of garment manufacturing—such as dyeing, printing, and washing—who easily earn INR 14,000–16,000 a month. Further, boiler workers are forced to work for more than 12 hours instead of the mandated eight hours, and there is no compensation for overtime labour. They also lack the social security coverage provided by measures such as employees’ state insurance and provident fund.

Hazards in the workplace and hazards at home

Usually, the boiler workers are at the bottom of the socio-economic hierarchy at the workplace—they are from the most marginalised caste groups and do not have access to many educational and livelihood opportunities. The main reason they work in boilers is to maximise their income—they save on rent by living in on-site colonies—while holding a flexible job.

Non-unionised workers often don’t complain about the sheer dearth of safety protocols in the factories as they fear being terminated by employers. For operating a boiler with a capacity of two tonnes, four families are hired to work in two shifts. Men hand-fire the fuel, typically wood or coal; they stand near the 400–450-degree furnace and are continuously exposed to heat, smoke, and dust for long hours. Manual tasks such as cutting the wood into smaller pieces, carrying the fuel to the furnace, and ash disposal are taken up by women, exposing them to dust particles, charcoal, and ash, which is harmful to their health. Children roam around the factories unmonitored, as both spouses are involved in the work. There is also a risk of the boilers exploding and causing fires if they are not maintained and repaired periodically.

Chanda*, a 27-year-old boiler worker, says, “Women lend a helping hand to men as the wages earned by them are not sufficient to run the household. Women workers do not have privacy—we are harassed at worksites—and we’re paid half of what the men receive. We also have to cook the food, buy essentials, wash clothes and utensils, and look after the children.”

In larger and safer factories, the boilers run on low-emission fuel such as compressed natural gas (CNG), and an operator is needed only to monitor the fuel supply and set the temperature of the furnace. But such boilers with upgraded technology are not common in Narol, where even the operation, repair, and maintenance of the machines are outsourced to the contractors. These contractors lack connections with manufacturers of machines with better technology. Even if they know such manufacturers, they hesitate to reach out because such technology could replace the labour force and potentially lead to a loss of work for them.

Women’s health is even more precarious than that of the men in the household.

The workers reside in a temporary on-site structure that can be easily dismantled if the enterprise shuts down or is relocated. This structure is made of cheap material such as asbestos, brass, or sometimes steel; it is dingy and not well ventilated, so it remains dark, hot, and humid. In the factories, the workers are constantly exposed to hazardous conditions, and at home they lack a hygienic environment, which eventually contributes to them developing long-term illnesses. The burden of domestic work is solely upon women, and since they are engaged in both paid and unpaid labour for longer durations, their health is even more precarious than that of the men in the household.

Dr R K Prasad, a family medicine specialist and an educator at Basic Healthcare Services, a nonprofit that works on the health of marginalised communities, observes, “An individual working in boilers must be hardly consuming 800 calories a day, whereas they must be burning approximately 2,000 calories at work. This diminishes their quality of life over time. All the women working in the boilers [and the children of the workers] are severely malnourished. Some of the workers may have developed pneumoconiosis or ‘black lung disease’, which is caused by the chronic inhalation of coal dust over a long period of time.”

Union-led advocacy for more bargaining power

Section 4 of Boiler Operation Rules, 2021, mandates that a boiler operation engineer has to either directly be in charge of boiler operation or appoint an attendant. Additionally, Section 7 of the rules requires such personnel to be physically present within 100 metres of the boilers. A survey of 25 enterprises was undertaken by Karkhana Shramik Suraksha Sangh (KSSS), a registered trade union that focuses on the rights and entitlements of migrant workers employed in factories in Ahmedabad. The survey revealed that enterprises that have an operating boiler weren’t complying with either of these rules. It also showed that most factories violated regulations concerning wages, social security, overtime, and mandated working hours. The workers were not provided with safety gear such as masks, gloves, or boots; no officers were appointed or committees constituted to avert or respond to worksite emergencies or accidents in a timely manner; and there were no separate toilets for women or a day-care space for children. KSSS now provides preparedness training and legal literacy around rights and entitlements of the workers, supports them in mediation of industrial disputes with owners and contractors, and helps facilitate advocacy with various departments under the state and local governments.

The members of KSSS are a mixed group of shop-floor workers, including those in boilers, dyeing, printing, washing, stitching, and packaging, as well as petty contractors. Those petty contractors who are members of the union understand and empathise with the struggles of shop-floor workers, and they align with the union’s goals of advancing the rights and entitlements of Ahmedabad’s informal migrant workers.

The workers have now taken various issues to the Directorate of Industrial Safety and Health (DISH), the regional director of Employees’ State Insurance Corporation (ESIC), and the office of Directorate of Boilers, Gujarat. At present, DISH has issued notices to 11 enterprises for wage violations. ESIC too has agreed to inspect and penalise enterprises that do not provide workers with employees’ state insurance cover.

Madanlal,* a 37-year-old petty contractor at a boiler site and KSSS member, says, “Several enterprises, including the one for which I work, underwent boiler inspections after the union submitted a letter demanding the same. Later, the labour department also called for a meeting of all the boiler operators in one of the enterprises and an officer conducted a session on safety protocols. This was a result of the union’s advocacy.”

*Names changed to maintain confidentiality.

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Know more

• Read this article to learn more about the difficult lives of the boiler workers in Gujarat’s fabric industry.
• Read this article to understand why India’s garment factories need women leaders.

