Negamam’s handloom weavers say GI tag hasn’t changed their lives

Nearly two years after Negamam cotton sarees received a Geographical Indication tag, weavers say wages remain stagnant, orders irregular and welfare out of reachCoimbatore, Tamil Nadu: “They told us our lives would change after the Geographical Indication tag. But look around…what has changed for us?” said Nagaraj (48), a handloom weaver from Negamam in Tamil Nadu’s Coimbatore district.For over 30 years, Nagaraj has woven Negamam cotton sarees in Pollachi taluk. His father and grandfather were handloom weavers too. Between the steady clack of the loom and the cotton threads running through his fingers lies three generations of labour, without the security or dignity he once hoped the craft would bring.In March 2023, Negamam Cotton Handloom Sarees received a Geographical Indication (GI) tag, a legal recognition meant to protect products whose quality and reputation are tied to a specific place. At the time, officials from the Handlooms Department, cooperative societies and textile traders held meetings with weavers, promising higher demand, better wages and recognition.Nearly two years later, Nagaraj said the GI tag exists largely on paper.“They said orders would increase and wages would rise,” he said. “But our income is the same, our struggle is the same. Only the name ‘GI tag’ has come, not the benefits.”Handloom weaving has thrived for over two centuries in the Pollachi, Negamam, Kinathukadavu and Sulur regions of Coimbatore district. Three decades ago, the region had over 4,650 handloom units. Today, that number has dropped to about 1,700, according to estimates by cooperative societies and Textile Department officials, as younger generations move away in search of stable livelihoods.  Negamam cotton sarees are popular across Tamil Nadu, Kerala and Karnataka.The decline becomes easier to understand when viewed against the daily economics of weaving.Nagaraj earns between Rs 1,000 and Rs 1,250 per saree. It takes him two full days to weave one Negamam cotton saree, fetching an average of about Rs 1,100. He works from 7 am till evening, breaking only for lunch.Nagaraj's family survives on a monthly income of Rs 12,000 to Rs 15,000 from weaving  (Photo - Prasanth Shanmugasundaram, 101Reporters)“Thousands of beats with my hands, two days of hard work, and this is what we earn,” he said.In the retail market, however, Negamam cotton sarees sell for far higher prices. Genuine handwoven sarees typically retail from Rs 1,600 and can go up to Rs 6,000 depending on the weave, design and finish, according to traders and weavers. Products sold at significantly lower prices are usually powerloom-made or falsely labelled; one of the key reasons weavers had pushed for the GI tag to protect their craft.Government and cooperative orders are irregular, and payments are often delayed. “Some months there are only seven or nine sarees to weave,” Nagaraj said. “That is why I now depend on private textile shops. They may pay slightly less sometimes, but at least they pay on time.”His family survives on a monthly income of Rs 12,000 to Rs 15,000 from weaving. His daughter is studying engineering.But the pressures are not only financial.By noon, the small room where Nagaraj works turns suffocating. The tiled roof traps heat, and the air barely moves. “By afternoon, it feels like a furnace,” he said. “But the work cannot stop.”By noon, the small room where the weavers often work turns suffocating. “It feels like a furnace.” (Photo - Prasanth Shanmugasundaram, 101Reporters)Ironically, he weaves sarees prized for their comfort in hot weather. “This is our identity,” Nagaraj said. “What is the use of recognition when our lives remain exactly the same?”Nagaraj’s experience is not unique. Even weavers who remain within the cooperative system say the work available through official channels is insufficient to sustain a family.Mohana Sundaram (52) has woven Negamam cotton sarees for over three decades. Despite being a cooperative member, he said he gets only seven to nine sarees a month from Co-optex.“How can a family survive on that?” he asked.Years at the loom have taken a physical toll. “Our tiled-roof houses trap heat. Sitting for seven to ten hours daily has damaged my back,” he said. “Every summer, I get skin infections. I had to buy an air cooler just to work.”Women at the loomAlongside men, women form the backbone of Negamam’s handloom economy, yet remain its most invisible workers.Deepanandhini has woven Negamam cotton sarees for nearly 20 years, continuing a craft passed down through three generations. “My mother wove. My grandmother wove. For us, weaving is not a profession…it is the life we were born into,” she said. “But even after giving our whole lives to this craft, we remain in the same poverty.”She and her husband earn about Rs 1,100 per saree, which takes two days of joint labour. The same saree sells in the market for Rs 2,500 to Rs 4,000.“Everyone in the chain makes money except us,” she said.Deepanandhini has woven Negamam sarees for 20 years, but said she could afford to wear one only once, at her daughter's wedding (Photo - Prasanth Shanmugasundaram, 101Reporters)“I have worn a Negamam cotton saree only once…at my daughter’s wedding,” she added quietly. “Even then, we bought the cheapest one. We weave these sarees every day, but we cannot afford to wear our own work.”During lean periods, many women take up daily wage labour or work under the Mahatma Gandhi National Rural Employment Guarantee Act.Deepanandhini said she had hoped the GI tag would bring regular orders and better wages. “They said recognition would improve our lives,” she said. “But nothing changed...for festivals, for daily expenses, or for the future.”Education, she said, is now the only exit. “We send our children to school because we don’t want them stuck at the loom like us. Almost all weavers’ children here have moved to other fields.”“If things don’t change,” she said, “we might be the last generation of Negamam weavers.”‘Same struggle, passed on’If younger weavers feel abandoned, older weavers feel erased.Savithri (62) has spent 45 years at the loom but does not receive the old-age pension meant for senior weavers, particularly cooperative members above 60.“I started weaving when I was 19,” she said. “From the day I got married till today, this loom has been my life.”Her family turned to private buyers out of necessity. “For emergencies, medicine, school fees, private buyers give advances immediately. The cooperative does not,” she said. Leaving the cooperative, however, meant losing access to welfare schemes.Sundaram said private buyers offer 12 to 17 sarees a month and advances of up to Rs 1 lakh. “In 30 years, the government has given me hardly Rs 5,000 worth of accessories,” he said. “Private buyers support us when we are in trouble.”“On paper, everything looks beautiful,” Savithri said, gesturing towards the loom. “In our hands, nothing comes.”Savithri has spent 45 years at the loom, yet no government welfare has reached her (Photo - Prasanth Shanmugasundaram, 101Reporters)As she spoke, she continued operating the jandham, winding dyed threads—her hands moving steadily, even as the system remained out of reach.A manager associated with a local handloom cooperative, involved in preparing Negamam’s GI application, said the tag alone cannot change livelihoods.“To weave one saree, yarn worth about Rs 500 is supplied,” he said. “After two days of labour, the cost is around Rs 1,500. The cooperative adds a 20% margin and sells it to Co-optex or private shops. In the market, it sells for Rs 2,500 to Rs 4,000.”Payments through cooperatives usually come within two to three days, though delays occur. Private buyers often pay the same day and offer advances, one reason weavers prefer them.