Despite countries adopting an array of policies to mitigate and adapt to climate change—such as investing in clean energy and energy-efficient technologies and installing early warning systems—it is evident that these efforts alone will not suffice to prevent all climate-related disasters. Even if global warming is miraculously limited to the 1.5°C threshold, the intensity, frequency, and unpredictability of extreme weather phenomena will continue to cause unavoidable and irreversible loss and damage for years to come. This holds true for both rapid-onset events (such as cyclones, floods, and landslides) and slow-onset developments (such as desertification, ocean acidification, biodiversity loss, and rising temperatures and sea levels).

As for developing economies, strained resources are further taxed by the additional costs of climate damage. They bear the brunt of climate change more heavily than developed nations. According to the sixth assessment report of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC), the average mortality from floods, storms, and droughts in particularly vulnerable countries, is 15 times higher compared to countries with very low vulnerability. In India, the potential income loss from the reduction of labour capacity due to extreme heat was estimated to be USD 159 billion, or 5.4 percent of the country’s GDP, in 2021. The L&D fund has primarily been established to support vulnerable countries with the resources they need to recover from climate impacts,both economic and non-economic. Loss of livelihood, crops, property, and ultimately the national GDP count as economic losses because they can be assigned a monetary value. On the other hand, injury to and loss of life, health, rights, biodiversity, ecosystem services, indigenous knowledge, and cultural heritage are categorised as non-economic losses. Loss of income from working days forfeited to heatwaves is an example of an economic loss, while the displacement of communities from coastal villages due to beach erosion would count as a non-economic loss.

Is it the same as adaptation finance?

The L&D fund has emerged as the third pillar of climate finance alongside adaptation finance and mitigation finance; it is meant to help communities restore and rebuild what is lost and damaged. The fund can be utilised, for example, to rebuild infrastructure destroyed by extreme weather events, establish resettlement colonies, set up alternative livelihood programmes, offer counselling services, and initiate projects to commemorate the loss of life and cultural heritage. Some reparative actions—for example, a resettlement housing colony for people displaced by rising sea levels—could be categorised either as adaptation or as loss and damage. However, the commonly understood threshold separating one from the other is that loss and damage includes impacts that are beyond the limits of adaptation. Put simply, it’s when loss and damage occurs even after adaptation measures have been deployed, either because the measures are ineffective or due to the unanticipated severity of the climate impact. The more effective and timelier the adaptation strategies, the lower the risk of loss and damage.  

How did the fund originate?

The L&D fund was operationalised at the 28^th Conference of the Parties (COP 28) held in Dubai in November 2023. However, it has been more than thirty years in the making. The proposal for climate-related financial assistance was mooted as early as 1991, when the UNFCCC was being drafted. At the time, Vanuatu, the Pacific Island nation representing the Alliance of Small Island States (AOSIS), rallied for a globally contributed insurance scheme to assist countries impacted by rising sea levels. The proposal was ignored.

It was in 2007, at the COP 13 in Bali, that the term ‘loss and damage’ first appeared in a UNFCCC decision. Inked into the Bali Action Plan, it outlined three thematic areas of work: assessing the risk of loss and damage, exploring a range of approaches to address it, and defining the Convention’s role in implementing the approaches. In 2013, the Warsaw International Mechanism for Loss and Damage was formed to enhance knowledge of risk management approaches to address loss and damage, strengthen dialogue and coordination between stakeholders, and mobilise financial, technological, and capacity-building support for it.

However, the crucial ground plan for funding remained sketchy. The economics of reparative action was once again left out of the 2015 Paris Agreement, in which loss and damage was covered in Article 8. It spelled out the importance of averting, minimising, and addressing loss and damage, and formulated potential scenarios of loss and damage that nations, particularly vulnerable ones, were likely to encounter in the future.

It was finally in 2022, at COP 27 in Sharm El-Sheikh, Egypt, that money was (notionally) placed on the table, when Parties agreed to operationalise a dedicated fund to address loss and damage. A transitional committee—comprising representatives of 24 developing and developed countries—was appointed to discuss its governance and institutional framework, funding arrangements, and implementation. Over the course of a year, the committee held five meetings, two workshops, two ministerial meetings, and a dialogue. After protracted negotiations, it submitted its report to the Conference of the Parties. And thus, the Loss and Damage Fund was operationalised on November 30, 2023, at COP 28 in Dubai. This also marked a first in the history of the summit: the adoption of a monumental decision on day one. An independent secretariat and governing board were appointed. The World Bank was appointed interim trustee and tasked with hosting the fund for four years. It would oversee the coordination, collection, and allocation of resources in consultation with the Warsaw Mechanism, the International Monetary Fund, and the Santiago Network.

Why are critics sceptical?

More talk, less action:

Since November 2023, the L&D fund has received USD 661.39 million in pledges from several countries, with others expected to contribute later: Italy and France pledged USD 108 million each, Germany and the UAE USD 100 million each, the UK USD 50.6 million, Japan USD 10 million, while the US—the world’s largest economy and second-largest carbon emitter after China—pledged only USD 17.5 million. Experts say the money that all of these countries have pledged in sum is inadequate and covers less than 0.2 percent of what developing countries need, which is a minimum of $400 billion a year as per The Loss and Damage Finance Landscape report. Developing country members of the Transitional Committee proposed that the fund programme a minimum of USD 100 billion a year by 2030.  