This photo essay captures the community members’ journey of conservation, highlighting the challenges they encountered while developing and sustaining this model. It also showcases their unwavering commitment to both the animals and the environment as they continue to fight for the preservation of their common land.

Coming together for livestock and land

Thana village is home to approximately 1,200 animals, including cattle, sheep, and goats. Livestock farming is the primary livelihood of most people living here. Droughts are common and ensuring an adequate supply of fodder, especially from late winter to mid-summer, is a major challenge. Shyam Gujjar, a resident of the area, shares, “During the drought in 2022, many animals perished from hunger, particularly those abandoned ones that resorted to eating plastic out of sheer desperation.” Kalu, Shyam’s friend, adds, “We empathise with the stray animals, but it’s a struggle to feed our own livestock.”

During this period, feeding a single animal for survival itself could cost up to INR 10,000, and a significantly larger investment is required for them to thrive. Shyam explains, “During these months, the price of wheat stocks soars to INR 20 per kilogram or INR 600 per 40 kilograms. Just one animal would need at least 600 to 700 kilograms to survive and approximately 4,000 kilograms to thrive.”

Without common land, there’s also a loss of the sense of community.

Furthermore, the encroachment of common land by community members who wield social, economic, and political power worsens the problem for smallholder farmers. They are forced to allocate a significant portion of their earnings to purchase fodder, which is an expense they could cut down on if they had ample common land for their animals to graze freely.

Without common land, there’s also a loss of the sense of community. Shyam says, “Collective ownership differs from individual ownership. An individual can choose to build a 6-foot wall around his land and decide who is allowed and who is not. But with commons, the richest of the rich and the poorest of the poor have an equal stake. They can determine how they want to use it; the wealthy may use it for leisure, while the less fortunate can earn a livelihood.”

In 2006, Balulal Gujjar, Shyam’s father, took the lead in mobilising the village against encroachments on their shared land. The villagers recognised the critical importance of safeguarding and improving these resources for food security, and wholeheartedly supported the initiative. That year, an informal committee was formed, which collaborated closely with local authorities for the development of these lands. To ensure fair decision-making, the people of Thana established a structured system. They conduct meetings on the 5th and the 20th of every month to decide upon vital matters, such as when to allow grazing and setting grazing fees for the villagers, and share updates on encroachment removal and the identification of new encroachments.

While its inception was informal, the committee was officially registered as the Charagah Vikas Samiti in March 2021 under the Rajasthan Panchayati Raj Act, 1996, thus obtaining legal authority to mobilise local resources, raise funds, and seek government support for various development projects aimed at improving the living standards of the community. Under the act, the committee is legally empowered to make decisions concerning the management of these lands, ensuring equitable access for all residents, and enforcing regulations related to land use and environmental conservation.

Taking back the commons

Thana village has approximately 2,000 bighas of common land, nearly all of which were encroached upon at some point. Thanks to the persistent efforts of the Charagah Vikas Samiti, 10 percent (200 bighas) of this land has been successfully reclaimed from encroachers.

Kalu explains, “Reclaiming this land is quite challenging because the encroachers are often fellow or neighbouring villagers. We attempt negotiation first, but there are times when we have to invest our own resources and travel 100 kilometres to Bhilwara to file a formal complaint against the offenders.”

Encroachment tactics vary. While some individuals gradually expand the boundaries of their private properties into the common land, others create ramps for their cattle to cross over into the commons. People have also attempted to establish shrines and, in one instance, invited a baba (religious guru) to reside on the common land, thinking that people will be afraid of taking any action against him and so he can facilitate the takeover of the land.

The committee employs various methods to combat these encroachments. For example, when confronted with stone boundary walls built by the encroachers on the land, committee members dismantle them and reuse the stones to construct the commons’ walls. In cases involving the construction of ramps, heavy machineries such as bulldozers are summoned for removal. When a resident from a neighbouring village put up a stone shrine, Kalu took matters into his own hands, physically relocating the stones to near the homes of those who attempted to establish the shrine.

He explains that encroachers employ such tactics because shrines hold religious significance, making it unlikely for anyone to remove them out of fear of divine retribution. Shyam adds, “In the case of the baba who settled on the common land, we mobilised the entire village, making announcements using microphones and drums. By the time we all gathered, the baba had fled the area.”

Securing resources for the development of the reclaimed land

While removing encroachments is a significant achievement, developing the reclaimed land is equally crucial to make it productive and fulfil its role in ensuring food security for livestock. However, development in this context involves more than just financial resources. Shyam emphasises, “Beyond money, people have contributed their labour to develop this land. Individual families took on specific responsibilities, such as building sections of the boundary wall.”

In addition to monetary contributions and labour inputs, institutional support plays a pivotal role, and the Charagah Vikas Samiti facilitates these efforts. The committee collaborates with the gram panchayat, block, and district development officers to ensure the efficient use of government schemes such as MGNREGA and Mukhya Mantri Jal Swavalamban Yojana for planned land development. Most of the land’s development, including the construction of durable boundary walls, ponds, check dams, and contour trenches, has been accomplished through the coordinated utilisation of these schemes.

Shyam highlights, “Countless hands have contributed to the land’s development, with people from Thana village and neighbouring villages—some from as far as 8 kilometres away—coming to work on this land. We estimate that work worth more than INR 1 crore has been completed, benefitting the local community. While the financial benefit per individual may not be substantial, it’s far more equitable than money going into the hands of a single contractor.”

