Beside the Buriganga

"Look over there on the other side of the river," said Mukal. "I grew up in a small house behind that tall blue building and my school was near the other, smaller yellow building you can see just a short distance away. After school and at weekends we would play in a small park nearby and sometimes swim in the river. The park is gone now. It's become a rubbish dump. The water wasn't filthy then and it didn't smell. People still drank from it. In the watermelon season we would swim out to the boats bringing fruit from Barisal. The workers would sometimes give us a watermelon which we'd take ashore and eat immediately". 

"How long ago was this?" I asked. "About twenty years" he replied. "The streets were not filled with rubbish, and I don't remember this amount of dust. It was a good place to live but it's all lost now."

As we walked along the riverbank, we waded through discarded household items, rotting vegetables from the market and other detritus. We passed a small boy, perhaps eight years old, maybe less. He was collecting plastic items from the garbage to take for recycling in return for a few taka*. He was alone.

Mukul had a persistent cough and regularly cleared his throat by spitting out phlegm in the street. "It's the dust," he said. As we turned to go back, he bought a bottle of water to combat the dryness. In the car, he took the water in three gulps and cleared his throat again. He opened the window, spat and threw the empty bottle out. As we pulled away, I noticed the small boy again. He'd seen the bottle hit the ground and was coming to collect it.

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* taka = Bangladeshi currency. 100 taka = approximately £1. In Sylhet, collectors reported receiving 5 taka for one kilo of plastic. 

The rag-pickers of Sylhet

It's the birds that you notice first. They are everywhere, perched on the diggers, sitting amongst the rubbish and circling above the forty or so, mostly women, workers picking through the waste. Several women are at the summit of the dump, looking for plastic and other recyclables. It takes a moment or two to realise that there are other workers further down, surrounded by the rubbish, almost devoured by it. And all the time the birds watch.

This scene takes place near Sylhet, capital of the Bangladeshi province of the same name. The city has many modern shops, restaurants and hotels but to the rag-pickers, (the generic term applied to those doing this work) it is merely the pace they go to sell  items they salvage from the dump. I spoke to Rubi aged 56. She is originally from Moulvibazar, just south of Sylhet and has been here for ten years. I asked her what she did before she began this work. "We were not a rich family" she said. "I had no father and my mother had to do farm work. Then I got married and I was a housewife, but we needed more income to cover the cost of food and accommodation so I came to work here with my husband". Her daughter Fahima also works here. "She's 12 years old" said Rubi, "I'd like to send her to school but who will pay for her books and how will we cover the money she earns that helps to buy food and clothes?"  They sell the plastic items they collect to a recycling company in the city. For one kilo of plastic they receive just 5 taka, about five pence. This is substantially less than the amount the rag-pickers I met in Rajasthan receive for the same weight. Rubi says that on a good day the family can make 200 taka (£2). One kilo of lower quality rice in Sylhet ranges from 55 to 70 taka. Basmati is definitely off the menu at around 350 per kilo.

Fahima is not the only child working here. Johir Islam is also 12. He said "I began working here two years ago. I have no father and I need to earn money to help my mother". He only completed first grade at school and is unable to read or write. Johir was working with another boy, also aged 12. We had just begun talking when a truck arrived carrying new garbage. The boys broke off, picked up their plastic sacks and ran towards it, hoping to find the best items before the other workers got there.

Apart from the odd pair of wellingtons. no-one was wearing protective gear. Rubi, who had by now been joined by several of her colleagues, curious to know what we were talking about, claimed never to have been injured at work. She said that she had never had a skin disease from handling the garbage, despite not wearing gloves. She seems anxious to emphasise this and the others nodded in support of her assertion. I had not mentioned specific diseases. Despite Rubi's claim, a recent report says that as many as 80% of child rag-pickers in Bangladesh have been injured at work, mostly with cuts of different kinds. It also mentions the prevalence of dog and insect bites and respiratory problems from inhaling chemical fumes and airborne dust. Eczema, itching and fungal infection are listed as being widespread amongst this group. 

Although Rubi and her colleagues denied having accidents, they went on to list the various hazards of their workplace. These included dogs, "rats as big as cats", needle sticks and occasionally, snakes. I had a close encounter with four dogs when I arrived. They ran towards me growling and showing their teeth before one of the older women chased them away. They retreated to watch from a distance but did not bother me again.

From time to time, the authorities issue statements about banning rag-picking and then go quiet again. But as Rubi asked "what will we do if this happens? How will we survive?". It reminded me of the occasional proposals to end hand-pulled rickshas in Kolkata and the subsequent protests of the ricksha men, worried that they will be unable to find alternative employment. Rubi's final words before returning to work were "I would like the Government to do more to help people like us. We want to educate our children but we also need to feed ourselves".

As I prepared to leave I saw that the boys had gone into the distance, searching for items away from the main dump. I also noticed Fahima amongst a group of older women workers. She was looking into the distance, perhaps wishing to be somewhere else. But she was in the garbage, picking through the city's  waste under a dark, grey sky, with the sickly smell of decay and under the threatening gaze of those birds.

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Saunaya Roy's book Mountain Tales gives a detailed account of the lives of a community of rag-pickers in Mumbai.

The rag-pickers of Jhalawar

Ayaan said he was 14 but he looked younger, perhaps 11 or 12. He was small but clearly well-fed which may have been why he was riding a decrepit looking exercise bike at the side of the road. I asked him where the bike came from. “Over there” he said, pointing to a mountain of plastic items being sorted into different bags by two young women. The women were employed by Ayaan’s father who buys waste goods from collectors, known as rag-pickers, before selling them on to more large-scale dealers for re-cycling. 