The gulf between what developing countries need and what they receive has not only severely compromised their ability to adapt to climate change, but has also heightened the risk of greater loss and damage in the future—risks already amplified by the delay in mobilising accessible climate finance. A report by the Council on Energy, Environment and Water (CEEW) estimates that India itself may require USD 1 trillion between 2015 and 2030 for adaptive actions. The Climate Policy Initiative (CPI) pegs the country’s investment needs for adaptation-based development at USD 14–67 billion annually, for the same 15-year period.

Concerns around climate justice:

Climate justice is anchored in a principle of international law called ‘common but differentiated responsibilities’ (CBDR), which acknowledges that even as all countries are called to take mitigative steps to reduce climate impacts, some have a higher responsibility—and capability—to address climate challenges than others.

By this measure, developed nations, which have had a long head start in building and benefiting from their fossil fuel-based economies and are the primary drivers of climate change—ought to pay a proportionate price towards climate finance, one that helps developing countries deal with it effectively. Who pays, and how much they ought to pay, are vital questions that need to be addressed. The Adaptation Gap Report 2023 emphasises that “a justice lens underscores that loss and damage is not the product of climate hazards alone but is influenced by differential vulnerabilities to climate change, which are often driven by a range of socio-political processes, including racism and histories of colonialism and exploitation.” Critics point out that the fund falls short on delivering on climate justice by failing to set clear, fair, and time-bound expectations on payment, and by doing so, undermines the principles of equity, historic responsibility, and polluter pays, which are codified into the Paris Agreement.

Lack of clarity on operationalisation:

The hard-won voluntarism written into the body text of the COP 28 decision text absolves developed countries of all liability. By inviting them to contribute instead of requiring them to compensate for their relative contributions to global warming, the treaty shields them from potential litigation claims by developing countries. Moreover, there is no floor set for the quantum of the fund. Had developed countries been held to account, they would have had to pay far more than they pledged. By one calculation, the US’s fair share of loss and damage finance in 2022 alone was USD 20 billion, rising to USD 117 billion annually by 2030. The lack of legally binding commitments also has advocacy groups concerned about the long-term stability of the fund. Timing is another concern. With developed countries having delayed nominating members to the Loss and Damage Board, one worry is that efforts to operationalise the fund in time will be hampered.

One way to address the technical shortcomings of the mechanism is to include it in the global stocktake (GST), the 5-yearly review initiated to monitor progress on the Paris Agreement’s long-term goals. The GST, however, does not address loss and damage as a separate pillar, as it does adaptation and mitigation. This, experts say, may result in L&D being subsumed into the adaptation assessment.

Articulating what constitutes loss and damage can advance research on the subject.

Critics have also drawn attention to the need for a clear definition of loss and damage and of what constitutes non-economic losses and damages, which the UNFCCC is yet to frame. The lack of distinct parameters increases ambiguity around which kind of impacts and which countries should be prioritised for the money. Interpretations of the term range from the effects of anthropogenic climate change to only those that occur after the adaptation ceiling has been breached. Articulating what constitutes loss and damage can advance research on the subject and help formulate concrete actions to address it. But actions are reliant on data and there is scant data on these twin themes (loss in particular), not least because of the lack of clearly defined processes and tools to record, measure, and report them. 

It’s therefore vital to establish standardised assessment methodologies at the national, subnational, and local levels of what constitutes loss and damage.

Sources of finance:

The fund is expected to be built with contributions from a spectrum of sources, including public and private finance, and innovative funding instruments such as taxes, levies, and debt swaps—primarily from developed countries. However, the process for capitalisation (beyond initial commitments), has not been spelled out.   

In addition to public finance such as government-issued sovereign green bonds, alternative inflows to the fund could come from multilateral development banks, climate funds, philanthropies, carbon markets, and from carbon taxes and levies imposed on historic, large-scale polluters like the fossil fuel industry and the aviation and maritime sectors. Some states in the US are in the process of legislating for a ‘climate superfund’, which would make fossil fuel producers and refiners liable to pay for local adaptation measures and loss and damage expenses.

Private finance, in the meanwhile, can be raised through bonds and loans, although these run the risk of being conditional and extractive, privileging institutional profit over public interest. The Loss and Damage Finance Landscape report warns that “funding mobilised through financial instruments which seek to profit from the climate crisis, create greater debt burdens or shift responsibility for finance onto vulnerable countries, should not be considered as contributing toward the floor of US$400 billion per year.”  

A paper by CEEW recommends that the L&D Fund sit alongside, but distinct from funding mechanisms like the Green Climate Fund and the Global Environment Facility, and that it be deployed exclusively for loss and damage. Grants and unconditional transfers are preferable financing instruments. The money, it emphasises, should be new, additional, predictable, adequate, fair, debt-free, and accessible to all developing countries.