 An estimated annual budget of INR 2.5–3 lakh is needed for the proper maintenance of the charagah. 

To generate funds, the committee conducts auctions of grass and fruits harvested after the monsoon season, which earns them approximately INR 50,000. This money is used to hire a security guard for several months in the year to prevent stray animals from entering the charagah and to ensure that no one allows their animals to graze without permission. The guard is paid INR 6,000 per month.

Apart from the auctions, the committee lacks a regular income source. Shyam estimates that an annual budget of INR 2.5–3 lakh is needed for the proper maintenance of the charagah. These funds are required for boundary wall repairs, tree planting, and hiring of security guards for both morning and night shifts throughout the year. Kalu emphasises that support from the government or philanthropic foundations would greatly help in these endeavours.

Harvesting the fruits of conservation

When it comes to the benefits derived from the development of the charagah, there are two distinct categories. Firstly, there are direct advantages, primarily in the form of an extended fodder supply during critical months. This translates to substantial annual savings of approximately INR 6,000 per animal, if not more. Secondly, there are increased employment opportunities through MGNREGA, which not only boosts direct income but also allows nutritious fodder and thus healthier livestock.

For the people in and around the village, the reclaimed and replenished land also offers a place for peace and leisure. Shyam explains, “Kalu and I often come here to sit in silence, listening to the birds chirping.” Kalu describes the experience saying, “It’s so serene that if you come here hungry, you’ll forget your hunger.”

This profound sense of ownership and attachment to the land stems from the fact that the community members themselves reap the rewards of their labour. The beneficiaries extend beyond the human community. The village’s domestic animals, as well as wild creatures such as blue bulls and hundreds of bird species, enjoy the bounties of the land.

Shyam and Kalu say, “We plant different types of fruit and trees on the land. This benefits numerous wild animals and birds, providing them with nutritious sustenance and contributing to the overall conservation of biodiversity.”

To further enhance this effort, it is essential to strengthen the provisions for the Charagah Vikas Samiti. Kalu and Shyam say, “A source of regular income could help reinforce the system we have developed here. If the government can allocate an annual budget [for the upkeep of common lands], it would encourage more panchayats to establish samitis like ours—helping more people, animals, and the environment in general. Even private institutions and nonprofits can assist with funds for specific initiatives or contribute by sharing conservation knowledge and helping in improving our committee functionality.”

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Know more

• Learn how an adivasi activist from Rajasthan composes songs to encourage the conservation of natural resources.
• Learn about sustainable livelihoods and resilience through community forest management.

Studies have shown that vehicles are a major contributor to Delhi’s air pollution. In a bid to counter this narrative, the Delhi government launched the Delhi Electric Vehicle (EV) Policy in 2020. It aims for 25 percent of the vehicles on the city’s roads to be powered by electricity by 2024. Since 75 percent of the vehicles on Delhi roads are two- and three-wheelers, there’s been a concerted effort to encourage EV adoption among autorickshaw drivers, who are the backbone of the transport system.

E-rickshaws, battery-operated three-wheelers that cover short distances, have been promoted as a viable alternative. They make sense not only because they run on electric motor and battery, but also because they are frequently shared by passengers on a common route, which reduces emissions. The Delhi government has announced subsidies that facilitate buying of e-rickshaws and installed public charging stations across the city. Now, drivers can exchange their discharged batteries for fully charged ones at  battery swapping shops.    

As Delhi races to become the EV capital of the country, this photo essay documents the hopes, aspirations, fears, and challenges of the e-rickshaw drivers in Delhi–NCR. It attempts to highlight the drivers pivoting the cities’ sustainable transport revolution, understand what this transition means for them and their livelihoods, and underline the issues that still trouble them.

A better life?

We spoke with e-rickshaw drivers in Ghaziabad and Delhi and found that many of them are migrants from rural Uttar Pradesh, Bihar, and West Bengal.

Ajinesh, who has been driving an e-rickshaw around the Indirapuram residential area in Ghaziabad for two years now, moved to Ghaziabad from Hamirpur village in Uttar Pradesh in search of a better livelihood. He says, “I used to drive a rented autorickshaw in the village. I would earn INR 1,700–1,900 a day, and from that I would pay the owner INR 500 daily and fill INR 200 worth of gas (CNG). My uncle who lives in this city asked me to come here and try my luck. I knew how to drive an auto, but there was a lot of competition among autos. There were fewer e-rickshaws at that time, so I rented one.”

Ajinesh pays INR 300 as rent for the e-rickshaw and spends INR 210 on the rechargeable batteries, which he swaps three times a day at battery swapping centres across the city. He drives his e-rickshaw from Ghaziabad to Noida and ferries passengers and goods too. Initially, this was profitable and he used to make INR 1,500 a day, but as more people started driving e-rickshaws, his income started to reduce. Now, at the end of his workday, Ajinesh is left with the same INR 800–1,000 that he used to make driving the auto in his village. He says, “The e-rickshaws posed a challenge to the auto drivers when they started taking over the road. Now, the e-rickshaw drivers are competing among themselves as their numbers have increased significantly, especially in residential areas and for commuting to and from the metro.”

He starts driving at 8 am and finishes work at 10 pm. This 14-hour shift is a marked increase from the eight or nine hours he used to spend driving his auto. Ajinesh admits that he doesn’t get enough time to spend with his wife and their 11-month-old child. He is the family’s only earning member. As expenses at home are bound to increase, he wants to buy his own e-rickshaw and save the money he pays in rent. “I will buy a metal rickshaw, which is sturdier than the plastic variant I am driving now. They are available for INR 1,75,000 on EMI at the showrooms here.”  