The business occupies a large site, not far from the centre of Jhalawar, formerly one of Rajasthan's princely states and now a regional centre of more than 65,000 people. The two women sorting the plastic items - Rekha and Parvati - spend their working days bent over, causing them painful back ache. Rekha was a little shy, but Parvati was amused by my presence and laughed directly into the camera after I held it up to request a picture. Ayaan's father also deals in old tyres and two men sat on the floor separating the rubber into strips which would then be used to make different items. I asked Ayaan why he wasn’t at school. “It’s morning,” he said “I go to school in the afternoon. In the mornings I help my father.” The first part of his sentence was in English, the second in Hindi. As I left, I turned back and saw him standing arms folded, looking managerial and keeping an eye on the two women who were busily sorting and bagging. Rekha looked up at him and rolled her eyes before going back to work.

Parvati

As many as four million Indians, most of them women, are employed in informal waste collection

Ayaan’s father buys his stock from collectors who gather discarded items from the street, from businesses and sometimes from garbage dumps. The collectors are widely referred to as "rag pickers". The name is similar to that given to the "rag and bone" men who collected unwanted household items from the streets of my north of England hometown during my childhood. The name came from their calling out "rag and bone" as they came through the streets, often with a pony and cart, alerting people to their presence. Indian rag pickers do not have the luxury of this form of transport and generally carry their finds on their backs.

As many as four million Indians, most of them women, are employed in informal waste collection. Their contribution to public cleansing and recycling is largely overlooked and poorly rewarded. The work is hazardous and exposes the collectors to infection, injury and in extreme cases risk of death. Saumaya Roy’s 2021 book Mountain Tales is an in-depth examination of the lives (and loves) of several families who make a living from sorting waste on a municipal rubbish dump in Mumbai. It follows the individual stories of the workers and describes in detail their work and living conditions. A few kilometres outside Jhalawar there is a rag-picker settlement of 35 families. Their makeshift camp is situated outside the city boundary, away from the residential areas and without running water or electricity.

 

I arrived at the camp at about half past ten in the morning. The residents were curious and perhaps a little suspicious about receiving an unexpected guest, but on seeing the camera began asking to be photographed. Some produced mobile phones and requested “selfies”. The volume of photographic requests soon became overwhelming and there was some jostling.  My friend, guide and interpreter Vikas called order, saying that we would photograph them in family groups, one by one. I also took some individual portraits, including of Eeran, a girl of perhaps twelve years. She wore her blonde-brown hair swept back under a headband and looked directly into the camera. Her expression was hard to read a mixture of curiosity and a half, almost sad smile.

Rekha

 

Grandmother and grandchildren. Pardhi settlement near Jhalawar

"Criminal" by birth

A young man stepped forward and began to explain that this was a settlement of Pardhi people, an Adivasi, or tribal group, originally from Madhya Pradesh. The name Pardhi comes from papardhi the Sanskrit word for hunting, reflecting their former occupation. They were traditionally forest dwellers, skilled in the use of bows and arrows, swords and hunting traps. This way of life was curtailed by the passing of the 1971 Wildlife Act which outlawed hunting.It was not the first time that legislation had significant negative impact on the tribe. The 1871 Criminal Tribes Act enacted by the British colonial government branded 150 Adivasi groups, including the Pardhi, as “criminal” by birth. This may have been in part, an act of revenge, due to their having participated in the 1857 revolt against colonial rule. The Act not only gave the police sweeping powers against those covered by its stipulations, but also ensured they were stigmatised in Indian society. Although this legislation was overturned after Independence in 1951, the stigma continues today.

 

An unintentional impact of the Wildlife Act was to further impoverish the Pardhi. Their traditional way of life forbidden, they now earn a living through agricultural work, the sale of food and handicraft items, and in some cases, begging. Many Pardhi can be found in Mumbai including the women who attempt to sell garlands to tourists outside high end hotels. Others, like the group near Jhalawar work as rag pickers. 

"Sometimes the dealers try to reduce the price to 25 or even 23 rupees per kilo".

 

I spent some time with several members of an extended family group. One of the younger men explained that the people here collect plastic and glass bottles which they then sell on to dealers who sort and sell the items on to larger companies. In return for one kilo of plastic they will receive 30 rupees – about 30 pence. I asked him, “how many bottles do you need to make a kilo?” “One hundred” he replied before adding “Sometimes the dealers try to reduce the price to 25 or even 23 rupees per kilo. We can’t do anything about this, there are many rag pickers, and the buyers can pay what they like”. For a single glass bottle, the going rate is three rupees. The Pardhi seem trapped in this way of life. Many have no formal education and although they claimed to be sending their children to school, few complete their studies. The health risks associated with the work are compounded by widespread alcohol abuse amongst the men. Despite the morning hour, many of them smelled of drink. Some had slurred speech or were unsteady on their feet.

 

The excitement about being photographed was widespread but one family stood back. Their home was of slightly higher quality and appeared more robust than those of their neighbours. There were other differences too. It was a family with only one child – a boy of eight or nine years, cleaner and better dressed than the other children – and the father did not smell of alcohol. They lived on the edge of the settlement, as if they had made a deliberate attempt to separate themselves. It was clear that the boy wanted to have his picture taken, and as we left, his father called me over and I photographed the two of them. The mother stood to one side, watching before going back inside their home.

Eeran