Finally, the government has turned its focus on enumerating the disabled in the country. With eight categories on multiple disability, the 2011 Census is being more inclusive of the diversity of disability.
An edited version of the article appeared in the Indian Express on January 16, 2011.
Chinki Sinha
New Delhi, January 15, 2011
Sitting in one of the rows, Kshama Kakade Kaushik, a disabled rights activist from Ajmer, made a mental note of meeting the Sarva Shiksha Abhiyan's block resource teacher in order to sensitize her about the enumeration of the disabled in the 2011 Census questionnaire. Through the resource teacher, she would be able to tap the caregivers who have access to the remote rural areas and they can spread the awareness about “number 9” question on disability.
Kshama was among the disabled rights activists from across the country who had traveled to the national capital to discuss ways to raise awareness about the 2011 census' disability question, which has been moved to number 9 in the order from the 15 th spot it previously occupied in the 2001 census.
Besides, the commission has revised the number o categories from five to eight, enumerating mental illness and mental retardation separately and incorporating a category called multiple disability where one can enumerate upto three disabilities.
But what the activists are touting as a major development is the inclusion of a category called “Any other” where autism, dyslexia, Alzheimer's and any other disease that doesn't fit into the other categories can be listed.
In the 2001 census, where a question on disability was included for the first time after the National Centre for Promotion of Employment for Disabled People (NCPEDP) and the Disabled Rights Group led by Javed Abidi lobbied hard for the inclusion of what they called the missing millions, the disabled people.
“The numbers of 2001 census on disability are all wrong. The truth is hiding somewhere between the percentages of 2.1 percentage and 10 percentage. We need to find it,” Abidi said.
In the last census, the five categories included seeing, hearing, speech, movement and mental disabilities. These left out disabilities like cerebral palsy, autism, etc.
But because of a lack of sensitization exercises for the enumerators and the people with disabilities and their families, a large number of disabled were not enumerated. According to the 2001 census, the percentage of the disabled in the country was pegged at 2.1 percent as against the United Nations estimates of 10 percent of the population in any developing country is composed of disabled.
Abidi said in the current census exercise which will begin from February 9, NGOs like AADI and Vishwas have been involved in training the enumerators on the disability question. An hour-long slot was dedicated to disability in the training of Census officials.
The NCPEDP has designed the Instruction Manual for Census 2011 Enumerators with the guidelines for the enumerators who would be the people on the ground conducting the surveys.
The training module urges the enumerators to ask the question.
“As an Enumerator you can make the difference! It is you who would be going to every house in the country. You will be the witness to the fact that people are there, they exist. You will report this data to the Government. It is this data that will be used for next 10 years for policy making, for resource allocation and for making facilities. It is therefore, in your hands to make the ‘invisible population’ ‘visible’!”
It goes on to list the disabilities and what to include and what doesn't qualify as a disability like a person with vision in one eye or a person who is color blind are not to be enumerated as disabled. Similarly, a person with hearing in one ear is not to be listed as a disabled.
But it makes it clear that short-statured persons or dwarfs are disabled in the category of “movement” and differentiates between mental retardation which it clarifies as a disability a person is born with and mental illness, which a person can acquire later.
It also asked the enumerators to not indulge in any discussions or counseling and to refrain from expressing disapproval in case a person talks about their disability. They are also instructed to keep the information confidential and convey it to the families so they don't shy away from listing their disabilities because of the social stigma.
With just three more weeks before the exercise begins, the NGOs and activists who met in Delhi at an event organized by AADI (Action for Ability Development and Inclusion) and NCPEDP brainstormed about what they can do to help raise awareness among the people.
Kakade, who works with the Mahila Kalyan Mandal, was among them.
“Information is key. We need to get the word out there. I came to get a perspective from the national capital,” she said. “In Rajasthan, transport is a an issue and traveling to remote rural areas is difficult so I am going to tap the SSA and the Local Level Committees in these areas,” she said.
Operating with a limitation of funds and resources, it would require reaching out to other NGOs in other sectors in states like UP and Bihar where there aren't many disability NGOs in order to spread the word, G Syamala, Executive Director of AADI, said.
“We have to see our strength is. We don't have much time,” Syamala said.
She said the solutions would depend on the cultural and regional context, too. For instance, in Rajasthan, Kathputli shows can be organized to raise awareness about the disability question. Besides, contacting local government officials, SSA teachers, youth organizations and role models could be useful in addition to organizing press conferences at the district level to involve the local media, which has a wider reach in the rural belt than the national dailies.
Several activists suggested ways to take the awareness campaign forward in order to get a significant proportion of the disabled enumerated so at the policy level, the numbers could be used to draft welfare schemes for the disabled as the politicians would be able to see what percentage of their vote bank consists of disabled and then work for them, according to Abidi.
Renu Anuj of AADI said solutions could be as simple as getting a chair and a table and sitting in crowded markets or railway stations in order to tap more people and making them aware or using the NREGA program officers to spread the word.