E-rickshaw drivers like Ajinesh say that the interest on the loan is anywhere between 17 and 20 percent, which is a substantial amount. There’s also a down payment of INR 40–50,000. As many people can’t afford to pay these amounts, they rent a vehicle. The Delhi government is providing a purchase incentive of INR 30,000 on buying e-rickshaws and a 5 percent interest subsidy on loans, but this is limited to certain brands.

Dilip Ram, an e-rickshaw driver in Delhi’s Govindpuri area who migrated from Bihar, says, “There are many brands in the market now and the government doesn’t trust the new players. There’s subsidy but people who applied for it have been waiting to receive those for two–three years now.”

To avail the government subsidies, the drivers must have documents such as Aadhaar card and electricity bills for residential proof, with a no-objection certificate from the landlord in case of rented housing. Documentation is often a challenge for migrant workers. Dilip says, “It is easier to get second-hand lead-acid-battery-operated rickshaws for INR 30–40,000.”

In the lead

While the lithium-ion-battery-run vehicle that Dilip drives is a more recent phenomenon, e-rickshaws powered by lead batteries have been plying the Delhi–NCR roads since 2012 when they were launched with much fanfare. However, soon questions started being raised about the environmental and health impact of recycling lead batteries. They have to be replaced as they run out every six to eight months. As a Newslaundry report in 2022 detailed, the e-rickshaw drivers sell these batteries to dealers and buy new batteries. However, the dealers don’t often follow proper recycling procedure, which ends up causing pollution every step of the way.

In September 2022, the Delhi High Court banned the registration of new e-rickshaws that use lead batteries. But there’s a burgeoning black market and second-hand market, and people without the means to pay the considerably higher price for lithium-run rickshaws will continue to buy lead-battery-operated e-rickshaws even if they have to pay the occasional fine.          

Carrying the load alone

Dilip says that if the drivers received some help with documentation, more people could adapt to the change. To understand why they need support, one can consider the example of Chandan,* an e-rickshaw driver in Delhi’s Govindpuri locality. He could not avail the subsidies because his disability limits his movement. He says, “Despite knowing about the subsidy, I could not go and apply for it.”

Unlike auto drivers, the e-rickshaws have no unions that often help with awareness. Bharat, who shifted from riding an auto to buying his own e-rickshaw during the lockdown, says, “Unless we have a union, no one will listen to us. You need a union to take an issue to the authorities and even to have a conversation within your own community.”

Bharat gives a recent example of how a group intervention helped resolve a conflict. “Some e-rickshaws in the nearby area started taking passengers for INR 5 each instead of the INR 10 that we usually charge. They were carrying more than four people, which is the number of people allowed in an e-rickshaw. We gathered the e-rickshaw drivers in the area and called a meeting, where we also invited the police. We explained how this system won’t be beneficial for any of us in the long run. Seventy to 75 percent of them agreed with us and quit the practice, and the rest had to stop eventually.”

However, despite multiple efforts, Bharat has not been able to convince everyone about setting up a structured organisation.  

Raining trouble

If the routine challenges weren’t enough, Delhi’s e-rickshaw drivers also had to deal with an unusual monsoon that caused floods and waterlogging in several areas, bringing traffic to a standstill. This affected the e-rickshaws too. The battery compartment of the e-rickshaws is under the seats, and when the water seeps in, the vehicle stops working.

While some e-rickshaw drivers had to give up driving for two–three days during heavy showers, there were others who found ingenious hacks to keep going. Dilip says, “I would just open the plug that connects to the battery, let it dry, and put it back on.”

Charging ahead?

Despite all the issues, Dilip says e-rickshaws make more sense because purchasing an autorickshaw costs INR 7–8 lakh. Drivers such as Dilip and Bharat have installed EV charging facilities at their homes. It costs them INR 60 per day for a full charge, which takes up to six–eight hours and lets the vehicle run for 100 km. It helps that Delhi’s EV charging tariff for homes is among the lowest in the country.

Those who don’t have the means to charge at home can use the multiple public charging stations that the state has installed. However, here they have to pay INR 100 for a full charge. Most of the e-rickshaw drivers park their vehicles at the municipality parking areas at night and take them out in the morning.

The current cost of charging at the station can still be quite high for many people. Those like Ajinesh, who often travel more than 100 km, prefer swapping their batteries instead. He says, “There have been times when I have run out of batteries on the road. I would immediately take my rickshaw to a battery swapping station nearby. They charge INR 150 for the first battery and INR 70 after that.”

The push for EVs has given rise to both private- and government-owned swapping stations. However, there have been safety concerns regarding these since the news of multiple such places catching fire broke out.     

In 2022, The Print published a report where many people emphasised cost, fear of the vehicles being stolen, and lack of awareness about government initiatives as reasons for not embracing the e-rickshaw wave.

Vijay,* who drives a CNG auto in South Delhi and also has an electric auto that his father drives, says, “Currently, there’s no difference in income between the e-rickshaw drivers and auto drivers for me to want to make the shift. CNG stations are more easily available than EV charging stations, which are mostly concentrated in South Delhi. I might be paying INR 250 to fill the tank, but I don’t have to wait for hours to charge my vehicle.”