The role of the World Bank: 

Another point of contention is the appointment of the World Bank as interim trustee and host of the fund’s secretariat for the first four years. Developed countries, such as the US and EU member states, rooted for the World Bank on the grounds that it would speed up operationalisation of the fund. However, 68 organisations have expressed disapproval over the bank’s trusteeship, sceptical of its ability to administer the fund fairly, concerned about the influence that the US, which appoints the bank’s president, may have on its decisions, and wary of the unjustly high interest rates it has charged developing countries in the past. In addition, the bank charges exorbitant administrative fees, which can vault up to 20 percent of a fund’s flows. 

Concerns have been allayed by reassurances that the bank will, over this interim period, be closely scrutinised for accountability, transparency, and fair play. In the meanwhile, the World Bank is yet to accept all the conditions to trusteeship laid down in the decision text. Disputation over any condition can stall the implementation of the fund even further. 

Is India eligible for this money?

Advanced economies like the US, as well as Small Island Nations, have insisted that India and China also contribute towards reparative climate finance. India is the world’s fifth largest economy, with a GDP of USD 4.11 trillion (one spot ahead of the UK), but it still counts itself as a developing country. India is the third largest greenhouse gas (GHG) emitter after China and the US, with 3,380 metric tons of carbon dioxide-equivalent (MtCO₂e) released in 2019. However, in per capita terms, the country ranks 10th in global emissions with 2.5 tCO2e per person. The global average is 6.5 tons; the US leads with 17.6 tons per person.

As an emerging economy with the world’s largest population, and having started down the road to industrialisation two centuries after Europe and the US, India has argued that it cannot be held to the same funding benchmarks as historical emitters. Moreover, like other developing countries, it too has suffered catastrophic climate impacts: in 2019, it lost nearly USD 69 billion to climate-related events. The Reserve Bank of India, citing secondary research, projects that climate change could cost the country 2.8 percent of its GDP and depress the living standards of nearly half its population by 2050. A recent district-level assessment of climate impacts claims that 80 percent of India’s population lives in districts that are highly prone to extreme weather events. 

Yet it’s unlikely, observes a TERI report, that India stands to benefit from the Loss and Damage Fund anytime soon, given the size and scope of the money pledged. But it can leverage its position as a political and economic heavyweight to shape the narrative around how and where the money will flow.  

Joeanna Rebello Fernandes and Shreya Adhikari contributed to this article with inputs and insights from Pranav Garimella, Programme Manager – Climate Program, WRI India.

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Know more

• Learn about rural mitigation measures for water scarcity in this photo essay.
• Watch this video to learn more about loss and damage.

Hailing from Rajasthan’s Rajsamand district, Shankar Singh is a social and political activist, musician, lyricist, theatre artist, and storyteller. He co-founded the Mazdoor Kisan Shakti Sangathan (MKSS) alongside prominent activists Aruna Roy and Nikhil Dey. MKSS is known for its role in advocating for and implementing the Right to Information Act (RTI) in the country.

Shankar Singh has employed a variety of creative strategies to champion the rights of marginalised labourers and farmers, focusing on issues such as wages, employment, and other government social entitlements. His approach is marked by a unique blend of entertainment, music, and sharp wit and satire. He has led many successful movements and campaigns, both at the grassroots and national level. Notably, he has contributed to the implementation of landmark schemes like MGNREGA and government processes such as social audits.

In this conversation with IDR, which is the second of two episodes, Shankar Singh talks about using different mediums—folk music, drama, and puppetry—to engage with communities during social movements. He also discusses what those with specialised skills have to offer to grassroots nonprofits and offers valuable perspectives on carrying on in the face of disappointment and fatigue.

Here are some highlights from the conversation:

00.16 | On working with different mediums

I got the chance to see puppets at one place, the Literacy House in Lucknow, so I started following these people. I felt that I had to learn this and asked them to teach me how to use puppets. Whenever I got the chance, I’d go to them. There was a workshop there, after joining the nonprofit. I went to that workshop. But in the same campus there was a department of puppetry that did only this work. I showed a lot of curiosity in it. I thought that I definitely wanted to acquire this skill. Then I learned puppetry from there. I assimilated puppetry into my thought and then expressed myself through it. 

I felt that these mediums are very strong, be it drama, songs, stories, or puppetry. I completely assimilated these mediums while working with that nonprofit. 

[During L K Advani’s Rath Yatra,] we thought about what we should do. We made a beautiful chariot out of a cart that we got from the vegetable market, placed big horses made of cloth in front of it, and wrote ‘Ghotala Rath Yatra’ on it. We put placards around an umbrella. These placards bore the names of all the ghotalas(scams) that had taken place. And a chair was placed on the cart for the leader to sit on. The chariot was covered with saffron decorations. We did all this behind the tent, and the police did not know that we were doing something. And I announced on the mike, “Tomorrow at 5 o’clock in the evening, a Rath Yatra will start from here. And the leader of our Rath, his name is Rajvani, he will come from Delhi. He will be riding on the chariot and there will be a Rath Yatra.” 

The next day we took out the chariot from there. And I was on top of the cart as a leader. I was dressed such that all the parties were included. The Congress cap and saffron-coloured gamchha (scarf). And the leader sat on a chair on the stage. There was a ghotala umbrella, and on the front it said ‘Ghotala Rath Yatra’. It also said Rajvani. And he came out. And there was also singing, “Ghotala raj ki jai jai bolo, jai-jai bolo, jai-jai bolo. Bhrashtachaar karo, hari hari bolo.” (Praise the reign of scams. Do corruption and take the lord’s name.) “Arey hawala ka halwa chaat chaat khaya.” (We really enjoyed the black money pudding.) 