“Without government-led promotion, GI cannot create demand,” he said. “GI tag alone cannot do magic.”A senior official familiar with the GI Registry process in Chennai agreed. “A GI tag certifies origin. It does not automatically raise wages or create markets,” the official said. “Without branding, buyer linkages and sustained state support, GI remains symbolic.”Second-generation textile shop owner N K Nachimuthu echoed this view. “Negamam cotton is our identity. Customers love it, but many still don’t know it has a GI tag,” he said. About 20 weavers work for him, earning Rs 1,100 to Rs 1,500 per saree.“If sales increase through proper promotion, we can pay more,” he said.He also pointed to structural pressures. “Powerlooms have weakened handlooms. The 5% GST on cotton makes it worse. Most weavers’ children have moved away.”Negamam cotton sarees line the shelves in Nachimuthu's shop, but he says GI Tag awareness remains low (Photo - Prasanth Shanmugasundaram, 101Reporters)What the government saysBommaiyasamy, Handloom Officer for Coimbatore district, said the government supports weavers through multiple schemes. “We provide free accessories and looms costing Rs 20,000 to Rs 22,000 at a 90% subsidy. Weavers above 60 are eligible for pensions. Benefits are routed through cooperatives,” he said.At the state level, Handlooms Secretary Amuthavalli said around Rs 50 crore is allocated annually for weaver welfare. “We provide subsidised looms, pensions, housing and scholarships. All Co-optex outlets have been instructed to highlight GI-tagged products,” she said.On the ground, however, many weavers say these measures have yet to translate into meaningful change. While GI-tagged Negamam cotton sarees are sold at premium prices in showrooms, weavers say their incomes and working conditions remain unchanged.Cover photo: For 30 years, Nagaraj has been beate the loom thousands of times a day for barely Rs 1,100 a saree (Photo - Prasanth Shanmugasundaram, 101Reporters)

From 200 workdays to barely a dozen, Tamil Nadu’s farm labourers are being pushed toward factory work

With the rains no longer following a calendar, farmers are shifting to less water and labour-intensive crops, and the move is stripping agricultural labourers of steady work.Coimbatore, Tamil Nadu: Valliyammal Palanisamy (65), a farm labourer from Kuppuchipudur in Anaimalai block of Tamil Nadu’s Coimbatore district, has spent nearly five decades in the fields.“I’ve been doing farm work since I was 18,” Valliyammal told 101Reporters. “In the past, Anaimalai was filled with paddy and sugarcane fields. Now, it’s just coconut groves,” Back then, from preparing land and sowing to harvesting and storage, we had work almost the whole year. One paddy cycle alone took 130 days, and because farmers grew three crops a year, we worked almost 300 days annually.”Valliyammal Palanisamy working in the fields of Anaimalai (Photo - Prasanth Shanmugasundaram, 101Reporters) “Even with sugarcane or vegetables, we used to get at least 200 workdays,” she added. “Now, with most of those crops gone, we barely get 10 or 12 days of work a month in coconut fields, mostly weeding or harvesting,” she added.A whopping 94 per cent decline in workdays, is no easy feat for Valliyammal. When this reporter met her, she was standing knee-deep in a paddy field, pulling out weeds under the harsh afternoon sun. She paused only briefly to drink water before going back to work. “Many of the people I used to work with have left farming,” she said. “Some go for MGNREGS[Mahatma Gandhi National Rural Guarantee Scheme], some for construction, some to textile mills. They don’t come to the fields anymore.”Her long-time coworker, Karuppathaal, now works in a coir mill twisting ropes and separating fibre from coconut husk. “She earns about Rs 450 a day and works more than 250 days a year,” Valliyammal said. “Rain or shine, people are leaving the fields because there’s simply no work.”The shift, she said, began when the rain stopped following its old pattern. “We used to plan around the early summer rains in April, then the good showers in August and December. Now there’s no pattern at all. That uncertainty has changed our lives completely.”Out of syncWhat Valliyammal described is unfolding across Tamil Nadu’s Western Zone – Coimbatore, Tiruppur, Erode, Karur, Salem and Namakkal – once major producers of paddy, sugarcane, banana, and vegetables. Today, climate stress, falling rainfall and rising groundwater scarcity are pushing farmers away from water-intensive crops and pulling labourers out of agriculture altogether.According to the Tamil Nadu Department of Agriculture, the state cultivates 1.21 crore hectares (2.99 crore acres) of oilseeds, pulses, sugarcane, fruits, vegetables, millets and cotton. But in the Western Zone, the last two decades have seen a sharp shift toward long-term plantation crops like coconut and areca nut. These crops need far less labour.A rural non-farm employment survey shows just how dramatically Tamil Nadu’s workforce has moved out of agriculture: farm employment in surveyed villages has fallen from 43% in 2012 to just 22% in 2024, while non-farm work now accounts for 78% of all rural jobs. The Western districts lead this shift, with non-farm dependence highest in Coimbatore (50.7%), followed by Tiruppur (42.4%), Namakkal (37.9%), Salem (36.8%), Erode (35.4%), and Karur (29.5%). The income gap explains the migration. Agricultural labourers earn just Rs 37,577 a year, compared to Rs 1.39 lakh in non-farm sectors.This corresponds with the changing trends in weather observed over the years. In the last 30 years, rainfall across the Western Zone has declined in every season. India Meteorological Department data shows a 3-12% drop in southwest monsoon rains (June-September), a 3-5% fall in northeast monsoon rains (October-December) and an even sharper 11-28% decline in summer rainfall (March-May).But the more complex change is unpredictability. Rains that once stretched across months now arrive as short, intense bursts. Some years bring failed monsoons and drought and in others, the rains arrive early or linger too long. The steady two-to-four-month rainy periods of the past now often collapse into a single month.This instability has hit water-intensive crops the hardest. Between 2000 and 2023, acreage under paddy fell by 55-60%, groundnut by 60-70%, sugarcane by 65-70%, vegetables by 58–60%, and even pulses and small millets by 65-80%. Faced with rising losses, farmers have shifted to long-term plantation crops like coconut and areca nut, which demand far less water and labour.As a result, coconut cultivation grew by 19.8%, from 1.79 lakh hectares in 2000 to 2.14 lakh hectares in 2023, while areca nut acreage more than doubled, rising 115.5% from 3,828 hectares to 8,248 hectares. Data from the Agriculture Department, Land Use Research Board and the state’s Economic Survey point to the same drivers: erratic rainfall, unreliable canal releases and mounting groundwater stress.Yet even with this transition, yields remain low and profitability uncertain. Some farmers continue, but many others have quit agriculture altogether, leasing fertile land to factories.Pattiswaran (above) and Aruchamy (below) farmers from Anaimalai interacting with 101Reporters (Photo - Prasanth Shanmugasundaram, 101Reporters)Guess gameFor Pattiswaran (60), a farmer from Anaimalai, the shift away from paddy has been a forced one. “My father and grandfather grew paddy here. Earlier, rainfall and water from the Aliyar Dam supported irrigation for almost 11 months a year through the Ayyakattu canal system. We could grow three paddy crops every year,” he said.That changed over the last two decades. Rainfall declined sharply, and water releases became irregular. “The Aliyar Dam that once supplied water for 11 months now gives us barely five,” he said. “For four or five months, my land is completely dry. I can grow only one or two crops a year.”His 20 acres of paddy have shrunk to just 3.5 acres and the rest is now under