He adds, “E-rickshaws should run for at least 200 km on a single charge and have fast charging. It works for my father because he doesn’t go very far, but he struggles with connecting the charger every night.”

*Names changed to maintain confidentiality.

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Know more

• Read this article to understand what’s holding back e-rickshaw adoption in India.
• Read this article to learn how policymakers can enable individual climate action.
• Learn more about viable financing pathways for electrifying India’s public transport.

When they aren’t throwing away used clothes, Indian consumers either donate them to charity or give them to brands that have incorporated a recycling unit in their supply chain. While these are positive steps towards becoming a sustainable industry, clothes as a product are still difficult to recycle. The process is labour-intensive and expensive, which makes the end product even more costly for the consumer. Upcycling is a viable alternative, and while there are new, niche start-ups working on it, the concept itself has a long history in India.

For generations now, pheriwalis (hawkers) have been going door to door giving new utensils to people in exchange for old clothes, which they later upcycle and sell at local markets. Many of these women belong to the Devipujak (or Waghri) community, a denotified tribe in Gujarat; they migrate to different parts of the country to continue their traditional occupation. While conversations around sustainable fashion practices have gathered steam even among government departments and policymakers, the original upcyclers continue to struggle to survive.

This photo essay documents the work of the pheriwalis in the used clothes market of West Delhi’s Raghubir Nagar. It explores how their upcycling ecosystem functions, and looks at the challenges they face as fashion trends shift and climate change impacts their health and livelihood.  

The Ghoda Mandi upcycling ecosystem

For two–three days of the week, the pheriwalis travel to the neighbourhoods of East and West Delhi to collect old clothes. They start early and return by 8–9 pm. Once they have the clothes, they spend the rest of the week selling them at the market in Raghubir Nagar.

The Raghubir Nagar market—also known as Ghoda Mandi because of the adjacent temple, Ghode Wala Mandir—is operational from 4 am. The pheriwalis reach an hour or so in advance to grab their spot. The market is a hub of various vendors who form the upcycling chain. There are people who wash the clothes and those who do the darning and stitching that makes the clothes look new. There are also utensil shops opposite the market that cater to the pheriwalis.

Kankiben, who has been a pheriwali in the area for 35 years, says, “The shopkeepers give us utensils at a cheaper price and we can even return the utensils that we can’t barter. There are some fancier shops in the area that keep crockery and glassware, but they don’t let us in.”

The market also has vendors who sell buttons, zips, and brand labels that appeal to consumers looking to keep up with the latest fashion. Rajkumar, a tailor who shut down his grocery shop to join this market, finds it more profitable in comparison; now, even his son has started assisting him. His customers include the pheriwalis as well as individuals and merchants who visit the market. If they want their clothes stitched, he does it for them. Otherwise, they just buy the products from him at a cheaper price. Rajkumar says, “I get everything from Seelampur [in North East Delhi]. I sell 15 brand labels for INR 10, three packets of buttons with around 1,500 pieces for INR 10, three thread reels for INR 10, and so on.”

How the pheriwalis’ work has changed

Living close to this ecosystem eased the pheriwalis’ work in the past. They had in their vicinity everything they needed for their work. However, in 2001, a large part of their basti (slum) was demolished by the Delhi Development Authority (DDA). Many of the pheriwalis were moved to Bakkarwala, which is 15 km away from the market. Since the pheriwalis carry heavy loads of clothes and utensils from the neighbourhood to the market, the shift has increased their labour, travel cost, and work hours. “We try to carry at least 10 pieces of utensils with us on the pheris, but have to reduce the number to two–three pieces to travel via metro or bus,” says Savita, a pheriwali.

Fewer people are open to giving clothes to the pheriwalis now, which means that their income has reduced considerably.

The consensus is that the business has taken a hit. Fewer people are open to giving clothes to the pheriwalis now, which means that their income has reduced considerably. Moreover, not as many people are buying old clothes because new clothes are considered aspirational. There isn’t enough money to pay the bills, house rent is going up, and there are no alternative sources of income. Kalyani,* a pheriwali and resident of Raghubir Nagar, says, “People give us clothes worth INR 100 and ask for utensils worth INR 500 in return. We pay INR 6,000 in rent plus electricity and we don’t even get free and clean drinking water. No one wants to give other jobs to people from our caste.”

When Kankiben’s family was moved to Bakkarwala, they were allotted a 107×160 square feet plot with no amenities, and were charged INR 7,000 on top of that. They had to build their house from scratch. Despite the many difficulties they faced in their work, this shift away from Raghubir Nagar, where everyone identified the pheriwalis with their caste and occupation, allowed her to get her son educated. She says, “They have a school in that area so I was able to educate my children.” But despite being educated, her son is still unable to find a well-paying job. “The recruiters reject my son once they find out that his parents are in this profession. So now he teaches children as a private tutor.”

Apart from the dwindling income and lack of alternatives, pollution and unpredictable weather due to climate change are also making the pheriwalis’ work more difficult to sustain. “We are unable to do the pheris for long because of the scorching summer heat. The pollution has made it worse for us. We have developed lung diseases, breathing issues, and eye infections because of the polluted air,” says Kankiben. She adds, “During winters, we line up outside the market from 2 am waiting for it to open. We aren’t allowed to light a fire and sit around it because it causes pollution.” The rain also completely halts their work as the market gets flooded. There is a damaged shed that partially covers the market area, but it does not bring much relief.

Where is the support?