Whatever scams happened like this, we kept talking about them in songs. 

08.11 | On how people with specialised can collaborate with those working on the ground

Let me give you an example. When this person called Vineet came to us, he said that we can see the Jan Soochna Portal. But how do we show it in the village? For this, he took a projector. Placing his small projector on a white wall, he brought out the Jan Soochna Portal. Then he called over some children, who thought they were being shown a film. So first he played a small film, some seven to 10 minutes long. He showed something related to RTI. The children saw it, enjoyed it. Then he asked one child to bring his ration card. He entered the ration card number in the portal. Vineet then displayed it on the wall, and when he did that the child could see a photo, which was of his father. He said, “Oye, this is my father’s photo,” and was quite amazed. Then Vineet said, look, I will show you all the times you took wheat. When he accessed the information on the portal, he said that the child’s family had taken 80 kg last month.

The child ran home, called his father and brought him back, saying, “They’re saying that you took 80 kg. The film in the projector is saying it.” The father said, “It was not 80 kg, we got 40 kg.” “But they’re saying something else.” The father came and asked to look. Then he saw that it said 80 kg. “Sir, it is not 80 kg. We took 40 kg.” “But here it says 80 kg.” “But I am telling you that I took 40 kg. We have never got 80 kg, we have got 40 kg every time. Every alternate month.”

He went to the dealer, who is from the village, and said, “Look at this, I have got 80 kg on paper and you gave me only 40 kg.” The dealer asked him where he had got this information from, and told him to take the rest of his wheat but not make any noise.

Soon, people queued up before Vineet asking for their ration information, and Vineet kept giving them this information. There was a line outside the ration [shop].

12.30 | On incidents that have left a lasting impact

There is an old couple in the village, they don’t have children. They don’t even have a house; they live under this shed. So I have helped them in getting pension. Sometimes they’re not able to get the ration food, so there are fights with the dealer on why they have not been given it. Sometimes he gives it and sometimes he doesn’t. I could not go for two to three months. Vineet and I both could not go, so they reprimanded us with great authority, that you did not come. I just asked them how things were going. “Okay,” they said.

When I lifted the lid of the drum, I saw that there was nothing in it. And there were no other things either. I asked, “Is there no atta (flour)?” “No, it has been five days. There has been nothing.” “There has been nothing for five days?”

Vineet went to bring her wheat and I was sitting near the old woman. She asked me to write down my mobile number on the wall somewhere. “I don’t have a phone but if someone comes I will tell them to talk to you.” I came [back] after writing [the number]. That day I felt very sad. And the next day I get a call that the old lady has passed away. We had brought that wheat. Even that wheat was of no use.

When we arrived [at the cremation,] there were some very big things being said there. Spiritual conversations. I mentioned that I have met this family, and said that this death happened due to hunger. Then this person asked how. I said I had visited them and there was no food in that house for five days. I said that I had bought the bag of wheat from the ration shop yesterday, and it was not even useful.

17.36 | On maintaining his passion for social change

While doing this work, many times you feel tired and disappointed. It definitely happens. It happens in my mind too. Whenever I have felt that I am in a lot of conflict and trouble, or if I am not sure about what I am doing and feeling stuck, that day I go to some poor person’s house. You sit there for an hour or two, you will understand their whole economics, and you will think, how can I stop? What is the condition of the family I have met? And what about me? I am much better off. I start thinking, personally, I don’t have any problem at all. I would not be doing any good if I withdrew myself. One’s enthusiasm doubles. And there is a lot of strength [in being around] a poor person, who has nothing but darkness all around, how will he survive in his life? Strength is found there. In this area, we know the houses, the families [that are struggling]. A friendship is formed whenever you go and talk to them. They also come to us, and together we try to find solutions. And then I don’t feel any physical fatigue, and my enthusiasm comes back.

Read the full transcript here.

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Know more

• Watch the first part of this interview here.
• Learn about the Indian theatre movement.
• Watch Shankar Singh sing to bring awareness to the people of Rajasthan.

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.

Hailing from Rajasthan’s Rajsamand district, Shankar Singh is a social and political activist, musician, lyricist, theatre artist, and storyteller. He co-founded the Mazdoor Kisan Shakti Sangathan (MKSS) alongside prominent activists Aruna Roy and Nikhil Dey. MKSS is known for its role in advocating for and implementing the Right to Information Act (RTI) in the country.

Shankar Singh has employed a variety of creative strategies to champion the rights of marginalised labourers and farmers, focusing on issues such as wages, employment, and other government social entitlements. His approach is marked by a unique blend of entertainment, music, and sharp wit and satire. He has led many successful movements and campaigns, both at the grassroots and national level. Notably, he has contributed to the implementation of landmark schemes like MGNREGA and government processes such as social audits.

In this conversation with IDR, which is the first of two episodes, Shankar Singh delves into the complexities of building a movement, shedding light on how the journey of a movement is charted and the concerted efforts required for it to succeed. He also offers valuable perspectives on identifying grassroots issues and building effective communication channels for collaboration between the government and the people.