“Everyone knows their folk songs. We can use the Ramlila organizations. We just need to say disability is no curse and so come out and get enumerated,” she said.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
"Tears without Onions"
Why I love what I do is because it leads me to so many truths. Before going to Azadpur Mandi to write about the onion sellers I had no idea that they get paid Rs. 2 to carry a 55 kg sack of onions. This was my moment of truth and it keeps so many of us grounded.
An edited version of this appeared in the Indian Express Real Page 3 section on January 16, 2011.
Chinki Sinha
New Delhi, January 13, 2010
Sitting among the sacks of white and red onions, Suresh, a labourer at the Azadpur Mandi, is mourning what he feels is the impending death of its smell.
It lingers on, faint and fleeting, not so strong as before for ever since the supplies were hit, fewer trucks carrying onions have started coming in from Maharashtra.
He can't deal with the betrayal of the smell. It means loss of livelihood, and empty stomach on most nights.
“Out lives have been spent smelling the onions,” he said.
Ever since the rains damaged the crop and pushed up the onion prices along with the raids the government undertook to rein in profiteering by the traders, fewer trucks have lined up outside the Mandi, and his shoulders have carried lesser number of sacks than usual.
Work is less, and so is the money. Suresh, like others, earn Rs. 2 per sack. A few weeks ago, he was able to make around Rs. 200 per day. These days, it hardly touches Rs. 100.
“We can't send money home anymore. There is hardly any work,” he said.
The air outside the tin shed stacked with sacks of onions feels lighter, strange even. Sans the pungent odour of the onions, it felt bare to Suresh who has worked at Delhi's Azadpur Mandi for almost three decades. Like others, he lives there, too. Their belongings are hung on the poles or piled up against the wall.
Long ago his eyes stopped watering when the rancid smell struck them.
The smell has become part of his being in the 30 years he has spent loading and unloading sacks of onions, sleeping on the floor strewn with onions, and getting up with the sight of trucks stacked with onions lining up outside the Azadpur Mandi every morning.
The oppressive smell engulfs the floor space, the roof, all of it, permeates their bedding and a few rags that the daily labourers who live in the shed have hung on the poles.
“It's fragrance. We don't feel it,” Raju, another labourer, said.
But these past few weeks, the air inside has started to feel different. It is losing its strength, its character.
On Thursday, only 15 trucks lined up. Chaudhury Bhullan Singh's A-311, one of the 119 onion wholesale retailers at the Mandi, where Suresh works with six others. These are lean days for the group.
Before the onion crisis hit the markets, at least 300 trucks from Maharashtra carrying onions came to the Mandi early in the morning and Suresh and his men would rush to them, grabbing the sacks and running to and fro, breaking for lunch late in the day.
These days, work is over by afternoon. At A-311, they are lucky they have work, even if it pays little. At other shops, workers are sitting around, waiting for their trucks.
“We are stuck. There is nothing else we can do,” Raju, who hails from a village in Mau district in UP.
He came to the Mandi 12 years ago after he realized migration was a human reality for his lot. With shrinking farmland and droughts and increasing family size, he couldn't rely on the tiny piece of land he owned.
So, he got on to the Satyagrah Express and landed in the capital with a man from his village who said working at the Mandi would help his family get by.
Each morning, the seven of them get up, go to the nearby Raj Hotel for tea and snacks and start work.
The skin on Raju's left shoulder has hardened with years of carrying sacks weighing at least 55 kgs each.
It hurt once upon a time when he was new in the trade. Now, he feels no sensation.
“They have become like the skin of my heels,” he said. “Hard, and weathered. We are like mules but have no other chance in life.”
Their clothes have been rendered threadbare because of the coarse jute of the sacks that rubs with it for hours. The left shoulder looks a little tilted, a bit worn. But they have accepted their lot, and the potential damage to their limbs, as part of their daily drudgery.
Suresh studied until Class 10 in his village school but dropped out when he had to help the family.
When he came, he used to earn 35 paise per sack. In the last three decades, not much has changed in his life. The smell is the constant, and so is the numbness in his left shoulder.
“I don't know if I could do anything else. This is the only work I know,” he said.
There is a strange camaraderie among the men, who identify with their fellow's situation. Suresh divides the earnings of the day based on the numbers of sacks that have unloaded or loaded during the day among the seven.
For five weeks, ever since the onion supplies have taken the hit, they have been taking turns in sending money home, pooling in their savings to help a family that might need the money more than the others.
Suresh is the eldest. At 54, he is like the patriarch, the man who has kept them all together.
“This mandi is now home,” he said.
He has tried bargaining with the traders. But sans any unions, he hasn't been able to deliver on his promises. The increase per year is a paltry sum of 20 paise per sack that doesn't match the spiraling prices of basic commodities.
On most days, they debate if they should skip a meal and send money home instead. The dilemma is what is causing pain, and a few of them go hungry at times so their families don't suffer.
At less than Rs. 100 per day, it is pretty tight and they are hoping the crisis gets over so they can return to their usual lives even if means shooting pains in the shoulder and the back.
At his age, Suresh knows his shoulders won't last too long.
“We sell the strength of our limbs. There's no savings in this work,” he said. “But what's the alternative?”
Their work promises no social security, no perks, no bonuses. But there are onions they can pick up, the ones that have fallen on the floor in the chaos of the brisk buying and selling.