In times of need, they have only the decades-old relationships they can fall back upon. Savita says, “During COVID-19, when the market wasn’t functioning, we had no source of income. The residents who give me their clothes regularly helped me in that difficult time. They would transfer money to me online so we could buy food for ourselves.”

Support from nonprofits has also been hard to come by. “We’ve had organisations help us build toilets in the Bakkarwala area, but no help has been provided to us in the Raghubir Nagar market,” says Kankiben. 

As governments, policymakers, and nonprofits work on reducing textile waste and promoting upcycling and recycling, will they also focus on the pheriwalis who have been doing exactly that for generations? Their network and knowledge could be crucial in building a waste-free India.

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Know more

• Read this article to know about the Waghri community, urban India’s invisible recyclers.
• Read this article to learn about the kantha stitch, Bengal’s traditional upcycling technique. 
• Read this photo essay to understand how Ghazipur’s waste management site functions.

Fifty-two-year-old Kabita Pradhan is a fishworker living in Baguran Jalpai, a coastal village in East Midnapore. In October 2022, tropical cyclone Sitrang was predicted to hit the coast of Bengal. Kabita’s six-member family evacuated their temporary fishing hut and moved into the nearest cyclone shelter. Sitrang did not hit the coast of Bengal and Kabita’s family did not lose their home, but they have faced many other instances of erosion and coastal flooding in the last decade. “We always live with the anxiety of facing a storm, flooding, and damages. In 2021 we lost everything when cyclone Yaas hit the shore with 100 kmph wind speed. On the one hand, the fish stock has depleted, and on the other, the climatic conditions leave us vulnerable,” she said.

Declining fish stocks lead to a livelihood crisis

To compensate for the loss in earnings from fishing, Debabrata Khutia, another fisher in Baguran Jalpai, started farming on his land. “Earlier we used to hire labourers to work on our boats, but this is no longer possible if we want to make a profit. In the last few years fishing has become unprofitable, so we have shifted to farming to survive,” he said. The number of people in the state who are dependent on coastal fishing and allied activities for their livelihood is approximately 400,000. He further elaborated that 90 percent of them have shifted to agriculture-related activities or migrated to other states for better opportunities.

According to Debabrata and other small fishers, an excess of licensed fishing trawlers is responsible for declining fish stocks. From the estuary of the Ganga to deep in the Bay of Bengal, approximately 15,000 trawlers are hovering and blocking the route of fish. Bottom trawling is prohibited up to 12 nautical miles from the coastline, but small fishers in East Midnapore allege that trawlers start trawling just 1 km from the coastline. This has threatened the livelihood of traditional small fishers.

Santosh Bar, a small-scale fisher at Jalda matsya khoti (a fish landing centre that is managed by the fisher community) near Tajpur, explained that while trawlers can go fish in the sea, fishers that follow traditional and sustainable practices face limitations. “In our traditional practice, we cannot move beyond 3–5 nautical miles from the coastline. We tie our boats to a pole and spread our nets across an allotted area, but trawlers have no such rules. They trawl the seabed wherever they want,” he said.

Debasish Shyamal, president of Dakshin Banga Matsyajibi Forum (DMF), a small-scale fishermen union in South Bengal that focuses on the rights of coastal fishworkers, said, “The production rate in marine fisheries in West Bengal has seen a decline in recent years. According to data from the department of fisheries, in 2017–18, fish production in the state was 1.85 lakh tonnes. The volume of fish production reduced to 1.63 lakh tonnes in 2018–19 and 2019–20.”

Debasish said that climate change and unplanned developmental projects have impacted the livelihoods of small-scale fishers in the region. He explained, “The annual fishing period (typically September to March) has reduced due to frequent cyclones. Additionally, coastline developmental projects in Digha, Shankarpur, Mandarmani, and Tajpur have created erosion, which has led to the shrinking of fish-drying spaces for fishing communities.”

The Marine Drive project further threatens the community

The Marine Drive development project, which began in 2018 to boost tourism in Digha, Tajpur, Shankarpur, and Mandarmani, entailed an investment of INR 173 crore. Locals claim that the 29.5 km-long coastal road threatens to disrupt the lives and livelihood of thousands of fishers as well as the fragile coastal ecology of the region.

The newly constructed road near Tajpur was washed away when cyclone Yaas hit the shore in May 2021. “The sea was approximately 2 km away from its current position. Earlier tourists would come regularly and there were around a hundred stalls on the Tajpur beach, but none of them are here today because of erosion. In the last few years the shore has shrunk,” said Suranjan Barai, a local shop owner at Tajpur. A report by the National Centre for Coastal Research released in 2018 said West Bengal recorded the maximum erosion at 63 percent, followed by Puducherry at 57 percent, Kerala at 45 percent, and Tamil Nadu at 41 percent.

Srikanta Das, a traditional fisher from Dadanpatrabar matsya khoti, said that the Marine Drive project started without consulting small-scale fishers, who are significant local stakeholders. “In early 2018, we heard a double-lane road will be constructed along the coast. Since then we started asking government departments about their plans as we (small-scale fishers) live on the shores and use it to dry fish for six months.” Srikanta claims that the government department has neither plans nor maps. “We filed applications under the Right to Information Act to get the actual map and detailed project report, but we haven’t received anything from the authorities. This project does not have coastal regulation zone clearance,” he added.

