From the Sanitation Workers' Protest - In Conversation

Harini R, III BA English

Mrs. Sumathi(L) at her employer’s house in Pallikaranai

Mrs. P Sumathi has worked as a sanitation worker for the last 21 years in Chennai’s Pallikaranai Division 189, Ward 14. She recalls working in poor conditions, when her hands trembled from the endless cycle of picking and lifting of dirt, trash, and bodies of the deceased. She has participated in over five protests demanding job security and fair wage for sanitation workers, including the August 2025 protest near Ripon Building.

“I worked under Chennai Corporation as a sanitation worker for 19 years, before switching to this new contract,” she began. “19 years of endless toil, from 6 am to 3 pm in the afternoon. Then at 4, I went to houses to do their chores. I have no complaints about that work; they treated me like family.”

When asked about her duties, she said, “we do not just dust off the roads, we are sometimes expected to work in inhumane conditions. A few years ago, there was an oil-spill in Marina Beach. We were assigned to clean and remove the spillage from the sea. Yes, we were given the necessary equipment like gloves, and a special uniform. But do you know how painful it later proved to be? Rashes, and itch disease - look at my arms,” and she showed me her limbs that still displayed the reaction caused by the contact with Liquid Petroleum Gas. It remained on her skin, 8 years forth.

She described her childhood in an impoverished home in K.K Nagar. “My parents were both coolie labourers, and had to feed my siblings, 7 of us. There were eleven people in a single house, about as large as this room.” She pointed to the 30 sq.ft room we were sitting in. “I was married when I was 14 and had three children."

"I understand. When did you begin to work in the Corporation?" I inquired.

"My daughter was in first grade when I started this contract job as a sanitation worker, and I left it for good when she turned 21. Those 19 years of hard labour, but nothing prepared me for what happened during the corona period. I lost my elder son to jaundice."

“He worked with me during the pandemic,” she continued. “I was instructed by the company to work as a cook in a chattram, making meals for those in isolation. Some of us were sent to deliver food as well. I’ve participated in so many protests with my sisters, in 2012, 2020 and now 2025, demanding fair compensation for rolling in dirt and drainage with the inadequate uniforms they give. But can they give back my son? During quarantine, we were all given special permission to travel but were not allowed any leave or even a few hours off. I didn't know if my sons went to school or if they studied. And I financially support my household singlehandedly. There was no other option for me than to work. What about my health? Did the authorities ever consider we might be affected by the Corona virus as well?" she lamented.

When I asked her if she had tried to plead her case elsewhere, she exclaimed, “So many times! When Stalin came to power in 2020, he promised us the job permanence order and fixed salary. When Modi announced his Swachch Bharat mission, it was us who swept the beaches and roads! We weren’t compensated well for that. Once when he visited Chennai, a group of us wanted to question him, but the police silenced us. What are leaders for if they can’t be held accountable for failing their people?”

"And you know about those uniforms I mentioned? There’s no air passage to your body if you wear it, and rashes erupt. The oil spill cleaning caused many skin infections. My periods became worse. Upon inhaling the oil for a continuous period of time, I became horribly sick, vomiting blood once.” She sighs. “I feel like this life is a rebirth."

Mrs. Sumathi is strong. She recalled another traumatic assignment. "During the Vardha Cyclone, our corporation assigned us to clean flooded areas. The dead cows, children and men, it was us sanitation workers who helped with their removal. I wasn't scared of doing that, in time it became a habit. Poverty pushes most of us to take a second job cleaning households too. We don’t mind doing that. But the way my body hurts every night.." she caressed her thighs, but smiled.

“I have friends who work the same hours. When my late son was sick with covid, the union pooled in money from every worker, whoever was able to donate - we borrowed 10 lakhs and somehow saved him. But then the jaundice took over.” She became glum.

Changing the subject, I asked about the recent protest in August. “Yes. During those 16 days, women workers like me, and sanitation workers from all divisions participated. My company workers were quartered inside the Ripon Building. Our entire fate rested there. It was where we went day after day, where we protested, and where some of us were arrested on the final day. About 21 of us saw the police coming and fled. The rest, as you’ve seen the news, were caught and tortured in custody. My sisters have carried me home with horrible injuries before, when we protested in 2012. Our families were never supportive of this. Sometimes they scolded and beat us at home. “Satti paana ellam varum” (The pots come flying too.) But what can I do? My stove burns only if my muscles burn in this contract job. There are women who talk well, who evade repercussions at home, but many others don’t sleep or even eat at peace.”

“After my elder son died, my family stopped me from going to work. I became very ill. Now my health isn’t good, so I’m making do with household work for the past 2-3 years.”

I asked her about her hopes for the future.

"My hope? My hope is that my children should be well. They should build a permanent house for themselves, and my son should be able to do without the rented auto he drives. I want both of them to be happy. So many things happen... we are trying our best to survive.”

At 49, Mrs. Sumathi’s struggle to create a financially stable household for her family still remains an unfulfilled dream. Mrs. Sumathi’s life reveals how the promise of labour rights and state accountability often dissolves in bureaucratic indifference. Her decades of service, protest, and loss echo a deeper question about the plight of those whose work sustains our public spaces yet whose voices remain unheard. Amplifying the lives and stories of working people like her is the least we can do.