How Kolkata’s cremation workers are navigating a changing profession

Electric furnaces, municipal salaries and shifting caste boundaries are reshaping cremation work in the city, though contractual workers say insecurity and stigma persist.Kolkata, West Bengal:  “We have endured enough hardship,” said Asha (name changed), the wife of a cremation worker at a Kolkata burning ghat. “I want my son to get a good job and my daughter to be married into a good family. I have seen my father-in-law suffer from respiratory disease because of the smoke. Now my husband’s health is getting affected. I do not want my son to go through the same.”Her daughter has completed Class 12, and her son is pursuing graduation.At Kolkata’s cremation grounds, where smoke rises long before dawn, and the clang of iron stretchers signals another arrival, an ancient profession is quietly being reshaped. Some of it by electricity, but mostly through municipal systems and government payrolls, say locals.For generations, members of the Dom community, now officially referred to as satkar karmis after a West Bengal government notification in December 2023, handled cremations through knowledge passed down within families. The Doms, a Scheduled Caste community, have historically been associated with occupations related to death and sanitation. At Kolkata’s cremation grounds, that history is still visible — in the rituals surrounding the pyre, the smoke rising over the river and the generations of workers who learned the trade from their fathers.Workers say that the landscape has been steadily shifting over the decades. Electricity, municipal systems and new career aspirations are slowly reshaping the profession.For some families, the change means that the work will end with them.Once a caste-bound occupation dependent on informal payments from grieving families, cremation work in Kolkata has gradually become a salaried municipal job. Electric furnaces now operate alongside traditional wooden pyres, and there are proper roads that lead to the ghat. But there is still a degree of unevenness in the transformation. While some satkar karmis draw government salaries and enjoy greater social stability, many continue to work on contractual wages with little security. There is also the stigma around the occupation, which has reduced a little due to the tag of a government job, but it has not completely disappeared. Rabindranath Tagore's cremation site. Over a hundred years ago, the salaries of funeral workers ranged around Rs 3 a month  (Photo - Joymala Bachi, 101Reporters)Inherited occupationFor much of the city’s history, cremation workers relied largely on what bereaved families chose to give them. “There was no fixed payment earlier,” workers said. “Whatever the family offered was what we earned.”Historical records show how modest the earnings once were. In Municipal Calcutta: Its Institutions in their Origin and Growth (1916), SW Goode, then chairman of the Calcutta Corporation, described the functioning of the city’s cremation grounds in the early twentieth century.According to the book, two sub-registrars issued death certificates at the cremation ghats. At the time, only two dom workers were officially appointed to assist with cremations, though their numbers increased later.Goode recorded that the cost of cremation was three rupees, two annas and nine paisa for adults and one rupee, eight annas for minors, while poor families were not charged. Between 1913 and 1914, 10,344 bodies were cremated at Nimtala Ghat, one of Kolkata’s oldest cremation grounds.The monthly salary of a dom worker at the time ranged from Rs 2.50 to Rs 3.50.For decades afterwards, the occupation remained largely hereditary. Children learned the work by assisting their fathers and relatives, gathering wood, preparing pyres and observing rituals associated with cremation.The work was physically demanding and carried social stigma.Manik Mallick, 56, who has worked at the Kashi Mitra Burning Ghat in north Kolkata since the early 1990s, remembers a time when the cremation ground looked very different. “There used to be a single low-power bulb and a stock of wooden logs piled up. Taxis would never come within this periphery, and movement of the public here was rare.”Workers say the shift toward formal government employment began gradually between the late 1990s and early 2000s, when cremation workers were brought under the Kolkata Municipal Corporation’s payroll.Many appointments happened through hereditary recruitment after the death or retirement (at age 62) of a parent already working at the cremation grounds.Under the West Bengal government’s pay structure, permanent satkar karmis are now entitled to Pay Level 1 under the West Bengal Services (Revision of Pay and Allowances) Rules, 2019, earning roughly Rs 35,000 a month, depending on grade and allowances.