Small-scale fishers like Srikanta protested and stopped the construction work at Dadanpatrabar when roads began to be built in the middle of their fish-drying area. Saraswati Das, a fishworker, said that approximately 4,000 families live in Dadanpatrabar khoti. They have not been informed that the construction of this road will leave them homeless, and they have not yet been provided any alternative to fishing and fish drying. She also claims that there are 10 more khotis that will be displaced if the government starts building roads for the Marine Drive project. Currently, three bridges at Nayakhali, Jalda, and Soula have been completely constructed. Work is stalled at Dakshin Purosottampur village near Dadanpatrabar khoti due to protests by fishworkers.

Villagers of Dakshin Purosottampur mostly practise agriculture, along with seasonal fishing. They claim that approximately 25 bighas (1 bigha is 27,000 square feet) of agricultural land belonging to 27 villagers has been acquired for the Marine Drive project. “I lost 6 decimal (1 decimal is 435.6 square feet); another villager lost 3 bighas to the road. We have urged the government department to compensate for our losses, but nothing has happened,” said Biren Jana, a villager of Dakshin Purosottampur. Biren further explained that they had agreed to give up their land for development but with due compensation.

Akhil Giri, a local member of the legislative assembly, said that the government is aware of these issues. “The road has been diverted in a few places to avoid conflict with the communities. The government will not acquire anyone’s land without their consent. Those who lose their land will get compensation; the process is ongoing.” He further claimed that the road was constructed for the benefit of the fishing community. “They can now easily transport dry fish from their khoti,” he added.

Debasish said that the government is always planning environmentally destructive projects along the sea, but never includes the local fisher community whose lives depend on the sea. “Earlier we have seen the nuclear weapon launchpad project in Haripur, and recently the construction of the deep-sea port at Tajpur has been approved. Even the Marine Drive project is being pushed by the state government to promote corporate interests on the grounds of tourism development. We believe that these projects will never give us proper employment and cannot be an alternative livelihood to small-scale and artisanal fishworkers.”

All pictures courtesy Tanmoy Bhaduri. The story has been produced as part of Youth for the Coast Fellowship supported by Delhi Forum.

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Know more

• Watch this documentary film to learn more about the threat to the lives and livelihoods of the fishing community in East Midnapore.
• Learn about how villagers in Odisha are replanting a forest to defend themselves from extreme weather events.

Tribal communities have had a long history of movements and protests to secure these rights, and women have played a crucial role in these struggles. These women have had to overcome many obstacles, including resistance from their own communities. This photo essay attempts to capture the hopes and dreams of four tribal women who have been working tirelessly to make their communities’ voices and demands heard.

Aamna Khatun

Aamna Khatun belongs to the Vann Gujjar community, a nomadic tribe spread across the state of Uttarakhand. She works on empowering girls and women in her community, and imagines a future where they can make decisions for themselves and live lives beyond what men have imagined for them. Aamna is also exploring the crucial role women play in preserving the culture of the Vann Gujjar community by documenting various traditional practices from the perspective of women. According to her, the role of Vann Gujjar women in customs and rituals is undocumented, and there are no conversations about how these age-old customs impact them. For instance, in her village, her community used to follow the practice of kudi ke batte kudi (girl in exchange of girl) where, during a wedding, brides were exchanged between the two families. If a family married a daughter into another, they would also marry one of their sons to a girl from the bride’s family. However, this created a situation where the brides’ fates were dependent on each other. If one bride was treated well, the other would also get the same treatment from the in-laws, but if things went sour, both the girls would suffer. This practice has now been discontinued, but the associated stories have also been forgotten. Aamna is trying to capture the stories emerging from such traditions, giving the women impacted by them a chance to talk about their experience. She wishes for her work to have a threefold impact. One, it will help her create a record of the various practices of the Vann Gujjar community. Two, it will highlight more women’s stories in their own voice. And three, it might help the community to reflect on some of the discriminatory nature of these practices and change or end them.

Juliana Pedro Fernandez Siddi

Juliana Pedro Fernandez Siddi lives in Gadagera, a village surrounded by forests and cut off from the city, in Karwar district, Karnataka. She belongs to the Siddi community, whose ancestry can be traced back to Africa. In India, they are spread across Karnataka, Maharashtra, and Gujarat. In the Karwar district where Juliana resides, 30–40 Siddi people live as part of one big community. They eat what they find in the forest or what they grow on their lands. There are no roads connecting them to the towns and no electricity, and the community has little to no access to basic rights such as education and political participation. Juliana claims that the lack of political representation is because very few people have any identity documents. She recalls how when she was 19 years old, Siddis from her village encouraged her to participate in the election to become a taluk panchayat member. However, because many community members didn’t have any identity documents, they weren’t allowed to cast their votes, and she lost by three votes. According to Juliana, the absence of IDs has also been a huge barrier in the Siddis’ access to government schemes and other entitlements. Recognising the importance of political participation, Juliana has been working on getting out the voice of her community. She has not only been helping people get their identity documents in place, but has also been encouraging many of them to stand for elections in local governance bodies. Further, she has been using the traditional Siddi songs and dance forms to mobilise her community members. She is also using them as a means to draw attention to her community, their stories, and their challenges on larger forums. Juliana believes this allows her people to perform on platforms that they otherwise wouldn’t have access to, and helps amplify their voices.