coconut. “Earlier, sowing followed a clear rhythm, Chithirai in April-May with the first pre-monsoon showers, Aadi in July-August, and Thai in January-February. But climate change has destroyed that calendar. Now no one can say when it will rain.”Official data shows the same trend. In Anaimalai, paddy cultivation has fallen from 6,400 acres to just 790. Coconut has replaced much of it simply because it is easier to manage. “Coconut doesn’t need water all year. Irrigate it twice a week and it survives. It gives better returns and needs fewer labourers,” he said. Plantations also tolerate moisture variability better, rely on weekly or fortnightly irrigation, and work well with micro-irrigation, making them far less dependent on perfectly timed monsoons.This ease of cultivation has spurred the shift to coconut, areca nut and nutmeg. While the landowners chose this safety net, farm labourers are worse off. Paddy is labour-intensive, each 100-120 day crop cycle needs 5-7 labourers per acre for nursery preparation, transplanting, weeding and harvesting, with workers paid around Rs 300 a day. Coconut and areca nuts, by contrast, require only maintenance and periodic harvests. Additionally, coconut is harvested every 40 days, areca every two months, needing just 1-3 workers per acre for harvesting and 1-2 for weeding.The shift has slashed labour demand, lowering farmers’ costs while effectively wiping out steady work for thousands of agricultural labourers. On the brinkThe collapse of steady agricultural work has pushed entire households in Anaimalai to the brink. Anitha (36), a farm worker, told 101Reporters that with the shift in agriculture patterns her family’s income has fallen to a fraction of what it once was. “I never went to school. I’ve worked in the fields since childhood. But now, with the monsoon changing, there is no regular paddy or sugarcane farming. Most fields have become coconut,” she said.This season, limited water from the Aliyar Dam allowed some farmers to grow paddy, briefly reviving work. “I earn Rs 300 a day in paddy. After harvest, I move to coconut groves for Rs 450. But none of this is regular. My husband is also a farm labourer, together, we get only 10-14 days of work a month,” said Anitha, bent low in the paddy field under the harsh midday sun, planting saplings. Their earnings have to support five people which includes two school-going sons and an elderly mother-in-law.When the conversation with this reporter ran a little longer, the landowner snapped at Anitha to get back to work. She took a quick sip of water, wiped her face, and hurried back knowing a few minutes lost would reduce her wages.Anitha lives in a town panchayat, which means she cannot access MGNREGS since the scheme is restricted to rural areas . “If I want other work, I must travel 25-50 kilometres to Coimbatore or Pollachi to work in a factory” she said. Her sister, once a farm worker, has already moved to Tiruppur to work in a garment factory. “With farming jobs disappearing, life without work is unbearable,” she said. Leelavathi, another labourer, faces the same uncertainty. “My husband and I get only about 10 days of work a month in coconut and areca nut farms. When I was young, we had three cropping seasons a year. Work was daily. Since the 2016 drought, jobs have almost disappeared.” She tried a coconut-fibre unit and later a textile mill, but the long hours, fibre dust and cotton debris made her sick. “I couldn’t sleep at night,” she said. She returned to farm work not because it pays, but because it feels bearable.Migration is now the default. Many families have at least one member working in a textile mill, coir unit or construction site in Coimbatore or Tiruppur. Mahendran, 28, left in 2022 for a textile mill job after fieldwork dropped to barely 8-10 days a month. “Only the very old and women are still here,” he said. Others, like Murugan (55), migrated late in life, “I never imagined I’d have to leave the village at this age. But coconut gives work only once in 40 days. Construction at least pays.”For women like Sumithra, migration has meant a different kind of burden. Her husband now works in a garment unit in Palladam and comes home once in two or three Sundays. “I’m raising the children alone. In almost every second house here, the men have gone out for work,” she said.Farmers are shifting to less water and labour-intensive crops, and the move is stripping agricultural labourers of steady work (Photo - Prasanth Shanmugasundaram, 101Reporters)Institutional response and its limitsAccording to Dr. Ravindran, Director of Research at Tamil Nadu Agricultural University (TNAU), the state has taken steps to help farmers adapt to climate stress. “For over a decade, TNAU’s Agricultural Climate Research Centre has been providing weather forecasts, rainfall, wind speed, crop advisories, through the Uzhavan mobile app and our district-level offices,” he said.TNAU also runs Climate Smart Village pilots in 385 villages. Each village has rainfall monitors, and farmers receive crop recommendations based on local data. Model farms, about two to four acres each, demonstrate practices such as micro-irrigation, mulching, drought-tolerant varieties, diversified cropping, and integrated farming. For water-stressed belts, TNAU recommends millets, pulses, oilseeds, horticulture, and managed plantations like coconut and areca.But on the ground, the reach is thin. Most farmers this reporter interviewed in Coimbatore district said they had never heard of the Uzhavan app, let alone used it. Tamil Nadu has 12,620 village panchayats and only a fraction fall under the pilot. Older farmers struggle with smartphone-based advisories, and many climate-resilient practices require upfront investments, drip systems, mulching sheets, or new seed varieties that small farmers cannot afford.Environmental activist and farmer advocate Paamayan from Poovulagin Nanbargal argues that advice alone is not enough. “Farmers need financial support and subsidies to adapt. If the government wants them to shift to drought- or flood-resistant crops, it must incentivise it,” he said. He added that no state scheme directly targets climate impacts. “There’s no long-term data on how much land has been affected, what crops suffered, or how soil patterns changed. Without scientific data, farmers can’t fight climate change effectively,” he said. TNAU confirms these gaps. The university does not maintain long-term village-level data on land degradation, crop loss, or soil changes. It tracks only seasonal trends like rainfall, pest outbreaks, and district-level yields. “Comprehensive climate-impact mapping requires dedicated funding and inter-department coordination,” Ravindran said. “We submit our recommendations, but these initiatives are beyond our mandate.” Tamil Nadu’s Agriculture Secretary, Dakshinamurthy, declined to comment.Balachandran, former Director of the Chennai Meteorological Centre, said a coordinated, science-based approach is overdue. “Climate change is one factor, but land-use change and declining profits also matter. The Agriculture Department, TNAU and the Meteorological Centre should jointly collect 30 years of rainfall, crop loss and land-shift data at the village level,” he said. No department has taken ownership so far, funding is limited, and coordination remains weak.“With accurate data and scientific planning, we can at least reduce the scale of agricultural losses,” he said. “But without it, farmers are left to navigate climate change 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 - Farm labourers working in the field (Photo - Prasanth Shanmugasundaram, 101Reporters)

How Tamil Nadu’s self-respect marriages are redefining union beyond caste and religion