Here are some highlights from the conversation:

00:22 | On early life and influences

After finishing school, parents insist that their kids take up some or the other job. I don’t have any brothers or sisters. My father died early on, so my mother became a widow at a very young age. She told me to think about getting a job since she wouldn’t be able to educate me any further. So, I moved to the city.

While doing all these jobs, I ended up at a place where there was a nonprofit organisation nearby. Chance, it was all chance. I asked [the people there], “What is going on here?” and someone responded, “This is an organisation.” “What do they do?” I asked. “This is a nonprofit,” they said. I told them I had never understood what nonprofits do. “They talk about why the condition of the poor is what it is, why there is poverty, how to face it—they talk about that.” I asked about money (salary). They said that people are paid for their work.

“So you get paid for talking?” I asked. Then I said that for money, even I would talk.

As soon as I entered that nonprofit, I felt that there were many types of people there. Some had started working and then left their jobs, and some had MBBS degrees, some had done engineering, some had done a law course. And among them was Aruna, who had left the IAS. I thought, why do they come here, [what do they hope] to achieve by leaving everything? This curiosity gave me many opportunities. The nonprofit took away my fervour of being a teacher, and working there for a year changed my mindset.

08.29 | On the formation of Mazdoor Kisan Shakti Sangathan (MKSS)

[When we started working in Devdungri, people] knew that I was a local from this area, and would call me Shankar mama because my sister-in-law’s house is here. People started asking, “What do you want to do?” You know, when you set out to find out something about people, before that they want to know about you. “Who are you, why are you doing this, what do you get, how much money are you paid, and what’s in it for you?”

Then they thought that we had come here to earn more. People started asking, what they will earn in this house? How? Will they plant mines or do something else? We started talking to them. I said that we want people to think about what they need and how we can help them.

The first person who came to us was [a local named] Lal Singh. Lal Singh ji had come to our place to work as a mason, to do some kitchen repairs. He also asked us what we wanted to do here. We told him that we will do this…even I was not very clear. He said, “We have a big issue [in our village]. We have a jagirdar (feudal landlord)—a thakur—and he is very cruel. He beats whoever he wants and no one can file a complaint against him with the police because he is a jagirdar.”

The villagers kept trying to figure out how to confront that jagirdar, but were beaten up every time. We said that we will talk in your village, and so we got a chance.

It took a year for the village to gradually unite, and that was because of Lal Singh ji. Some families were still in favour of the jagirdar. Some land was collectively allotted to the village. The organisation (MKSS) had not been formed till then.

When we went to measure the land, the thakur attacked us. He attacked the villagers as well. This news reached Sohangadh village and, the following day, at least 50–60 people from there arrived here on foot. They said that they would go and fight [the jagirdar]. We said no and decided to go to the village and have a talk. The next day we held a meeting in the village. That was the first time we had a choice [between violence and non-violence]. We could have taken the path of violence since we had been beaten up. Those villagers could have gone and beaten up the thakur, and there would have been no solution to what would have followed. Each party would be violent to the other and take turns. So we said no, we do not want to take that route. The entire village—children, women, everyone—walked 11 km to Bhim. At that time, just one village was involved in this. We walked through the village telling people about the thakur and ended up outside the office of the tehsil Sub Divisional Magistrate (SDM). We sat there all day long. The thakur was arrested in the evening, and the news spread in the entire area. People started speculating about how much influence ‘these people from Devdungri’ (referring to Aruna, Nikhil, and me) wielded since they got that thakur arrested. “He is a jagirdar, but he was arrested. There is something very special about them.” After that we started working in this area. This incident is from 1987. In 1990, the organisation (MKSS) was set up.

17.02 | On agitating for the Right to Information

When this movement started, what was the first question we asked? We did not say that you (the government) should improve our education system, that you do all these things for us, make our health systems equal. We had asked a question. The people in the villages where we went and held meetings had said that they (government works) do not pay us the full amount. They do not pay full wages. We said to them that this is the question we should be asking the government. I told them thatwe will not go, you all come along, and together we will ask why you aren’t paid the full amount you’re owed.

So when I went to [the government official] and asked him why he does not pay people the full amount, he said that they do not do the full work. [Then the people said,] “But even when we did the full work, you didn’t give full wages.” He said that there must be some other reason for this. I asked, “What is that reason? Show us the documents. Show me that paper in which you noted down how much work someone has done and how much they were paid for it.” [The government official replied,] “How can I show you these documents? They are government documents.”

When he refused to show us the papers, we contemplated what to do next. I suggested, “Hold a protest in front of their place, sit in front of the tehsil, sit in front of the BDO’s office.”

The following day the SDM invited a couple of representatives from the protest. “Those of you who are the main people, come here. I will show you the muster roll because collector sir said so,” he stated. I was very happy that this victory happened on the first day itself. As soon as I went inside, he ‘showed’ us the paper [by quickly opening and closing it]. We said, “Not like this, give us a photocopy of it.” He replied, “How can I give you a photocopy? That is not possible.”

The collector said, “Tell them they won’t be given photocopies. As if we can give just anybody photocopies! There is no law like this. Do one thing: Tell them to copy it by hand. Write it down. But no photocopies.”