Aaliya Jan

Aaliya Jan, district president of BJP Mahila Morcha in Anantnag district, Kashmir, has been working on the overall development of her area and the Gujjar community, the scheduled tribe that she belongs to. Her primary focus, however, is education, especially higher education for girls. In the absence of colleges in the area, children have to travel to the city for studies, and girls are usually left behind. This is because many parents can’t afford to send them to the city to study further—they often don’t have the money for auto or bus fares, uniforms, and books. Parents are also apprehensive about girls travelling long distances. The weather is an additional barrier—snowfall and cold temperatures make it harder to travel far. Aaliya’s wish is to be able to build a college in her district where girls have to pay a minimal fee to pursue higher studies. She believes education is crucial to uplift the next generation of women in the community, because an educated woman will not only be aware of her own rights but also ensure her daughters are empowered.

Kalpana Chaudhari

Kalpana Chaudhari is the sarpanch, with an all-female Samras gram panchayat, in Kacchal, a village in Mahuva tehsil, Surat district, Gujarat. As is the case with such panchayats, she was chosen by consensus among panchayat members instead of through an election. Kalpana has been working extensively on improving the quality of public schools and education in her village. Besides this, she has organised a group of 30 women from her village as part of a catering service called Prakruti Catering Services. According to Kalpana, she wanted to turn the activity of cooking—work that women perform every day—into an opportunity for women to step outside their homes, interact with others, and get paid. As part of Prakruti, the women cater at weddings and birthday parties, carry out home deliveries, and sometimes even set up their own stalls at events. They primarily cook traditional Adivasi food such as dekhra (green pigeon pea patties), chokha na rotla (rice bread), and panela (pumpkin paste steamed in banana leaves). Whatever money they earn from Prakruti, they split in half—while one half is distributed among all the women, the remaining half is kept aside as an emergency fund. In case a member needs to borrow money at short notice, they can withdraw from this fund or take a loan against their share on very low interest rates. Kalpana shares how Prakruti has become a safe space for women to come together and learn from one another. Moreover, the very act of working outside their homes and earning their own money has inspired confidence among the women.

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Know more

• Read this account of a day in the life of a young Adivasi woman sarpanch.
• Learn how India’s forestation drive is affecting Adivasi women.

As the effects of droughts, floods, and cyclones intensify, more people are likely to lose lives and livelihoods. However, communities and individuals across India are building climate resilience by embracing nature-based solutions and traditional wisdom in response to the changes in their environment. This photo essay captures the impact climate change has had on people living in some of India’s most climate vulnerable states such as Kerala, Maharashtra, Odisha, Rajasthan, and Uttarakhand, and how they are rebuilding their lives amid the adversities.

Jayachandran and his daughters sit in front of their new home in Kerala’s Idukki district. After their house got swept away during the Kerala floods in 2018, Jayachandran constructed this home with the help of a government scheme, which provided INR 10 lakh.

Shiv Prakash and his family live in Govindpura, a village near Jodhpur, Rajasthan. Until the early 2000s, Govindpura, with over 250 households, suffered the dual challenges of seasonal flash floods and recurring droughts. Over time, the villagers worked with a local nonprofit to build structures, such as check dams, to stop the gushing water and replenish groundwater.

Members of a women’s collective gather around a patch of forest scorched by one of the several wildfires that has ravaged Sitlakhet in Uttarakhand’s Almora district. As the frequency of forest fires has risen sharply in recent years, the mahila mangal dal (women’s welfare association) now works closely with the state forest department officials in fighting these forest fires early, primarily using branches of trees.

Yogambar Singh Rawat, a retired school teacher in Uttarakhand’s Rudraprayag district, tunes into a community radio station, Mandakini Ki Awaz. The station focuses on building community awareness about disaster risk reduction and response along with relaying timely government advisories.

A farmer from Belpada village in Odisha’s Kendrapara district where an indigenous variety of paddy called pottiya–which thrives in excess water—is cultivated. Having faced enormous crop losses in successive floods, farmers in the region want to cultivate more pottiya instead of hybrid paddy varieties.

Thomas Joseph points at the raised foundation of his new house. A resident of Kerala’s Kuttanad region, which has the lowest altitude in India, Joseph rebuilt his house on pillars as the frequency of flooding has increased considerably in this region in recent years.   

Rajendra Sitaram Khapre, a farmer from Maharashtra’s Ahmednagar district, buries an earthen pot beside a pomegranate plant. This traditional technique aids moisture retention from drip irrigation so that the plant can survive the scorching summer in one of India’s most drought-prone districts. 

Youth groups along with community members from Ambojwadi, a slum in north western periphery of Mumbai, gather to discuss the climate crisis. With the help of a local nonprofit, they have mapped out areas in the settlement that are prone to flooding, and devised a quick response strategy in case of an extreme climate event.

Heera and Chandan demonstrate water conservation and spring recharge techniques to school students in Suda village of Nainital district in Uttarakhand. As the state faces water scarcity due to changes in rainfall patterns, they are leading efforts to improve spring discharge in the village. They do this by mapping and digging water recharging pits in catchment areas, which helps improve groundwater recharge, leading to increased discharge from springs.

This photo essay is part of Faces of Climate Resilience documentary project by Council on Energy, Environment and Water (CEEW) in partnership with India Climate Collaborative, EdelGive Foundation, and Drokpa Films.

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Know more

• Listen to this podcast to learn why policymakers need to involve climate vulnerable communities in the decision-making process.
• Read this article understand why India needs to build more climate resilient infrastructure.
• Read this article to learn how the indigenous food system of a community in Meghalaya offers lessons climate resilience.

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• Reach out to milan.jacob@ceew.in if you would like to use or screen the Faces of Climate Resilience films.