Harsh notes

The girl playing on the drum is 7 years old while the little one attempting a somersault is 2-1/2. Sisters and street acrobats - they are just two among the millions of children in Delhi who are forced to give up a normal childhood and earn a living. Nilima Pathak examines the issue of child labour in India

The winter cold is biting and the wind is beginning to pick up, increasing the chill factor. But nothing can keep seven-year-old Sapna in bed. Come sun or rain, her day begins at 6.30 in the morning.

She rouses her two-and-a-half-year-old sister Soni, who is snuggling next to her and, along with her maternal aunt Gomti, the trio sets off for the bus station in northwest Delhi.

Once there, they choose a corner to wait till their friends, several other women and children, gather. Though they are all huddling together to keep warm, Sapna knows that in a few minutes, they will have to give up the cosy corner of the bus shelter and go their own ways.

A few minutes of banter and they soon split into several small groups setting off for different areas of the city - traffic intersections, wayside parks, parking lots ... Some of them carry drums and little cymbals, others shoulder poles and cloth bags containing small iron rings, torn pieces of carpet, tin cans ...

Sapna and her motley crew are roadside acrobats so common in almost any part of India. The children do circus tricks while their parent or an elder relative plays a drum or some kind of percussion instrument.

The kids squeeze their bodies through small iron rings, shimmy up poles, turn cartwheels, contort their bodies and, at the end of maybe a half-hour roadshow, extend an aluminium bowl to bystanders and spectators requesting for alms.

In another part of the city, 9-year old Sunder Mandal is at work, cooking and serving food at a roadside eatery.
Originally from Bihar, he has been working for the last one year. "Earlier, I used to wash dishes here. But ever since the employer's son took up a job in Kolkata and left, I have been taught to cook," says Sunder. He gets paid Rs250 per month to work eight hours a day.

Ensconced in a corner in Chandni Chowk, tea vendor Aamir Khan is 13 years old. Hailing from Bihar, he has been in Delhi for the last four years. Come summer or winter, Aamir sells tea and biscuits nearly 24/7 and earns Rs800 a month.

From cooking meals, washing clothes, sweeping floors, working at restaurants, polishing shoes, selling newspapers and magazines at traffic signals and even begging to earn a living, children are doing it all.

India has 77 million child labourers, considered the highest in the world. Of these, 20 million work in hazardous conditions - fireworks factories, carpet manufacturing companies, glass industries, etc - despite a ban on 13 occupations and 57 processes considered hazardous for children below the age of 14.

Thousands of children are employed in agricultural and non-formal sectors. In the capital Delhi alone, more than
2 million children are forced to give up school and other regular childhood activities and work in various industries so they can add to their families' paltry income.

The Indian government passed a law prohibiting child labour but little seems to have changed despite it.

Sapna and Soni's parents are farmers in Bilaspur, Madhya Pradesh. However, the two girls left their state and came to Delhi - a cosmopolitan city- sure they could earn more because "there are a lot of people here.

"We are able to earn Rs100-150 (about Dh10-Dh12) daily," Sapna says proudly.

At around 9 am, when the city begins to get really busy, she and her little sister sit down on the pavement to have their first meal of the day before they can get started with their daily routine.

She buys a couple of vegetable patties from a wayside eatery and gives one to Soni. "Eat it fast,'' she cajoles her sibling, who appears keen to take her own time savouring it. They do not have much time to waste ... they have to take maximum advantage of the daily morning rush-hour traffic.

Also, if the cops catch them sitting on the pavement, they will be chased off. "They consider us beggars and I hate it because acrobatics is an art, which has been in the family for many generations," claims Sapna.

Though she has never been to school, Sapna knows some basic maths. "I know how to count (the) money we get, boasts the girl who has painted her face in bright colours.

"Foreigners give us good money," one of Sapna's friends says. "Moreover, they appreciate our efforts to entertain them and almost always say that they respect our decision of working and earning rather than begging," she adds.

Sapna's aunt, who is in her late twenties, has a 14-month-old daughter, Nisha. "She will grow (up) to be a very good performer as she is very agile," she says, looking down at the kid in her arms.

