Over the last night of Census 2011, Tripta Chandola finds that many homeless people remain uncounted in Delhi
A heavily-pregnant Vijetha and I exchange notes about baby names, marriage (or its ultimate futility) and Delhi’s unrelenting winters. It would be no more than everyday banter if not for the fact that it is 10 pm on February 28, the very last day of Census 2011, and Vijetha and her family — among the many homeless in the capital city — have still not been counted.
The homeless are part of the most vulnerable of the city population. Not having a roof over their heads, as Vijetha’s husband Sonu points out repeatedly, is just one of their problems, and not the biggest one. “We find a place to stay and sleep,” he says. “We have a community, and we do manage to earn enough to feed our families every day.” What troubles them most, he explains, are harassment by the police, the prejudices of mainstream society and the lack of any forum for redressal. “We are dispensable,” he laments.
The process of counting the homeless itself testifies starkly to this.
The census is supposed to record the number of humans within India’s territory on the midnight of February 28 and March 1. Everyone else has already been counted, and only the last remaining Indians are counted on the night of February 28 — the urban homeless.
I accompany Hussain Syyed, coordinator at St Stephen’s Hospital Community Health Centre, to Badli in Rohini, the north-west district of Delhi. Our task is to support the census enumerators as they try and count the homeless. We are joined by Ishwaar Sharma, Renu and Bibyani (surnames not known) from Nirmana, an NGO working with the homeless in this area.
En route Syyed explains the difficulties. “The counting happens during the day. At that time the homeless are either on the move or working, and it is difficult to identify and approach them then. Their count can be done at night. But the enumerators either do not know where to find them or are nervous about venturing into their areas; hence our support.”
The homeless group to which Vijetha and her family belong shelters along a railway line at night. Our team knows where to find them. We make enquiries among the group, asking whether they have been approached for the census. No one has come tonight, they say, and not in the last month.
Syyed and Sharma place calls to the census officials responsible for this area. There is hectic deliberation on the issue of which ward this area falls under and, therefore, whose jurisdiction it is.
The matter cannot be resolved. None of the enumerators is ready at this point to come and cover this area. It is decided that the matter will be duly reported and taken to higher authorities.
Renu, almost apologising for the enumerators, explains that “it is not easy to work with these people [the homeless]. They can be difficult, rude and crude. If they are so cordial with us it is because we have worked hard to win their trust. We even had to share their food.” She tells us about a group of enumerators who demanded, and were granted, police protection to work among the homeless population.
We leave this group to make our enquiries among other groups in the area. We find the same story everywhere. By the time I leave, a census official, because of Syyed and Sharma’s persistence, has agreed to make a visit.
It is important for the “vulnerable” to be included in Census 2011 because this time it is linked to the universal identification number (UID) project. Indeed, in its first phase, UID is being implemented among the homeless.
For the homeless, UID is a welcome prospect. With it, says Sonu, “our children will be able to attend school, and my wife can see a proper doctor.” His pregnant wife has been denied access to state health services because she has no proof of identity. “Perhaps if we have the identity, harassment at the hands of the police will be less. But then,” he says after a pause, “if they know who and where were we are, it might get worse. After all, it will be easier to target us.”
Being counted is not a matter of logistics for Vijetha and Sonu, it establishes identity and thereby claims to citizenship. This is very valuable for a homeless family. Most important, it facilitates access to public infrastructure — especially health and education — that is otherwise denied to them. So, willing or not, the homeless cannot avoid it.
Tripta Chandola is an urban researcher. She is a Post-doctoral Fellow at National University of Singapore
