In the shadow of Delhi’s gleaming malls and gated colonies, lies a world that remains unseen, unheard, and increasingly unwanted. The Jai Hind Camp, nestled behind the opulence of Vasant Kunj in South Delhi, is home to over a thousand working-class families—domestic workers, cleaners, drivers, ragpickers, delivery boys—whose invisible labor keeps the city's wheels running. On July 8, 2025, this settlement was plunged into darkness when BSES, with police support, cut off its electricity supply. Since then, the camp has been living without power, even as its residents continue to clean, cook, and care for the very city that has forsaken them.
Jai Hind Camp is officially recognized by the Delhi Urban Shelter Improvement Board (DUSIB) and has been coded as slum no. 701, occupying 18,400 square meters. It has three communal electricity meters—two at a temple, one at a mosque—used to distribute electricity to homes via sub-meters. The Delhi Jal Board sends eight water tankers daily. According to the 2025 electoral rolls, the camp has 593 registered voters.
Most of the residents are migrants from Cooch Behar in West Bengal, with a few from Assam and other states. They form the city's sanitation backbone—sweeping streets, collecting waste, working in malls, cleaning toilets, and cooking meals in posh homes. A single waste collector, like Hasan, handles around 400 kg of garbage daily. Multiply that by 500 such workers and they manage nearly 200 tons of waste—roughly 1.6% of Delhi’s daily waste output. If outsourced, this would cost the city over ₹15 crore annually.
Despite their contribution, the residents are denied dignity. They live amid filth while cleaning the city. Women like Sahnoor Bibi leave for work at dawn, preparing meals for wealthier households whose children benefit from air-conditioning and uninterrupted education, while their own children stay home, unable to charge a phone for online homework. One domestic worker, a mother of two, shared her helplessness: her children cannot sleep at night due to heat and mosquitoes, nor can they go to school. “We are not asking for much,” she says, “just give us our electricity back so our children can learn, and we can work in peace.”
There are about 30–35 pregnant women in the camp, enduring suffocating heat without fans, fridges, or basic comforts. Their health is at risk, yet they continue to care for others. The irony is brutal: they ensure comfort in homes of people who may work in the police, judiciary, or bureaucracy—systems now silent about their condition.
Politically, slum-dwellers are courted with slogans like "jahan jhuggi, wahan makan" (a home where there’s a slum) during elections. But rehabilitation remains a mirage. From 2005 to 2013, around 35,000 EWS flats were constructed under the Rajiv Ratan Awas Yojana. Today, many of those buildings lie abandoned, vandalized, or turned into drug dens. Under AAP’s tenure, only 1,293 families have been relocated in five years.
Jai Hind Camp is now caught in a political storm. In December 2024, BJP leader Kusum Khatri claimed the camp housed 15,000 Rohingya refugees—an allegation that further stigmatized residents. The Delhi Police, under the Lieutenant Governor's directive, conducted identification drives. However, official verification found no illegal immigrants living in the camp. Still, the label persists, weaponized to delegitimize an entire community.
On paper, residents of Jai Hind Camp qualify for rehabilitation under the Delhi government’s 2015 policy. The camp predates 2006, and most families possess pre-2015 documents. Even if the land is reclassified as private—an assertion now used to justify demolition—these families are entitled to in-situ rehabilitation or relocation within a 3-km radius. Until such arrangements are made, they are guaranteed access to essential services like water and electricity.
DUSIB’s own documents recognize Jai Hind Camp as built on DDA land, not private property. Out of 675 recognized slums, only a few are on private land—and Jai Hind Camp is not among them. Yet, the government insists on eviction. This isn’t new: the camp has survived fires in 2002, 2006, and 2014, and each time, its residents rebuilt their homes from the ashes. But how long can a community live in constant fear of bulldozers?
So who truly makes Delhi livable? The residents of Jai Hind Camp, who lift tons of waste, wash offices, sweep malls, and cook our food—or the leaders posing with brooms for a photo-op?
The answer lies in what we choose to see—and more importantly, what we refuse to.
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A version of this article was first published in The Wire Hindi. The author is a social activist and freelance journalist
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