Wouldn't she want her child at least to study and take up a regular job?

"Oh, we hear of so many educated people living frustrated lives because they do not have jobs,'' argues Gomti. "Why should we waste our money and energy on something that brings no returns?"

She does not like leaving her children at home when she goes to 'work'. "There is no point (in their) idling at home. This way we all contribute to the monthly income," she says.

Sapna, who is busy touching up the colour she has applied to her cheeks, smiles when she catches me staring at her. "By evening this colour vanishes,'' she says, "which means it is 5 o' clock and time to go home."

But before that she has to earn her daily meal.

As soon as the traffic signal turns red, Sapna grabs her drum and, using a small stick and her fingers, starts playing on it. Soni steps onto the traffic intersection and, in the small space, begins gyrating to the beat.

A few people who are watching the duo throw them some coins and then the light turns green ... a signal that they can take a break.

Just like Sapna and a million others like her, Sunder too gave up studies to take up a job and look after his family. "My father works at a restaurant nearby and does not want me to leave this job. But once I find a better place and more income, I will shift immediately," says Sunder.

His elder brother, who is 16, works at a shop selling betel leaves in South Delhi while his mother works as a maid.
Sunder aspires to run his own hotel some day but has no desire to get formally educated. "My father says studying is of no use, as it is not easy to find employment even then," he says.

Does he know that what he is doing is illegal? That child labour has been banned? "No,'' he says.

And what if his employer asks him to leave? "I will look for another job. After all what will I do sitting at home alone?" he says without batting an eyelid.

"I have not kept the child here forcibly,'' says Sunder's employer, who refuses to disclose his name. "If he leaves, someone else will come and work for me. Before enforcing a ban the government should provide alternatives for children. If we do not employ children, they will starve," he argues.

Nearby, 12-year-old Nadeem Khan is busy at work along with two other children of his age. Hailing from Moradabad in Uttar Pradesh, they all work as mechanics.

"I am happy here and like the city. I will never go back home,'' says Nadeem. "At least I get enough food to eat." He earns Rs75 (about Dh6) daily and occasionally watches movies with his companions. "The only bad habit I have is smoking, which I acquired from boys in the village. I know it is not good for health, but ..."

But are they being looked after well? The question makes them look towards their employer and then they fall silent.

In February this year, the Supreme Court of India issued notices to the Federal Government, states and union territories, seeking a complete ban on child labour. The Ministry of Labour and Employment notified the ban on August 1 and it came into effect on October 10.

The Child Labour Protection Act, 1986, defines a child labourer as someone below 14 who is made to work (paid or unpaid) within or outside the family. Basically, a child who is deprived of the right to education and childhood.

The new provision in the Act makes it mandatory for the government to rescue child labourers and produce them before the Child Welfare Committee before they are sent to shelters. The Labour Ministry had asked the state governments to initiate a coordinated effort to rescue and rehabilitate children.

The Act notifies that employment of children below 14 years as domestic servants in eateries, restaurants, hotels, tea shops or recreational centres is banned. Offenders would be penalised under the Child Labour Protection Act and face between three months and a year in prison or a fine of up to Rs20,000 or both.

But in the absence of constructive guidelines by the government regarding rehabilitation of these children, the police are unable to do much.

Said a senior police officer who did not want to be named, "It is not right to expect us to catch every young working child. The issue is how to tackle the abject poverty that forces parents to send their kids to work. Also, do we have enough rehabilitation centres for children? And how many of these are in proper condition and capable of providing them two square meals a day?

"If children are stopped from working, what alternative will they be left with? They might end up resorting to robbery."

Aamir Khan, the boy who makes a living serving tea and biscuits, has no idea about child labour laws, nor has he given a thought to an alternate profession. One reason is that he has absolutely no time for such luxuries. After a hectic day, he only has time to curl up to sleep in a small room which houses four other children like him.

Twelve-year-old Nadeem's plight is similar. Working as a tailor in the Jama Masjid area, he came to Delhi three years ago with his father Mohammad Afzal, also a tailor.

Both father and son are able to earn about Rs5,000 a month. Afzal feels it is better for his son to learn the tricks of the family trade early in life rather than while away his time doing nothing.