“That's the privilege,” Raju said. “But you still have to buy rice and vegetables and other things.”
An edited version of this appeared in the Indian Express Real Page 3 section on January 16, 2011.
Chinki Sinha
New Delhi, January 13, 2010
Sitting among the sacks of white and red onions, Suresh, a labourer at the Azadpur Mandi, is mourning what he feels is the impending death of its smell.
It lingers on, faint and fleeting, not so strong as before for ever since the supplies were hit, fewer trucks carrying onions have started coming in from Maharashtra.
He can't deal with the betrayal of the smell. It means loss of livelihood, and empty stomach on most nights.
“Out lives have been spent smelling the onions,” he said.
Ever since the rains damaged the crop and pushed up the onion prices along with the raids the government undertook to rein in profiteering by the traders, fewer trucks have lined up outside the Mandi, and his shoulders have carried lesser number of sacks than usual.
Work is less, and so is the money. Suresh, like others, earn Rs. 2 per sack. A few weeks ago, he was able to make around Rs. 200 per day. These days, it hardly touches Rs. 100.
“We can't send money home anymore. There is hardly any work,” he said.
The air outside the tin shed stacked with sacks of onions feels lighter, strange even. Sans the pungent odour of the onions, it felt bare to Suresh who has worked at Delhi's Azadpur Mandi for almost three decades. Like others, he lives there, too. Their belongings are hung on the poles or piled up against the wall.
Long ago his eyes stopped watering when the rancid smell struck them.
The smell has become part of his being in the 30 years he has spent loading and unloading sacks of onions, sleeping on the floor strewn with onions, and getting up with the sight of trucks stacked with onions lining up outside the Azadpur Mandi every morning.
The oppressive smell engulfs the floor space, the roof, all of it, permeates their bedding and a few rags that the daily labourers who live in the shed have hung on the poles.
“It's fragrance. We don't feel it,” Raju, another labourer, said.
But these past few weeks, the air inside has started to feel different. It is losing its strength, its character.
On Thursday, only 15 trucks lined up. Chaudhury Bhullan Singh's A-311, one of the 119 onion wholesale retailers at the Mandi, where Suresh works with six others. These are lean days for the group.
Before the onion crisis hit the markets, at least 300 trucks from Maharashtra carrying onions came to the Mandi early in the morning and Suresh and his men would rush to them, grabbing the sacks and running to and fro, breaking for lunch late in the day.
These days, work is over by afternoon. At A-311, they are lucky they have work, even if it pays little. At other shops, workers are sitting around, waiting for their trucks.
“We are stuck. There is nothing else we can do,” Raju, who hails from a village in Mau district in UP.
He came to the Mandi 12 years ago after he realized migration was a human reality for his lot. With shrinking farmland and droughts and increasing family size, he couldn't rely on the tiny piece of land he owned.
So, he got on to the Satyagrah Express and landed in the capital with a man from his village who said working at the Mandi would help his family get by.
Each morning, the seven of them get up, go to the nearby Raj Hotel for tea and snacks and start work.
The skin on Raju's left shoulder has hardened with years of carrying sacks weighing at least 55 kgs each.
It hurt once upon a time when he was new in the trade. Now, he feels no sensation.
“They have become like the skin of my heels,” he said. “Hard, and weathered. We are like mules but have no other chance in life.”
Their clothes have been rendered threadbare because of the coarse jute of the sacks that rubs with it for hours. The left shoulder looks a little tilted, a bit worn. But they have accepted their lot, and the potential damage to their limbs, as part of their daily drudgery.
Suresh studied until Class 10 in his village school but dropped out when he had to help the family.
When he came, he used to earn 35 paise per sack. In the last three decades, not much has changed in his life. The smell is the constant, and so is the numbness in his left shoulder.
“I don't know if I could do anything else. This is the only work I know,” he said.
There is a strange camaraderie among the men, who identify with their fellow's situation. Suresh divides the earnings of the day based on the numbers of sacks that have unloaded or loaded during the day among the seven.
For five weeks, ever since the onion supplies have taken the hit, they have been taking turns in sending money home, pooling in their savings to help a family that might need the money more than the others.
Suresh is the eldest. At 54, he is like the patriarch, the man who has kept them all together.
“This mandi is now home,” he said.
He has tried bargaining with the traders. But sans any unions, he hasn't been able to deliver on his promises. The increase per year is a paltry sum of 20 paise per sack that doesn't match the spiraling prices of basic commodities.
On most days, they debate if they should skip a meal and send money home instead. The dilemma is what is causing pain, and a few of them go hungry at times so their families don't suffer.
At less than Rs. 100 per day, it is pretty tight and they are hoping the crisis gets over so they can return to their usual lives even if means shooting pains in the shoulder and the back.
At his age, Suresh knows his shoulders won't last too long.
“We sell the strength of our limbs. There's no savings in this work,” he said. “But what's the alternative?”
Their work promises no social security, no perks, no bonuses. But there are onions they can pick up, the ones that have fallen on the floor in the chaos of the brisk buying and selling.
“That's the privilege,” Raju said. “But you still have to buy rice and vegetables and other things.”
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