We felt that all right, we got one victory. We manually took down the muster roll, and they insisted we use pencils instead of pens.

As soon as we reached the village, we began reading it aloud. The villagers inquired, “What are you reading?” I replied, “This patwar ghar (land records office) was constructed here. These individuals had been employed here.” [The villagers replied,] “But how is his name on it? He died a while back.” “She also had passed away before the construction of this.” “She was not present at the time.”

One of them (a government official) walked over to me, peered over my shoulder at the paper, and said, “Oh, this paper is fake.” I asked, “Why?” [He replied,] “It is written in pencil, you will write anything and bring it, is this a government paper? Government paper is printed, not written in pencil. These people are lying!”

We came to the conclusion that there is no other way. We will have to sit in protest again, so we mobilised people. Leave everything else, we should have the right to see these documents. The slogan was raised: Leke rahenge hum iss baar, soochna ka adhikaar. (This time we will win the right to information.)

We persevered for as long as we could because we wanted to have that law. We did not get tired…it was the government that eventually relented, leading to the implementation of the Right to Information Act.

24.18 | On building and sustaining mass movements

I understood that there isn’t some book where it’s written what you need to do to sustain a movement. When you go among people and actually work, that is when one gets to learn, and one’s own values are determined. 

This work is such that it is not possible to do it alone. Hundreds of people have contributed in this. No one can carry any movement alone. I am the one telling you all this, but it was a movement that depended a lot on what people believed, and the methodology was also determined.

In the movement, people came from one place to another, paying their own fare to sit in the protest. In their minds, they realised how important this is. At that time perhaps people might not have thought how the Right to Information [Act] would help them, because at that time they were thinking about wages. Their wages were stuck. As soon as people demanded information, they didn’t receive the information but they received their wages due to the fear that if the information was released, it would lead to bigger revelations.

26.23 | On mobilising for the right to information in a politically charged environment

Today… corruption has reached a level where there is complete complicity in corruption. This includes [government] employees, leaders, and some common people too. There is severe corruption due to the nexus of all three. That corruption will come out only because of your RTI.

Today, the matter is an electronic one—the computer has arrived. Everything is here, but what are you (the government) trying to show? You are showing what you want to show. What you don’t want to show, we all know that you won’t. Suo moto, we say in the RTI Act’s Section 4. Information has to be shown to citizens suo moto. In Rajasthan, there is the Jan Soochna Portal. You can see all the information in that portal. Where is my pension stuck? What is the reason for it being stuck?

In a way, this era of RTI will continue only if there is a movement today. In places where people are fighting and struggling together, they get the information they need and there is no murder. Those who are fighting alone are being murdered. We used it (the RTI) the most in the organisation (MKSS). [We] got public hearings done, got everything done, but they know that this is a group that is fighting for a cause together. It is not that we have never been beaten up or assaulted, but when a group is formed, it has its own strength.

30.45 | On keeping the democratic spirit alive

Look, no matter who wins, this is a democracy; whoever wins, that government is ours. We cannot say that this government is not ours, and we will not talk to it. Because our dialogue will be with whoever is in power. There will be no dialogue with the one who loses. But we will have to have a dialogue with the one who won. This is democracy, if you are sitting on that chair then we will communicate with you. We also raise the same slogans: Sarkaar humare aap ki, nahin kisi ke baap ki (the government is ours, not one person’s property) or Yeh desh hamare aap ka, nahin kisi ke baap ka (this country is ours, not someone’s father’s).

Read the full transcript here, and watch the second part of the Shankar Singh interview where he speaks about the role of music and theatre in driving social movements.

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Know more

• Watch this TEDx Talk by Shankar Singh to learn more about how the RTI Act came to be.
• Read more about why we need more accountability laws with rising attacks on RTI activists.
• Read about a day in the life of an eMitra who enables citizens to access their rights digitally.

The Constitution of India, adopted on January 26, 1950, serves as the supreme legal document governing the world’s largest democracy. Framed by a constituent assembly, and drafted by Dr B R Ambedkar, the Constitution embodies the principles of justice, liberty, equality, and fraternity. It provides a comprehensive framework for the functioning of the government, delineates the powers and responsibilities of various institutions, and guarantees fundamental rights to its citizens. Its relevance today is undeniable, as it continues to guide the nation’s governance, ensuring a balance between individual rights and collective interests.

The Constitution acts as a dynamic blueprint that upholds democratic principles, safeguards human rights, and fosters a pluralistic and inclusive society. Find out more about the Preamble, Fundamental Rights, Directive Principles of State Policy, and Fundamental Duties, and learn how we can include these in our work and daily lives.

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Know more

• Read this article to find out more about how nonprofits can use constitutional values to promote active citizenship.
• Watch this television series about the history of how the Constitution was made.
• Learn about the Har Dil Mein Samvidhan campaign, which helps create awareness about the Constitution of 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.

Flavia co-founded Majlis, a legal and cultural resource centre that provides women and children with quality legal services. She has written incisively and extensively on a raft of social and legal issues around women’s rights, family law, minority rights, and secularism.

Flavia talks to IDR about her long and eventful journey with the women’s movement, commenting on its major milestones and the path it is currently on. She underscores the need for affordable legal services and tells us why working with the police is an inalienable part of Majlis’s campaign to help women secure their rights.