Institutions like Periyar Padippagams support couples with legal registration, protection, and financial aid, making equality and consent the foundation of marriage.Coimbatore, Tamil Nadu: In most parts of India, marriage is closely tied to ritual, religion, and social hierarchy. Traditional Hindu weddings are marked by priest-led ceremonies, sacred fires, gold ornaments, and elaborate feasts. Many argue that these rituals often serve to reinforce caste identity and patriarchal norms.In Tamil Nadu, a different kind of marriage has quietly challenged these conventions for nearly a century. The Suya Mariyathai Thirumanam or self-respect marriage replaces priests and religious rituals with a pledge of equality between partners.The ceremony is centred on a simple vow: “I do affirm that we will share equally both the pleasures and pains of family life, besides being intimate friends with equal rights. Whatever you expect as your rights from me, I will expect equally from you. Based on this agreement, may I garland you today?”This form of marriage emerged from social reformer Periyar EV Ramasamy’s Self-Respect Movement in the 1920s, which opposed caste, religious orthodoxy, and patriarchy. The first recorded Self-Respect Marriage took place on May 28, 1928, near Aruppukottai, when Rengasamy Reddy and Nagammal married without priests, rituals, or a sacred fire.In 1967, Chief Minister CN Annadurai’s DMK government amended the Hindu Marriage Act to include Section 7A, granting legal recognition to such marriages in Tamil Nadu. The state remains the only one in India where marriages conducted without religious ceremonies are legally valid.Suya Mariyathai Thirumanam or self-respect marriage replaces priests and religious rituals with a pledge of equality between partners (Photo - Prasanth Shanmugasundaram, 101Reporters)A refugeInstitutions like the Periyar Padippagam in Coimbatore continue to carry forward Periyar’s reformist legacy. More than a wedding venue, it serves as a support centre for couples who choose love across caste or religion.The Padippagam provides counselling, legal assistance, and protection to inter-caste and inter-religious couples facing opposition or violence from their families. It also mediates with authorities in cases involving police complaints or honour-related conflicts. Over the years, it has become an important part of Tamil Nadu’s social reform network. It is not only conducting weddings but also helping couples secure official registration, legal protection, and limited financial support to begin their lives together.On Valentine’s Day 2023, Gowtham (28) and Reena Jenita (26) solemnised their self-respect marriage at the Padippagam. Their relationship began in college, where Gowtham was pursuing a BSc in Computer Science and Reena was studying Agriculture. Gowtham is from Coimbatore district, and Reena from Salem district.When Reena’s family learned of their relationship, they opposed it. “In February 2023, when her family found out and learned about my Hindu background, they tried to arrange another match for her and pressured me to quit,” Gowtham told 101Reporters. “So we decided to come to Coimbatore and get married at the Padippagam.”He recalled that her family tried to trace them, contacted neighbours, and sent threats. “On February 13, Reena stayed at a friend’s place associated with the Padippagam. The next day, we submitted our Aadhaar cards, TC, and marksheets, exchanged garlands, and solemnised our self-respect marriage. We then registered it officially at the nearby sub-registrar’s office. When Reena’s family arrived at the Padippagam after hearing about the marriage, the members mediated calmly to avoid any conflict.”“Since Reena’s family includes educated members they understood and accepted the marriage. The Padippagam handled the situation carefully, and eventually my family also accepted our union. Today, I run an automation business, and my wife is preparing for government exams,” Gowtham said. Reena added, “When I left home, I didn’t know much about the Padippagam. Seeing it gave me hope. Here, caste or religion doesn’t matter. Everyone works to create an equal society and guide young couples. I feel proud that we got married here. Our love has crossed religious boundaries, and we now live peacefully.”For Surya, from a Dalit background, and Deepa, from a dominant Backward Class community, the Padippagam became a place of safety. When Deepa’s family discovered their relationship in 2019, they issued threats and tried to arrange another marriage for her. Surya, a physical education teacher from Singanallur near Coimbatore, approached the Padippagam for help.“Her relatives came to my village and warned me to stay away,” he said. “When the threats turned violent, I took her to the Coimbatore Padippagam for safety.” The organisation provided shelter, arranged legal support, and ensured their marriage was legally registered. “Even when Deepa’s parents approached the police, the Padippagam’s team provided lawyers and supporters who ensured legal protection and mediated with the authorities. The police concluded the matter peacefully, ensuring the family would not interfere again and giving us written assurance of protection, all without charging me a single rupee.”Surya said he managed his wedding on a budget of Rs 8,000, covering garlands, clothes, registration, and food. “The Padippagam understood my situation and extended both financial and moral support,” he said. Deepa added, “Without them, our love would have been destroyed. Every year, we return on our anniversary to thank the Padippagam and garland Periyar’s statue.”Jeeva, a railway employee from a Dalit community, and Barani, a maths postgraduate from a dominant Backward Class family, also turned to the Padippagam when their families opposed their relationship. “They told me to forget her,” Jeeva said. “When the pressure became too much, we went to the Padippagam.”“At the Padippagam, the first questions weren’t about caste or religion, but about survival: Do you have a job? Can you build a life together? When they understood our struggles, they helped us conduct our self-respect marriage, covered basic expenses, and supported us when her family filed a police complaint. They mediated peacefully and ensured we were protected,” he said. “Without them, our marriage would have remained just a dream.”For the past 12 years, M Jeevanandam, an auto driver and volunteer at the Coimbatore Padippagam, has helped thousands of couples solemnise their self-respect marraiges, often while facing family opposition or police pressure.“I once faced the same struggles myself,” he said. “I chose a caste-free marriage because I wanted to build a society beyond caste. Later, I learned about Periyar and joined the Padippagam. In these 12 years, I’ve seen it all: death threats, police interventions, and parents trying to stop weddings with money or influence. Yet we continue, because this is not just about marriage, it’s about equality and social change.”M Jeevanandam has helped thousands of couples solemnise their self-respect marraiges, often while facing family opposition or police pressure (Photo - Prasanth Shanmugasundaram, 101Reporters)Inside the process of self-respect marriage“When couples arrive at the Padippagam, we first verify their documents—caste certificates, Aadhaar cards, transfer certificates, and mark sheets,” Jeevandanam explained. “We also ask them to write a note in their own handwriting explaining who they are, why they chose a self-respect marriage, and where they come from. They then sign a written declaration affirming their commitment. Before a senior member of the Padippagam, the couple exchanges garlands and recites the self-respect pledge and that’s it. They’re married.”The Padippagam issues a certificate of self-respect marriage, which, along with photographs from the ceremony, is submitted to the local sub-registrar’s office for official registration.