Navigating through Pehalwan Cho꧋wk in Batla House in South Delhi was like being in a maze. The narrow lanes with small shops, eateries and residential buildings on either side, the open drains, the piles of garbage, slushy “roads”, and the incessant blaring of horns left us dizzy. Yet, we kept walking in the direction of the banks of the Yamuna—following the stench—in search of stories; to meet people, particularly women, who are bearing the brunt of climꦡate change, and who, despite not knowing the magnitude of the crisis or its root cause, are disproportionately impacted by it.
A few men followed us—the “media waale”—urging us to highlight their issues. “No one from the government comes here,” they said. Women stepping out of thei🙈r houses to buy cans of drinking waಌter looked at us curiously—it was humid, and we were drenched in sweat.
A little ahead—in an area known as “bees foota” (20 feet wide)—the lanes became narrower and government apathy was even more apparent. A few children led us to the basti that had come up on the banks of a non-existent Yamuna—the river here was visible only in patches; the remaining area was all slush and mud. On the left, there was a nearly three-foot tall pile of garbage that had accumulated on the banks after the do𓄧wnpour on June 28. Mosquitoes and flies were buzzing around; the stench was unbearable. “We can’t eat even one morsel without feeling nauseous,” said Regina Khatoon, 40.
Originally from Bihar, she moved to Delhi two years ago after her husband remarried. She lives in a tiny room with her three children—her elder son, 18, is mentally challenged; her daughter is 15 and her younger son is 11. Their educatio𝓀nal journey came to an abrupt halt during the pandemic, and it ended after they moved to Delhi.&⭕nbsp;
The room was dark with no source of ventilation. There was no furniture in the room; just one gas stove and a few ration items in one corner and piles of clothes in the other. A small cooler kept in the room was a misfit. “This second-hand cooler was given to me a week ago by the seth where I work as a domestic help. I won’t use it. I can’t afford to pay the eജlectricity bill. I earn only Rs 5,000 a month; Rs 2,500 goes in paying the rent and the rest is spent on ration and buying drinking water,” she said.
This summer was difficult. “I have never experienced something like this before,” she said, talking about the prolonged and intense heat wave that lasted the whole of May🧜 and half of June. “Look at my hands; there are boils, rashes and blisters. Even my ൩children have these. We have one small fan, which didn’t help during peak summer. Cooking two meals a day in this room was torturous; sleepless nights were exhausting. I had to go to the doctor a couple of times after feeling giddy because of the heat. It meant additional expense,” said Khatoon.
When she was told that the heat waves would probably get more intense in the coming years, she was shocked. When asked why, according to her, the summers are getting hotter, she paused for a while and said: “Bhagwaan jaane. Par aisa hi raha to hum garib logo ka kya hoga. Aapke ghar to AC hai. Hum kya karenge.”
The summer situation was hopeless, but Khatoon had developed coping mechanisms to deal with the unbearable heat. It helped her, at least emotionally. “Kabhi kabhi me mobile pe barfile pahado ke photo dekh leti thi. Lekin sach batau to garmi itni thi ki mar jaane ko dil karta tha”. She was aware that the snow-capped mountains were elusive and her&nb♒sp;tiny house with one fan was her unfortunate reality.&nb🐷sp;
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On the same muggy afternoon, we met Sumitra Samantry, 47. She was sitting in her small grocery shop, overlooking the Hazrat Nizamuddin station’s railway tracks. Occasionally, goods and passenger trains passed by. People crossed the tracks when it was all clear. That was the only way to co🃏mmute as the subway was still submerged in waist-deep slush after the June 28 rain.
“There was water everywhere in Sarai Kale Khan basti days after it rained. We were desperately waiting for rain but when it rained, it broug🍰ht along with it fresh miseries,” s🍰aid Samantry.
She moved to Delhi from Medinipur, West Bengal, 27 years ago and lives in a one-bedroom flat with🐼 her self-employed husband and two children—her daughter, 15, and her son, 1🉐8. “Mental torture” was how she described this summer. “We have no control over the heat and the humidity, but the other factors made it worse. For hours, there used to be no electricity. We would get water only twice a day—one hour in the morning and one hour in the evening. Our entire life went for a toss.”
When asked if it’s even more difficult for women, she said: “Working women like me are also home managers. Often, we get little or no help. I would dread cooking. Sometimes we would order, but not frequently. The monthly budget had to be kept in mind. No matter what the situation is, there is no respite for women from t𝔍heir caregiving duties.”