“When I started, I earned Rs 600 a month,” said Mallick. “After more than three decades, it has reached around Rs 35,000. That itself shows how much has changed.”Permanent satkar karmis now receive fixed monthly salaries, and some are provided with government quarters. Payments arrive regularly, unlike earlier, when income depended entirely on the families of the deceased. For older workers, the shift brought stability that had been absent for generations.The biggest shift for funeral workers here came with the introduction of electric crematoriums, which today operate side by side with traditional wooden pyres, which cost mourners ten times more (Photos: Top - Representative image by Abhishek Mishra/Pexels; Bottom - An electric crematorium in Nimtala Ghat)Lakkhichand Mallick, around 70, entered the profession at the age of 14, learning the work from his grandfather. “Earlier we washed the body, prepared it for cremation and earned very little,” he said. “After the government recognised us as employees, financial stability came. Our social status improved. Our children’s lives changed.”The move to government employment also altered who entered the profession. According to Sanjay Ray, honorary trustee of the Hindu Satkar Samity, cremation work had long been confined to a single caste group.“Earlier satkar karmis came from one caste,” Ray said. “Once a government salary became possible, people from other castes also entered. It became more like any other job.”Formal employment, workers say, reduced stigma within the workplace, as attested by a contractual worker at Keoratala Mahashamshan. “Earlier, untouchability was stronger. It has reduced,” he said. But outside, it still exists. “When it comes to getting my daughter married into a good family, difficulties remain.”Changing ghatsKashi Mitra Burning Ghat, established in the early nineteenth century on the banks of the Ganga, once stood in a poorly lit and sparsely populated stretch of north Kolkata.Workers recall that during the 1970s and early 1980s, the area lacked proper electricity and was considered unsafe at night. From the early 1990s onward, the neighbourhood began to change gradually. Streetlights were installed, and small tea stalls and shops appeared along the riverfront.Today, the stretch of the Ganga in north Kolkata attracts daily visitors. Tea stalls and snack shops line the riverbank, and residents often gather there in the evenings. The Nimtala and Kashi Mitra crematoriums stand along the same riverfront, reflecting the coexistence of everyday public life and long-standing ritual spaces in the area.Infrastructure improvements also altered how bodies arrived at the ghats. Earlier, cremation workers often carried bodies themselves over long distances on stretchers. With better roads, hearse vans began bringing bodies directly to the cremation grounds. A railway line running parallel to the river near Nimtala and Kashi Mitra crematoriums also became part of the changing urban landscape.For workers like Mallick, the biggest shift came with the introduction of electric crematoriums. Kolkata’s first electric crematorium began operating in 1960, according to environmental studies on the Ganga basin. Since then, electric furnaces have gradually been installed at several burning ghats.The new systems significantly reduced the physical labour involved in cremations. “The work was far more physically punishing earlier,” he said. “We carried the bodies ourselves, prepared the pyres and inhaled the smoke. Infrastructure was nothing like today.”“Now there is a more human approach towards us,” Mallick added.Outside the Kashi Mitra crematorium in North Kolkata (Photo - Joymala Bagchi)Electric crematoriums and traditional wooden pyres continue to operate side by side across the city. A wooden pyre typically takes five to six hours to fully burn a body and requires around 500 kilograms of wood. Electric cremations generally take about three hours.This affects the cost of conducting the funeral.  The complete charge for an adult cremation on a wooden pyre is Rs 2,392, while the registration fee for an electric cremation is Rs 250. “It depends on what the family wants for their loved one,” Lakkhichand Mallick said.For older workers, cremation work involved far more than operating machinery.Baleshwar Mallick, 75, said he learned the profession through years of practice under the guidance of his father and uncles. “My father and uncles showed us everything — how much wood to use, how to build the pyre, when to light it, how the rites are done,” he said. “It was never just about burning a body. From setting the pyre to finishing the last ritual, the full responsibility was on us.”He believes younger workers are less familiar with traditional practices. “Now the job is more about operating the machine,” he said, pointing to a growing gap between generations.RisksDespite technological changes, the job remains physically demanding. Those working with wooden pyres continue to face heavy smoke exposure. Others spoke about heat stress from long hours near high-temperature furnaces and the risk of sudden flare-ups if the furnace door is opened too early. Poor ventilation in some older buildings adds to the problem.Workers said protective equipment is largely absent. While permanent satkar karmis earn around Rs 35,000 a month, many others remain employed on contractual wages.A contractual worker said he began the job earning Rs 1,800 per month. “After 20 years, it has increased to only Rs 12,000,” he said. “It is impossible to run a family of four in Kolkata with this amount.”He said contractual workers have repeatedly approached the Kolkata Municipal Corporation seeking permanent appointments. “Everyone gives us hope, but nothing happens,” he said. “We are still not permanent.”Despite the challenges, he said he has managed to send his children to school. “My children are studying. But I will never allow them to enter this profession,” he added.Cremation workers across Kolkata came into public attention during the COVID-19 pandemic. Crematoriums at Nimtala, Garia and Dhapa were designated to handle