“In traditional temple weddings, the Hindu Religious and Charitable Endowments Department issues receipts,” Jeevanandam added. “Our certificate serves the same purpose. Under the Tamil Nadu Self-Respect Marriage Act, the government recognises these marriages as fully legal, even without priests, rituals, or religious ceremonies.”The Padippagam also provides temporary shelter, small financial aid, and job connections to couples starting from scratch. “We’ve faced bribes, threats, and even goons sent to stop marriages,” he said. “But we continue, because every marriage here is a step toward a caste-free, rational society.”Kovai Ramakrishnan, founder of the Coimbatore Periyar Padippagam for over 25 years, has personally conducted more than 10,000 self-respect marriages. “Across Tamil Nadu, there are more than four Periyar Padippagams. One in the heart of Chennai and one each in Coimbatore, Erode, and Tiruppur. From Chennai to Coimbatore, hundreds of such marriages happen every month,” he said.“Our Padippagam alone registers 300 to 500 marriages monthly. Official records show over 12,000 self-respect marriages between 2018 and early 2025, but the actual number is higher.”The gap, he said, is because many couples do not register their marriages with the government’s Department of Social Welfare to obtain an inter-caste marriage certificate which is a separate document required for government welfare schemes. They also do not apply for related financial assistance, he said. While most self-respect marriages are a conscious stand against caste and religious orthodoxy, some couples, with the agreement of both families, choose the Padippagam to publicly declare their rationalist beliefs. In these cases, parents may even accompany the couple as a statement of consent, equality, and conviction. Such instances are still rare but can be seen in photographs where older family members are present during the ceremonies.Kovai Ramakrishnan addressing the public (Photo - Prasanth Shanmugasundaram, 101Reporters)Beyond weddingsThe Periyar Padippagam functions not only as a venue for self-respect marriages but also as a rationalist library and legal aid centre. “We are educated people who approach marriage with reason. Because of our legal guidance and protective network, many couples facing caste-based threats find safety here. This protection has helped reduce honour-based violence in Tamil Nadu,” said Kovai Ramakrishnan.He added, “Most people who marry here are educated, rational, and aware of social realities. Divorce rates among them are remarkably low.”The Tamil Nadu government supports inter-caste and inter-religious marriages through the Dr Muthulakshmi Reddy Inter-Caste Marriage Assistance Scheme. The Periyar Padippagam guides couples married there on how to obtain an inter-caste marriage certificate and apply for government financial assistance. After the marriage, couples register at government e-service centres to ensure smooth access to these benefits.In inter-caste marriages, one spouse must belong to the Scheduled Caste or Scheduled Tribe, while the other comes from a different community. Similarly, one partner may belong to the General category, and the other to the Backward or Most Backward Class.Under the scheme, if the bride has passed Class 10, the couple receives Rs 25,000 and 8 grams of gold, if the bride is a graduate or diploma holder, they receive Rs 50,000 and 8 grams of gold. There is no income limit for eligibility. Officials from the Social Welfare and Women Empowerment Department confirm that many beneficiaries are couples who married through Periyar Padippagams.Cover photo - Gowtham and Reena Jenita solemnised their self-respect marriage at the Padippagam (Photo - Prasanth Shanmugasundaram, 101Reporters)

The illegal practice of untouchability haunts Tamil Dalits from beyond the grave

In Senjerimalai, Coimbatore, a court battle won Dalit families a corner of the public burial ground, but a literal fence of caste prejudice still stands.Coimbatore, Tamil Nadu: “Is it a crime to be born Dalit and even a crime to die a Dalit?” asked lawyer Suryakumar, who filed a case in the Madras High Court in February 2025 seeking the removal of an “untouchability fence” at the public burial ground of Tamil Nadu’s Senjerimalai village.In the village in Coimbatore district’s Kumarapalayam Panchayat, Dalit families were denied access to a five-acre burial ground. For generations, dominant castes prevented them from using it.“We were forced to bury our loved ones on a tiny one-cent (around 435 square feet) plot near a water stream, 1.5 km away from the village,” Suryakumar told 101Reporters. “There wasn’t even a proper path to carry bodies, and during the rainy season, reaching that place was nearly impossible.”The small graveyard near the stream that Dalits in the village were forced to use (Photo Prasanth - Prasanth Shanmugasundaram, 101Reporters)In January 2024, the residents of the Scheduled Caste community petitioned the Coimbatore District Collector, seeking access to the public burial ground and an end to discrimination, but no action was taken. After some time, the panchayat fenced off the section used by dominant castes, adding another layer to the already prevalent segregation in the village. “Should we be denied the right to bury our loved ones because of our caste? Even for rights guaranteed by the Constitution, we had to take the matter to court,” Suryakumar said.During the hearing, the High Court noted that untouchability was being practised in Senjerimalai village, with a fence laid in between the sections of the burial ground. The Additional Government Pleader told the court that steps were being taken to remove the fence. The court directed that any action required for removal should be carried out and reported, giving the authorities time until March 19, 2025.Untouchability was abolished by Article 17 of the Constitution of India in 1950, and its practice in any form is forbidden and punishable by law. The Protection of Civil Rights Act of 1955 (renamed from the Untouchability Offences Act) prescribes punishments for enforcing any disability arising from untouchability, such as denying access to public places or resources on the basis of caste. But even seven months later, the fence remains. The Dalit community was, however, allotted 12 cents by the panchayat (around 52,000 square feet) of land within the burial ground, still separated by the fence, even though it is technically public land. “Even in death, there is caste prejudice,” Suryakumar said. He travelled five times to Chennai, 400 km each way, for hearings. “Even after the court order, the untouchability fence has not been removed. The shelter inside the burial ground, used for shade during burial rituals, was also partly blocked with concrete so that Dalits cannot use it. I could move court because I am a lawyer, but how many villages can manage this?”Notably, since the court order, no Dalit member has been buried in the allotted plot, as no one from the community has died.According to the local administration, it is not an “untouchability fence” but a barricade put to protect saplings. In practice, however, it divides the burial ground along caste lines (Photos - Prasanth Shanmugasundaram, 101Reporters)Tiptoeing around the ‘untouchability fence’Residents say the High Court order has changed little in daily life. The Kumarapalayam Panchayat received the Social Justice Burial Award in 2024, which comes with a Rs 10 lakh grant intended to maintain a burial ground open to all castes. The funds were used to build a concrete road in the Dalit settlement, while the fence continued to enforce social boundaries.