Can you tell us about your early life and the influences that led you to the women’s movement and to law? 

I was born in Bombay in 1947, but I grew up in Mangalore, where I was raised by my maternal aunt, who was unmarried. My parents were in Aden, Yemen at the time with my four sisters; I had a brother too, but he passed away early on. I studied in a Kannada-medium school till standard 10. Just before my SSC exam, my aunt passed away in her sleep. I then joined my parents in Aden. But shortly after, my father died too. To help support the family, I took up work as a typist at a post office. It was in Aden that I learned English. I lived there for three years before returning to Mangalore with my mother and sisters. I was 20 at the time.

On returning, I was almost immediately married off. But my marriage was a wreck. I was physically and mentally abused and didn’t know what to do. I tried to break the marriage off several times, but I just couldn’t.

In 1980, I became involved with the women’s movement in Bombay. I found moral support among the women I met there, and it was with their encouragement that I ended my marriage that same year. By then I had been married 13 years and had three children. I took my daughters with me and left my son with my husband. I put my daughters in a boarding school and sold whatever jewellery I had to buy a small place in Borivali.  

It was around then that I set up the Women’s Centre in Bombay for women who had suffered domestic violence. It was a safe place where they could gather and talk, share their stories, and exchange resources such as references to good lawyers, counsellors, and jobs. We first ran the Women’s Centre from a friend’s house. Then Smita Patil—who had heard me speak at a conference and was impressed with my work—donated to us the proceeds of her film Subah, and we were able to buy a place of our own. News of the centre soon spread through word of mouth and articles in the press. 

Alongside running the centre, I studied law and earned my degree in 1988. By 1997, I secured my MPhil from the prestigious National Law School, Bangalore. One of the factors that motivated me to study law was the challenge of finding good lawyers whom we could recommend to the women who came to the centre.

It was a difficult time…my children were young, and I was working at the centre, not earning much. I sometimes wonder how I came so far. (Laughs)

Tell us about the beginnings of Majlis. 

In 1990, my friend Madhusree Dutta and I started Majlis, a legal and cultural resource centre in Bombay. (Majlis means ‘association’ in Arabic.)  

I set up the legal support cell and Madhusree set up a broad forum for interaction between different arts practitioners. She was a theatre and documentary film director who wanted to cultivate a new feminist cultural practice through theatre and film. We were joined by activists from academia, architecture, and other professions, all working to make Majlis a creative, social, cultural, and legal locus of the women’s movement in Bombay. As for me, I wanted to move away from protest and activism to ground-level interventions. Protests were important to raise awareness about an issue, but once legal reform was achieved, it was important to set up a sustainable practice of strong litigation support for women to ensure that the impact of those reforms was felt on the ground.  

I considered writing a powerful tool for the campaign, and published articles, reports, and books on legal reform, women’s rights, secularism, the cases we came across, and the legal and systemic bottlenecks we encountered. All of it helped build advocacy and raise public awareness on a range of issues—from domestic violence and sexual abuse to the Uniform Civil Code debate and the death penalty. At the time, there was very little writing on women’s rights and legal reform in the mainstream.   

We are now Majlis Legal Centre because our focus is wholly on legal support. Earlier, on account of the word’s association with Muslim fundamentalism, we had been under pressure to change our name, but we stood our ground. The name speaks for our secular ideology and our allyship with minorities. We also run a support centre for victims of sexual violence called Rahat, which is doing well.      

The way we work has also changed and become more structured. Earlier, our interventions were ad hoc and wide-ranging. Later, as we grew and raised larger ticket funding, donor preferences led us to making our work more streamlined.

You have been a part of the women’s movement for 40 years. How has it changed?

In the 1980s, the women’s movement concentrated on law reform, with rape and domestic violence—particularly dowry-related abuse—forming a key concern. It championed women’s empowerment, challenged patriarchal power structures, and questioned the conservative role of women as subordinate in the home and in society. The movement drew public attention to women’s issues, thanks to which they started to figure more prominently in the state’s development schemes and welfare programmes.            

Many issues that we campaigned for in the ‘80s and ‘90s ended in legislative reform. For example, our two-decade-long campaign against domestic violence resulted in the Protection of Women from Domestic Violence Act (PWDVA) 2005, a civil law that gave women rights within their matrimonial home, maintenance, child custody, and protection from future violence. Our campaigning also led to amendments in the rape law in the 1980s and in 2013; reforms in Christian personal law; and subsequent amendments to the Indian Divorce Act that made it possible for Christian women to seek divorce only on grounds of cruelty.       

Today, the women’s movement has taken a different shape; more nonprofits have cropped up and a lot of welfare work is going on. There’s also more professionalism in the field. It’s important however to remember that the women’s movement cannot operate in a silo; it is an integral part of other social movements such as human rights, sexual identities and sexual orientation, people in same-sex relationship, social transformation, and against caste-based violence.

Women today have rights, but are they exercising them? Are they filing more cases?

Unfortunately, legal services have become commercialised, expensive, and consequently unaffordable for women from low-income and marginalised communities. And the free legal aid available to them is often of poor quality. This is the most challenging aspect that organisations like Majlis face today—the lack of experienced lawyers willing to work for the poor. People spend huge amounts to get a legal education now, and they’re anxious to earn it back.