She feels the heat situation has gotten much worse in the past two-three years. “This summer, we had to invest in a cooler. They d🔯on’t help much in Delhi’s climate, but at least they are better than fans. Last month, my electricity bill came to Rs 3,000, which is a lot, but we would have fallen sick if we had not bought the cooler, she said.”
She is aware that “mausam badal raha hai” and thinks it’s probably because we are cutting too many trees and not planting new ones. She thinks she is fortunate as she is better placed to deal with the badalta mausam. “Look at all these people🐬,” she said, pointing at the dozens of porters on the other side of the Hazꦛrat Nizamuddin station who were busy loading and unloading parcels from the trains. “There are so many who must step out to earn. They were working throughout May-June.”
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The next day, our destination was Geeta Colony in East Delhi. The area was hit by a severe water crisis amid the heatwave during the summer. Protests by residents and political blame games made headlines. While walking through the lanes, a burqa-clad woman approached us and introduced herself as Ruksana. She insisted we visit her gali whꦡere ꦐpeople were still dealing with the water crisis.
“Menstruating girls and women need water, and it’s depressing when there isn’t enough water.”
Piles 🌳of garbage at the entrance, open drains and flies and mosquitoes gave us a sense of déjà vu. The other ladies from the neighbourhood came out, too, to share their water woes. The presence of cameras gave them hope; that their voices would be heardꦆ and that things would change.
Ruksana (56), Ruby (52) and Rekha (55) elaborated on how, for the past 1.5 years, they have been getting contaminated water. They barely get one bucket of clean water and then black and yellow water gushes out of the taps. The borewell has limited capacity and during summer this water had to be used judiciously. Because the complaints made to the government officials fell on deaf ears, they devised a way to help each other out. For instance, Ruksana does not have a private borewell connection, so Rekha supplies water to her from her borewell with the help of pipes. This is their everyday ritual. But water wasn’t the only issue they dealt with this summer. Th𓆉e intense heat was the bigger enemy.
The three live in a one-room set and, on average, have 6-8 members in their house. Sometimes, guests come over. This summer, the three households used the coolers they have to their full capacity, leading to the electricity bills shooting up to Rs 5-6,000. “This is a huge amount, beyond our means. We didn’t have enough money to pay the bill before the due date. So, we ended up paying a little extra as a fine. We can’t afford ACs, but coolers have become a necessity,” saidꦕ Rekha.
Ruksana mentioned how during April-May-June, members of her family kept falling ill due to the heat. “The frequent♑ visits to the doctor’s clinic had an impact on monthly spendings,” she said.
“Ab kya kar sakte hai,” said Ruby when asked if women have to struggle more. “The extreme summer heat plus water scarcity was difficult to manage. Cooking three meals for my family of eight was a nightmare. Sometimes I would feel like taking a cold shower after cooking, b𝐆ut due to the water scarcity, even that wasn’t possible,” she said. “It’s a simple fact. Menstruating girls and women need water, and it’s depressing w🌳hen there isn’t enough water,” she added.
When asked to comment on the recurring heat waves, the three unanimously blamed the growin♏g usage of ACs. “People living in the other lanes, who are a little better off, have installed ACs. Those lanes are definitely warmer than ours,” said Ruby.
Ruksana blamed it on the lack of trees. “Look at our area. There are no trees. It’s so congested that it’s impossible to grow trees here. Hence ๊these areas will keep getting warmer,” she said.
***
Standing amid piles of garbage in a dump yard a little away from Geeta Colony, sixty-year-old Savitri Devi, who has never been to school, or isn’t too aware of what’s happening in the world, was wise enough to draw the conn💜ection between the increased usage of ACs among rich people and the intense heat wave she had to experience this summer. 𝔉;
Savitri, her husband and a few others were busy sorting garbage wꦐith bare hands. They get paid by the kilo. At the end of the day, municipality vans pick up the garbage bags. The working conditions at the dump yard were deplorable.
Savitri and her husband live in a room close by with one of their sons, 18. They have been sorting garbage for a living for the past two years ever since they moved to this area. Together, they manage to earn Rs 5,000 per month. There is no scope to🔥 buy a cooler, which is✅ now a necessity, they say. “I have lived in Delhi all my life, but it never used to be so hot. In the last two months, it was difficult to come to this dump yard and do our work. We had to take frequent breaks and spend a lot on buying clean drinking water. People would faint occasionally,” says Savitri.
When asked what could be done to minimise t💛he impact of climate change, Savitri had a simple solution—grow more trees.
(This appeared in the print as 'Feeling The Heat')