“Fence or no fence, discrimination continues in this village,” said Thangavalavan, a farm labourer (54). “In the Mariamman temple, only members of the dominant caste are allowed inside; Dalits must pray from outside. Even in burial grounds, caste dictates where we can go.”Thangavalavan recalls, “In 2024, when my sister’s son died, around 200 of us protested, demanding a burial space in the village’s common burial ground. The dominant caste also staged a protest, and the police did not allow us to bury the body. Only because the court intervened did we finally get some space. Even now, out of fear, no one from our community crosses the fence.”According to local administration, it is not an “untouchability fence” but a barricade put to protect saplings. In practice, however, the dominant caste uses it to keep Dalits away from their burial area. The five-acre ground is divided along caste lines, with the dominant caste’s around 24-cent section fenced, and the Dalit community using the area near the fence.Sultanpet Union Block Development Officer Sivakami told 101Reporters that the fence was erected in 2024 under MGNREGS, costing Rs 2.17 lakh, to protect saplings. The shelter was partly blocked because people were damaging the plants, but anyone can use it.Attempts to reach Coimbatore District Collector Pavankumar G Giriyappanavar went unanswered.Caste lines that refuse to fadeWhen the fence was erected in 2024, Kumarapalayam Panchayat was headed by Savithri of the dominant caste. Her son, Muthu Manikam, Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam party member and Secretary of Sultanpet East Union, effectively acted as the Panchayat President, planning and executing activities.In a recent interview with Vikatan Tamil, Manikam said the government sanctioned Rs 10 lakh for a “Social Justice Burial Ground,” which he said was used to build a road in the Dalit settlement. When asked about the fence and decades of unresolved discrimination, he ended the call, citing a funeral. Attempts to reach Savithri were unsuccessful.Activist Kathir, founder of Evidence, says, “Wherever you go in Tamil Nadu, separate burial grounds for dominant castes and Dalits are common. In a survey across four regions, more than 240 panchayats in the southern region alone denied Dalits access to public burial grounds. In nearly 70% of villages, untouchability persists in burial grounds.”(Above) In 2024, following a death in the community, around Dalit residents protested, demanding space in the village’s common burial ground; (below) They had also submitted a petition to the district collector (Photos sourced by Prasanth Shanmugasundaram, 101Reporters)Former Indian Administrative Services officer Sivakami adds, “Dalits are still blocked from carrying bodies through dominant caste areas, even on government roads, in districts like Tiruvannamalai, Sivagangai, Dharmapuri, and Madurai. Filing cases or petitions often brings no solution. They are caught between denial of burial grounds and access routes, forced to live with humiliation even in death.”Vanni Arasu, Deputy General Secretary of VCK, suggests: “Each district should hold monthly vigilance committee meetings, chaired by the District Collector and SP, to discuss caste discrimination. Currently, these meetings are mostly ceremonial. Proper enforcement is needed, with strict action against officials who fail to address caste-related issues.”Government promises versus ground realitiesTamil Nadu’s Adi Dravidar and Tribal Welfare Minister Mathiventhan told 101Reporters, “In urban areas, cremation grounds exist, so caste segregation does not arise. In villages, we are making efforts to establish social justice. Panchayats that maintain common burial grounds receive Rs 10 lakh. From 2021 to now, 259 villages received this reward, 57 new burial grounds were created for Dalits, and many access path issues were resolved. A committee will soon be formed to eradicate caste discrimination in burial grounds.”The assurances, however, contrast with reality. According to residents, the state seems not to be aware of the full scope of the problem nor enforced strict action. (Above) Kumarapalayam panchayat; (below) Advocate Suryakumar standing outside the segregated burial ground (Photos - Prasanth Shanmugasundaram, 101Reporters)Suryakumar pointed to deeper structural inequities prevalent in Tamil Nadu: “For the past 30 years, only members of the dominant caste have been Panchayat Presidents in Kumarapalayam. For true social justice, the post should be reserved for the Scheduled Castes. Only then can our community have a chance to lead.”He also reflected on the High Court victory in the public burial ground case: “For generations, we were denied this right. Even though the fence remains, I stopped the legal fight, thinking that at least we have a respectful place to bury our loved ones. Before, it was a 1-cent plot near a stream; now it’s 12 cents. It’s a small victory, but seeing the fence every day reminds me our struggle isn’t over. Why should we have to go to court for basic rights? If the government simply allowed all communities access, everything could change overnight. Will they?”This story is part of our series, 'Last Rights, Lost Rights,' about death in rural India and what it reveals about caste, class, migration, governance, and ecology.Cover Photo: The 'untouchability fence' continues to stand in Kumarapalayam panchayat even after the High Court order asking it to be dismantled (Photo - Prasanth Shanmugasundaram, 101Reporters)

How check dams keep drought in check in this Tamil Nadu district

In Coimbatore, small-scale government works have turned dry fields green again, restoring both water and hope.Coimbatore, Tamil Nadu: Nandhakumar (49), a farmer from Jallipatti Panchayat in Coimbatore district’s Anaimalai Union, cultivates coconuts on 4.2 acres in the foothills of the Western Ghats. Every February to May, severe droughts hit the region. During the 2016-2017 drought, his well ran dry, forcing him to dig a 1,200-foot borewell.“Near my farm, there is a small stream that flows into the Palar River and eventually reaches the Arabian Sea in Kerala,” he told 101Reporters. “It fills up during the monsoon but dries out in summer.”In 2020, that changed when the panchayat, with funds from the Mahatma Gandhi National Rural Employment Guarantee Scheme (MGNREGS), built a 4.5-foot concrete check dam across the stream. Check dams are small barriers built across drainage lines or gullies, usually made of stone or concrete. They slow down stormwater runoff, reduce soil erosion, and allow water to percolate into the ground, recharging wells and borewells nearby.“Since then, water collects up to 700 metres upstream during the rainy season, recharging my well and benefitting 46 small farmers like me. Even today, water stands six feet deep in what was once a dry streambed,” he said.  Azolla being cultivated in the check dam stream. (Photo - Prasanth Shanmugasundaram, 101Reporters)With reliable water, he has even begun cultivating azolla (a kind of fern) as livestock feed. “Now I can farm without worrying about irrigation,” Nandhakumar added. Just a few years ago, the picture was different. In the parched summer of 2016, farmer Rajagopal (73) watched in despair as the once-thriving coconut trees in his grove wilted under the scorching sun. The borewell he had sunk 900 feet into the earth had gone dry. With no irrigation options left, he was forced to cut them down.Rajagopal says with so much water available, he plans to grow crops like cocoa and pepper as intercrops. (Photo - Prasanth Shanmugasundaram, 101Reporters)The turnaround for Rajagopal, and thousands like him across Tamil Nadu, has come through such government-funded check dams, a low-cost intervention that is steadily reshaping water security and bringing resilience to farming communities.Building resilienceOver the past two decades, recurrent droughts have depleted groundwater and slashed productivity across Tamil Nadu. The 2016-2017 drought was especially devastating: rainfall fell short in all four seasons, with the state recording only 539.4 mm, 41% below normal. Deficits stood at 30% in the southwest monsoon and a staggering 62% in the northeast monsoon, according to the India Meteorological Department.The fallout was severe. Overall