Although aware of the Child Labour Protection Act, Nadeem has no idea what he would do if some day the government became strict about enforcing the law. "Life cannot be better than this,'' says the boy.

"I support my parents and four other siblings. Who will come to check my age certificate? I do not think the ban on child labour is going to affect us in any way," he says.

India is one of the worst offenders with regard to child labour. A Unicef report states that in India, 17 per cent of child workers are under 15 and girls aged 12-15 are the preferred choice as domestic help in 90 per cent of households.

Eleven-year-old Mamta from West Bengal works as a domestic help with a family in Paschim Vihar in West Delhi. She has been working since the age of 8. Although herself a kid, she looks after the three-year-old daughter of her employers.

From cleaning dishes to washing clothes and running small errands for the family, she does it all.

"My parents are in Kolkata. They left my elder sister and me with a family in South Delhi and we used to work together. After some time, my sister got married to a man she met in the city.

"Irked about this, the family threw me out. I was left to fend for myself as my sister also said she could not afford to look after me. My parents also refused to take me back. Luckily, someone told me about this family and I came here.''

Is she happy here?
"No,'' she says. "I want to go back to my parents. I miss them a lot, particularly when I see my employers playing with their own child. But what can I do? My parents don't want me back."

Then there's nine-year-old Vikram, son of Suraj Bhan, who works as an ironsmith in East Delhi's Pandav Nagar, right next to the police station. Hailing from Chittor, Rajasthan, Vikram has been residing in Delhi for the last two years with his father who is a scrap dealer. He earns Rs300 a month.

"One person's salary is not sufficient to feed a family of 5-6 people," says Suraj. "So my son too has to work."

While Vikram has his father by his side quite often, 11-year-old Chhotu is not so lucky. His father Arun Kumar was jailed on charges of murdering his wife two years ago.

Overnight, Chhotu's life went into a tailspin. He was forced to end his studies (he was attending a government school) and had to follow his family's business - ironing clothes on a mobile laundry cart.

The crude iron which works on coal has left him with many burns, but he does not seem to be overly bothered by them. "Yes, a number of times I (have) burnt my hands but thankfully not the clothes," he jokes. "Now I can handle it very well.''

As for the laws, "The government officials should first see our living conditions and circumstances,'' says Chhotu's brother Ramesh. "Will they be able to rehabilitate my brother (if he gives up his job)? If we do not earn money by legal means, are we supposed to become beggars?" he asks.

It was the desire not to be a beggar which also forced Manohar to do a job that is arguably not above board. A
12-year-old, he fled his home town Baraut in Uttar Pradesh, unable to suffer the physical abuse inflicted on him by his father, a farmer. Manohar dreamed of making it big in the big city and landed up in Delhi.

Today, he fills cold water in plastic bottles from roadside taps and passes it off as mineral water to passengers outside Old Delhi Railway Station.

Manohar has reconciled to the idea that life cannot get any better than this. The beatings continue ... only this time it is from policemen who wield their batons to chase off boys like him and other loiterers from the railway station.

Manohar's day, too, begins early. He sets off with a sack to collect uncrushed mineral water bottles from nearby landfill sites. He fills the bottles with cold water and sells each bottle for Rs5. Those who cannot afford the Rs10-Rs 15-per bottle of branded mineral water buy the water Manohar supplies.

"Two years ago, I used to sell magazines. But other sellers either snatched away my earnings or threatened to beat me if I operated from their area. So, after four months, I shifted base."

The boy then found a job as a domestic help in a family. "They were kind to me and I got enough to eat. But they refused to pay my wages." So after a couple of months, he left them and started selling water.

Several children from poor families, who are trafficked from Bihar, Orissa, Rajasthan and the North East with the assurance of jobs, end up as bonded labourers.

The red colour on Sapna's cheek has slowly begun to fade. The little girl looks tired and hungry. Her little sister is looking forlornly at her, hoping she will call it a day and put away the drum.

The cold is becoming increasingly unbearable. Soni is looking forward to returning to their little hovel where she can curl up under her raggedy blanket and snuggle close to her elder sister. And if she can get a decent meal, that would be a true blessing.