the bodies of people who died of the virus. Workers said that at the peak of the crisis, as many as 300 bodies arrived daily at Nimtala.While permanent satkar karmis earn around Rs 35,000 a month, many others remain employed on contractual wages, earning around Rs 12,000 (Photo - Representative image, Abhishek Mishra/Pexels) “There were endless queues,” said a worker at Dhapa. “It was an unbearable sight.”Several workers were appointed during the pandemic, many on a contractual basis. He rejected allegations that crematorium staff charged excessive fees. “People gave us baksish on their own,” he said. “We never charged.”For some permanent workers, the pandemic years led to modest financial improvements. A few were able to purchase motorcycles or small plots of land. Contractual workers said little had changed for them.“The pandemic made people notice us,” one worker said. “But it did not guarantee our future.”For many families, the profession may end with the current generation. Naresh Mallick, 46, said he does not want his son to follow him. “My son is studying BCom,” he said. “I am the last generation in my family doing this work. After studying BCom, why will he burn bodies?”He said discrimination in the profession has reduced over time. “Why shouldn’t he take advantage of that?” he asked.Others are waiting for recruitment to resume. Bhaglu, a satkar karmi, said his four sons hope to secure municipal jobs if hiring restarts. Recruitment for satkar karmis has reportedly been stalled for the past four to five years.Cover image - Representative image (Abhishek Mishra/Pexels)

In this West Bengal district, the elderly are left to battle climate stress alone

Erratic rainfall, agricultural shocks and rising migration have emptied villages in Purulia, leaving older  residents to fend for themselves.Purulia, West Bengal: In West Bengal’s Chatarmahul village of Purulia district, Shakuntala Rajwar (85) lies frail on a charpai inside a dim, mud-walled room. The air is stale, sunlight never enters, and the cattle shed next door fills it with dampness and smell.Her two sons, Rajen (62) and Kartik (60), have spent the past decade as migrant daily-wage workers in Odisha, returning only during the paddy harvest. Their wives care for Shakuntala when they can. “It feels so hot here, but I don’t have a choice,” she said, struggling to sit up.She still remembers the day her son first left. “How could I stop him? Everyone was going. We are poor people, struggling every step. What could I have said? I thought at least my other son and the daughters-in-law would stay.” She was 73 then.Over the years, changing weather patterns and shrinking farm incomes have turned short-term migration into a permanent way of life in Purulia. This year, Purulia saw torrential downpours in June that destroyed the Aman crop, a lifeline for the region. Aman rice, sown between June and August and harvested in winter, depends on steady rain. Instead, farmers have faced years of extremes: droughts that withered seedlings, followed by sudden floods that washed them away. Rajen’s small plot too was ruined. Earlier he found labour within Purulia, but as crop failures multiplied across this monoculture-dependent district, work dried up.“Depending on cultivation here has become a gamble,” Rajen said. “Last year, the seedlings died for lack of rain. This year, everything drowned.” But, few can afford to sow again after repeated losses, leaving families like the Rajwars with little choice but migration. Left behind are the elderly, some choosing to stay in familiar surroundings, others unable to move without becoming a burden.Parched and malnourished elderly women (Photo - Joymala Bagchi, 101Reporters)Cycle of migrationMost migrant labourers return only for the paddy harvest in October-November. Rajen and Kartik also come back then to work their own field and earn Rs 250 a day as labourers on others’ land. But in bad years, even that trip is not worthwhile.Similarly, about five kilometres away in Ketlapur village, lives Moni Badhyakar (50). She has married off her two daughters and now lives with her husband. Both work as daily wage labourers to survive. On days they do not earn, they do not eat.Bone-thin, with a growing lump on her neck she has never had checked, Moni said, “Who will take me to the hospital? Both of my daughters are married.” Moni and her husband, trapped in unstable wage labour, represent those left behind: unable to migrate because of age and health. “If we were younger, maybe we could have tried. But now we do not want to move out,” she says. “And where should we go? I hardly went anywhere in my entire life. Here at least we have our own shelter and, in this village, we know the people and can manage something when days are difficult. Who will give us work elsewhere? I cannot work for long these days,” Badhyakar adds.Stories like hers are common in Purulia. The drought-prone district is grappling with scorching summers, erratic rainfall, severe winters and water scarcity. A report on the heat wave scenario in West Bengal by the NGO SwitchON Foundation shows that between 2019 and 2023, Purulia district witnessed summer daytime temperatures of 40 °C or more on 30-44 days each year. Between 1969 and 2019, Purulia recorded a total of 117 disastrous heatwave days. In May 2024, the temperature in Bankura and Purulia exceeded 45 °C.Between 2011 and 2016, agricultural output fell by 27%, officials said. In 2017, following drought, nearly 2.8 