Individual lawyers take up pro bono cases occasionally, but it’s not enough. We have many interns working at Majlis, but they largely come for the experience and seldom return on graduating. Our organisation survives on grants, but without experienced lawyers how can we support women at scale? Today, unlike in the past, Majlis doesn’t have many in-house lawyers; we have 10–12 empanelled ones to whom we refer our cases, and then we monitor their progress.  

It must also be said that contrary to people’s presumptions that the Domestic Violence Act would give women licence to file false cases against their husbands, women aren’t filing as many cases as they should because they are scared to go to the police. Women want rights for themselves more than they want punishment for their spouses.

Majlis has been working with the police since the 1990s. What does it take to build trust?

We started actively working with law-enforcement agencies when we realised that laws, in and of themselves, would not help the cause of women until they were implemented on the ground. A crucial part of this was working with law-enforcement agencies. This wasn’t easy, because it meant making inroads into the criminal justice system, which was inaccessible to nonprofits.

Our earliest intervention was with the Mumbai Police—we trained them on the new provisions of the amended Rape Law and monitored the impact of that training. The training was initiated by Sadanand Date, an officer we met during the Bombay riots.

In addition to acquainting officers with the nuances of the laws, our training teaches them how to interrogate women and children sensitively.

We conduct separate training around the Protection of Children from Sexual Offences (POCSO) Act. This involves changing perspectives and helping the police look past prejudices (such as disbelief that a family member could be the perpetrator of a sexual crime against a child). We train DCPs, ACPs and police station heads, and the lessons percolate down to other staff.

In addition to acquainting officers with the nuances of the laws, our training teaches them how to interrogate women and children sensitively; what guidelines to follow when escorting perpetrators and survivors for medical examinations; how to prepare detailed case reports to secure government aid; and so on. These guidelines are contained in the Standard Operating Procedure we drafted for the police. The right procedures can strengthen police investigations and improve conviction rates. 

Forty years ago, dowry and domestic violence were prominent issues. What plagues women today?

Domestic violence continues to be big. The terminology has changed—from dowry to domestic violence—but the problem still persists. Newer issues, such as sexual harassment at the workplace, have cropped up. We’re also seeing more cases of child sexual abuse, especially in domestic settings. The police refers these cases to us because of our experience in litigation. In the ‘80s and ‘90s, one seldom encountered cases of sexual abuse, be it of women or children. Having a law like POCSO in place has helped improve the reporting of crimes against children.

As with POCSO, dowry, rape, trafficking, and other crimes, I believe the thrust of the law should be on supporting survivors rather than fixating on extreme punishment, like the death penalty, for perpetrators. The death penalty is not a deterrent to crime. The real deterrent is certainty of punishment, not the severity of it. Increased punishment is touted as the most effective solution, but my question is, can stringent punishment bring about change in society or an increase in conviction rates? What other mechanisms and structures do we need for this?

You have been central to the women’s movement in India; what do you hope for the future? 

Sometimes I get the feeling that the more we do, the more there is to be done. You can’t rest in peace and say, “Okay, I’ve done my work.” New complications spring up all the time and you have to stay on your toes.

Take the case of the Domestic Violence Act. It’s a good act, very nicely framed, but magistrate courts assign trial dates after two or three months, and don’t pass interim orders either. Moreover, courts are clogged, and when a woman goes to court, she becomes frustrated with the delays and complicated procedures. So even if the law is good, its purpose is lost when the supporting system is faulty. You need to campaign for more courts, for better functioning of those courts, and so on—all that needs to happen alongside having the law. This is why the struggle must continue. There are many women’s organisations launching campaigns, and that’s very positive, because you need to have these campaigns to build public awareness.  

I do however worry about the future. We worked for law reform and respite for individual women, but issues have now blown up to such an extent that there’s work to be done not just at the individual level but also at the community level. Women from marginalised and minority communities find themselves caught in a hostile environment, fuelled by a communal hate campaign. Violence against women has started to take new form.    

Crimes against women are not individualised; they’re political.

I was asked to write a piece on how I see things shaping up for women 25 years hence, but I see this future as very dismal. I titled the article From Mathura to Manipur, from the perspective of the violence we’re witnessing. With Mathura, the violence was directed at an individual. But with Khairlanji and, more recently, the rapes in Manipur, sexual assault has been weaponised against communities.

There were many more elements involved, not just an individual person. Crimes against women are not individualised, they’re political. And for them to stop, the political climate has to change. We can no longer only look at changing lives at the individual level; we must look at change at the community level. Individual solutions cannot give us the kind of respite that is required unless the broader political context changes. Securing women’s rights today seems much harder than it was in the ‘80s.

What would you like your legacy to be?

I don’t know about legacy, but I want to be remembered as somebody who, through her experience, has addressed questions of community, of secularism, and of law reform, who has struggled, travelled this journey, lived a certain kind of life, and shared that life with others as an inspiration for them so that they can change their own situation. This is how I want to be remembered.

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Know more

• Learn how the police can be made more responsive to gender-based violence.
• Read this article to learn how gender attitudes in India have changed.
• Read this report to learn about digital feminist activism in India.