farm output dropped by 56-62%, while horticultural yields fell by 32-35%. As irrigation sources dried up, farmers watched their crops perish, cut down long-standing coconut, areca nut, nutmeg, and banana trees, and in many cases abandoned their land, leaving once-productive fields barren.Before water accumulated in the check dam built under the Amrit Sarovar scheme (Photo - Prasanth Shanmugasundaram, 101Reporters)Agriculture here is not just a livelihood but a lifeline. Tamil Nadu’s agricultural landscape spans 12.1 million hectares, ranking among India’s top five in cultivated area. It leads in oilseeds, groundnut, and sugarcane productivity, stands second in maize, and third in paddy. Annual yields are substantial: 11.5 million metric tonnes of paddy, millets, and pulses, 14.1 million metric tonnes of sugarcane, and 19.3 million metric tonnes of horticultural produce. The state plays a vital role in India’s food economy, making its vulnerability to climate shocks especially worrying.To combat these recurring droughts, the government has invested heavily in water conservation measures. Desilting ponds and water bodies, digging farm wells, and building check dams have been central to these efforts. Between 2018 and 2024, the state built 58,200 check dams—20,000 in 2018-2019, 10,000 in 2019-2020 at Rs 312 crore, and another 10,000 in 2021-2022 at Rs 419 crore. Funding was shared 75:25 between the Centre and the state, with contributions from panchayats. In parallel, the Amrit Sarovar initiative has restored 3,396 larger water bodies since 2022, focusing on community participation and reviving traditional water sources.After water accumulated in the check dam built under the Amrit Sarovar scheme (Photo - Prasanth Shanmugasundaram, 101Reporters)The Mission Amrit Sarovar is an Indian government initiative launched in April 2022 to construct or rejuvenate 75 water bodies in each district, focusing on water conservation, community participation, and the revival of traditional water sources.Together, these measures have trapped millions of litres of rainfall, boosted agricultural output, and renewed farmer confidence. In villages where reservoirs and streams were restored, the land now brims with life.Check dams are small barriers built across drainage lines or gullies, usually made of stone or concrete (Photo - Prasanth Shanmugasundaram, 101Reporters)On ground impactFarmers said that the proper management of resources has helped in maintaining sustainable levels of groundwater in their fields. Sundaram (55), a farmer from Kampalapatti Panchayat told 101Reporters that now it takes him just around two hours to irrigate his two-acre farm. Farmer Sundaram says thanks to the check dam, water now fills the entire well (Photo - Prasanth Shanmugasundaram, 101Reporters)“In 2013, I spent Rs 2.5 lakh to dig a 900-foot borewell. But during the 2016 drought, water was extremely low. I had to run the motor for 6-8 hours just to irrigate. That changed in 2018, when a check dam was built nearby. Groundwater levels rose, and under MGNREGA, I also got a free well worth Rs 6 lakh dug on my land. Now I can irrigate in just two hours,” he said. Similar stories are heard across Jallipatti Panchayat, where 31 check dams and 27 free wells have been built since 2018. One dam alone, 20 feet wide and five feet high, spread water over 800 metres and stored 1.63 million litres, a government official said. Together, the panchayat’s dams hold around 50 million litres annually, shielding farmers from both drought and extreme rainfall.Paramasivam (56) another farmer from Jallipatti, said he relied on a relative’s well for years because he could not afford one. In 2020, under the government scheme a well was dug on my farmland. “Now I can irrigate my 2.62 acres year-round. Earlier, I could grow coconuts on just one acre. With steady water, I have expanded to two acres and added vegetables.”Farmer Paramasivam shares his situation with the reporter (Photo - Prasanth Shanmugasundaram, 101Reporters)Behind the check damsBehind these projects is steady implementation at the panchayat level. Sivaprakash, secretary of Angalakurichi Panchayat, explained: “Since 2018, we have taken up desilting water bodies, constructing check dams, getting wells dug for free for small farmers, and raising embankments.”He said that the benefits go beyond farming. “These projects not only help farmers but also provide year-round employment to rural women. In our panchayat of 10,200 people, 70% of women living in poverty have benefitted. The scheme applies only to small farmers with less than five acres, not to wealthy landowners.” Karthik Gokul, Assistant Engineer at the Aliyar Dam in the district said, “Check dams are highly effective in recharging groundwater. One dam holding water over 800 metres can raise groundwater levels within a 100-250 metre radius. In such areas, even a 40-foot bore is enough to find water. By capturing stream water that would otherwise flow away, these structures have become a lifeline for farmers.”Anaimalai Union Block Development Officer Kuzhandaisamy added that all 19 panchayats in the union now have check dams. “They are most effective in foothill villages with heavy water flow, storing water year-round. In drier areas, they support farming through the monsoon. In low-lying areas, we build taller, larger check dams,” he said. Cover Photo - Farmer Nandhakumar says that now he can farm without worrying about irrigation (Photo Prasanth Shanmugasundaram, 101Reporters)

Surviving on mercy: Temporary sanitation workers in rural Tamil Nadu earn less than minimum wage

On August 5, thousands of 'thooimai kavalargal' will strike, demanding permanent jobs, fair wages, and improved safety and working conditions.Coimbatore, Tamil Nadu: “My life is nothing short of hell.”Murukathal (48), a thooimai kavalargal ('sanitation guards') or temporary sanitation worker in Thensangampalayam panchayat under Anaimalai union, Coimbatore, told 101Reporters that she has been doing this job for six years. “Even if a dog dies in the village, I have to pick it up. I clean garbage and waste with my hands, and I only earn Rs 5,000,” she said.“Sometimes, while collecting garbage from households, people give me Rs 10 or so for tea. We survive on this small mercy. We also manage to earn Rs 2,500 to 3,000 a month by selling plastic and scrap iron we sort out from the waste. Four of us share this amount, so each person gets around Rs 500 extra,” she added. “Just a cooking cylinder costs Rs 960. Ten kilograms of rice is Rs 600, milk is Rs 48 per litre. How is it possible to survive on just Rs 166 a day? Even after working in such harsh conditions, I cannot feed my family properly.”She’s not alone. Across rural Tamil Nadu, thousands of temporary sanitation workers, most of them women, are overworked, underpaid, and left without basic protections like health insurance or safety gear. Many panchayats operate with a severe shortage of permanent sanitation staff, pushing the entire burden onto these temporary workers. Despite working all 30 days a month, without holidays or support, they continue to earn far below the minimum wage mandated by the state.General Secretary of the Tamil Nadu Rural Development Workers Union, Krishnasamy, told 101Reporters that between 9,700 and 10,300 permanent sanitation posts across the state are currently lying vacant.The sanitation workers clean the streets, but no one is in their corner.