lakh hectares of farmland became barren. With 83% of the net cropped area under Kharif paddy and just 15% under multi-cropping, the region’s dependence on erratic monsoons, limited irrigation, and low fertilizer input has led to persistently low yields and increased rural distress. Over 87% of Purulia’s population lives in rural areas, amid relentless climate stress and shocks.Most of the tube well contains heavy iron in Purulia district (Photo - Joymala Bagchi, 101Reporters)Although Purulia has seen a steady flow of migrant labourers for over two decades, a noticeable shift has emerged in the past six to seven years, with a significant rise in outmigration among local residents. Traditionally, male members of households would migrate in search of work. However, recent trends show entire families, including women, leaving their homes. In several cases across the district, elderly family members are left behind as younger relatives move elsewhere in search of income.“Main working class has decreased from 25.43% in the 2001 Census to 20.93% in the 2011 Census, whereas the marginal working class has increased from 19.03% in 2001 to 21.71% in 2011. Cultivators have shifted to other working classes,” official district profile data notes.This reporter visited 18–20 houses across eight villages in Purulia (Uka, Alladih, Dandua, Shwetpalas, Saltora, Ratanpur, Ketlapur, and Chatarmahul). In nearly 17 of these households, only elderly residents remained.Muni Badyakar developed lumps but till date did not consult any doctor (Photo - Joymala Bagchi, 101Reporters)Left behind in empty villageDuring one such visit, Balika Rajwar (70) said she survives on a Rs 1,000 pension and by selling cow dung cakes. Her meals usually consist of boiled rice and potatoes. “I stay alone. When I am ill, villagers look after me,” she said. Her son’s migration, like others’, was a decision born of desperation.Shambhu (59) a widower from Uka village, also lives alone in his mud house. His unmarried son moved to Hyderabad about six years ago in search of work, and now returns only during Purulia’s famous Chhau Nach festival. “Once, two years ago, he asked if I would like to move with him. I refused,” Shambhu recalled. “Why should I move to a place I have no connection with? Even if I move, will poverty go away? Poor people are the same everywhere.”Gopal Badyakar in his dilapidated house (Photo - Joymala Bagchi, 101Reporters)In poverty-stricken Purulia, the elderly struggle to survive alone amid a crumbling rural economy. Frail and often without steady income, many rely on their sons’ remittances, meagre pensions from the state government, and the support of neighbours. Nutritious meals are luxuries. Hunger gnaws. Isolation deepens their hardship as younger family members, sometimes just the men, sometimes entire families, migrate for work, leaving the aged to fend for themselves, fetching water, cooking, and managing daily chores alone.Gopal Badhyakar (60) of Ketlapur is among the most vulnerable. Differently abled for the past three years, he struggles to move his hand, walk, or speak. Both his sons migrated years ago,  one settled with his in-laws in Jharkhand, the other moved to Bengaluru after farm labour in the village dried up. The elder son sends money occasionally, while a nephew brings him a single meal in the afternoon. At night, he survives mostly on biscuits from the local shop.“I feel very alone now,” Badhyakar said. “I can’t work anymore. My niece gives me some rice, that is my only meal. I want to live with my sons, but they don’t want to take me. Maybe it is because of the expenses. They visit once in a while, but I stay here alone. All I wish for now is a proper, filling meal.”Those who leave their parents behind also wrestle with their own concerns.  A labourer from Purulia, who works in Punjab, told 101Reporters he struggles to send money home. “My parents stay alone. They don’t have a phone and cannot receive money online. I have to rely on travellers to carry cash, but these days many refuse. Online transactions are safe, but not for people like us.”Looking through the door, an elderly woman (Photo - Joymala Bagchi, 101Reporters)‘It’s all connected’Such struggles are not isolated. Experts said they are part of a wider pattern linking climate stress, agriculture, and migration across Purulia.Environmental activist Supen Hembram explained: “The climate is changing, and so is the way people earn. It’s all connected.”Gautam Mukherjee, professor of migration studies at Sidho Kanho Birsha University, added that delayed monsoons and shrinking industries are deepening the crisis. “Annual rainfall is slowly declining. Monsoon now arrives in August or September, disrupting even single-crop land. As a result, more people are being forced to migrate as labourers. At the same time, industries in West Bengal are shrinking, reducing job opportunities,” he added. “Many youths are leaving to earn, while their elderly parents are left behind with nobody to take care of them. In many cases, they are even dying alone,” Mukherjee added.Experts added that without better social security and climate-resilient livelihoods, migration from Purulia is likely to continue, leaving more elderly residents to manage on their own.This project is supported by the Internews Earth Journalism Network with funding from the Swedish International Development Cooperation Agency (Sida) Cover Photo - An elderly woman in the village (Photo - Joymala Bagchi, 101Reporters)