“We’re done being treated like dirt,” Krishnasamy said, adding that the union has called for a statewide strike starting August 5. Earlier, they had held sit-in protests at the district collectorates across the state on July 22. The workers had held sit-in protests at the district collectorates across the state on July 22. The union has called for a statewide strike starting August 5 (Photo sourced by Prasanth Shanmugasundaram, 101Reporters) MismatchTamil Nadu ranks among the top ten states in India in terms of both population and the number of village panchayats. The state has 12,524 village panchayats. According to 2013 data, the government employed 26,622 permanent sanitation workers to maintain cleanliness in these areas. But by 2015, the state had outsourced sanitation work to 66,025 temporary workers, assigning one worker per 150 households to implement the Solid Waste Management Programme. Notably, 98% of these workers are women. No new permanent appointments have been made since 2015.These workers are tasked with collecting household waste, converting it into compost, and maintaining village sanitation. However, only about 20% of Tamil Nadu’s village panchayats actually process solid waste into manure. In these areas, compost is sold at Rs 7 to Rs 9 per kg, allowing workers to earn a small additional income. But in the remaining 80% of panchayats, waste is either burned or buried in dumpyards, depriving workers of even this modest opportunity.Muthulakshmi (below) says they work from 7 in the morning until 5 in the evening, collecting waste door-to-door, segregating it, and preparing compost (Phoot - Prasanth Shanmugasundaram, 101Reporters) In 2015, the daily wage of these temporary workers was Rs 87, which would amount to about Rs 2,600 per month. This was revised in 2023, when the Tamil Nadu government raised it to Rs 5,000 per month, or roughly Rs 166 a day. “Temporary workers do everything that permanent staff are supposed to do, but without any of the benefits,” said Krishnasamy. “They get no insurance, no job security, and no respect. We have demanded that those who’ve served for over five years be made permanent, and that wages be increased to at least Rs 12,593 per month, as per the Minimum Wages Act, 1948. But the government hasn’t responded.”He added, “Anyone who is medically fit and under 45 years of age qualifies to become a permanent sanitation worker. But these posts haven’t been filled in over a decade, not after retirements, not after deaths, not even after transfers. Meanwhile, the population has grown, but the number of workers has not.”Constant grindMuthulakshmi, another temporary sanitation worker from Thensangampalayam panchayat, said that she starts work at 7 am. “Two workers take one cart and go street by street to collect garbage. If there’s too much waste, we use the panchayat’s tractor. After that, we transport it to the compost treatment site. There, we separate biodegradable and non-degradable waste with our hands and prepare compost. We finish by 4 or 5 pm, with just an hour for lunch.” “We are occasionally given cloth-based gloves, but they tear easily. Shoes and face masks are given just once a year, and they wear out in a few days. Wastewater seeps into our hands, causing a foul smell,” she said.  “Since waste collection takes the whole day, we can’t take up any other work for extra income,” she said. “We often don’t have enough money for basic groceries. We couldn’t even buy new clothes for festivals. Eating meat has become impossible.”Her family of five lives in a house with a steel sheet roof, built on government-allotted land. Her daughter is disabled, and her husband, a farm labourer, earns Rs 350-400 per day. But only when work is available.“Nobody respects us nor treats us as human beings,” she added.The workers are occasionally given cloth-based gloves, but they tear easily. Shoes and face masks are given just once a year, and they wear out in a few days (Photo - Prasanth Shanmugasundaram, 101Reporters) Masilamani (44), a sweeper from Ramanamudhalipudur panchayat in the same union, said they earn less than even workers under the Mahatma Gandhi National Rural Employment Guarantee Scheme (MGNREGS).“I have two sons and a daughter studying in government schools. We live on porambokku land (government-owned land). My husband is a farm labourer. MGNREGS workers earn Rs 336 per day. But we get only Rs 166. Meanwhile, permanent sanitation workers get Rs 9,000, and seniors even up to Rs 12,000. We get just Rs 5,000. It is unfair.”Describing the health risks they face, she said, “The garbage that we touch every day causes skin allergies and itching. Sometimes, our throats get irritated from the garbage. But none of this matters to the government. We don’t even have annual medical check-ups. Permanent sanitation workers get health insurance and accident coverage under the National Health Insurance Scheme, with premiums paid by the Tamil Nadu government. Medical camps are conducted for them every six months. But we get nothing.”She added, “We do the dirtiest work that no one else wants to touch. We raise our voices in every gram sabha, and sometimes salary hike resolutions are even passed. Yet, nothing changes.”WorkaroundAccording to Rajkumar, former President of the Kambalapatti Panchayat in Coimbatore district, in some villages, officials are forced to misuse the central government’s Mahatma Gandhi National Rural Employment Guarantee Scheme to support sanitation workers. “How can anyone be expected to clean the entire village all day for Rs 5,000? It is modern slavery,” he said. “We unofficially issue MGNREGS job cards in the name of the temporary sanitation workers’ husbands or parents. We fake attendance so that they can be paid Rs 336 a day, about Rs 5,000 to 7,000 a month. It’s legally a fraud, but we do it to help their families survive.”However, Senthil Kumar, former President of Jallipatti Panchayat in Tiruppur district, said that since MGNREGS workers have to upload geotagged photos of their work, it is not easy to “fake the records”.“In some places, it still happens,” he said. Kumar also explained how the panchayat does not have enough funds to pay temporary sanitation workers. “The population of Jallipatti is around 4,400, and the panchayat receives Rs 15 lakh per year from the government for sanitation. It earns another Rs 10 lakh from taxes on businesses, including recent tax hikes. Of the combined Rs 25 lakh, around 7-10 lakh is spent on sanitation,” he said. “We don’t have enough from the government to pay temporary sanitation workers properly,” he said. “In our case, we use local revenue to show them as part-time staff and pay them Rs 150-200 per day. But this is not possible everywhere. Poorer panchayats cannot afford it, which is why some fake MGNREGS records. If panchayats have a separate income, sanitation workers can be paid; if not, the government budget alone won’t cut it.” Murugathal (left); Masilamani (right) has two sons and a daughter studying in government schools, lives on porambokku land (government-owned land) and is married to a farm labourer (Photo - Prasanth Shanmugasundaram, 101Reporters)Jumping hoopsAssistant Director of the Rural Development Department in Tiruppur, Balasubramaniam, said that the villagers continue to work as temporary sanitation workers since MGNREGS can only provide 100 days of work per year. The sanitation worker job allows the villagers to secure an income year-round, even if it is as little as Rs 5,000 per month.He, however, said that under the state’s Solid Waste Management Scheme, sanitation workers are allowed to keep 75% of the earnings from selling plastic and scrap metal collected in their villages. “That is a source of extra income for these workers,” he said. Several workers interviewed by 101Reporters, however, said that the amounts earned through these scrap sales are minimal and have to be shared across the teams. When 101Reporters contacted IAS officer Gagandeep Singh Bedi, Secretary of Rural Development and Additional Chief Secretary to the Government of Tamil Nadu, on the issue of temporary sanitation workers, he declined to comment. Despite repeated follow-ups, no response was received from him. Cover Image: “Sometimes, while collecting garbage from households, people give me Rs 10 or so for tea. We survive on this small mercy." (Photo - Prasanth Shanmugasundaram, 101Reporters)