man-dole

You can get up as early as you like, but honestly it’s no point. To get to Mandoli it WILL take you about an hour an a half or more, depending on where you are located (from Goa might take a few hours extra) Past majnu ka tila drive past Wazirabadh and straight down Mangal Panday Marg. Past Guru Nanak Sar, Rajiv Vihar, Kajouri, Bhajan Puri, Yamuna Vihar and Dr. Bhim Rao Ambedkar College, there is a yet another fly over under construction there. Turn left from the construction. The road gets steadily narrower and murkier.

Somewhere down the road, on the border of U.P and Delhi, the recycling plants begin to mushroom. You will be able to tell you have arrived, the stench of acid and burning plastic will announce it for you. Looking down I could spot chimneys fumigating the environment with poison, landfills of plastic ash and miserable fields.

Snaking my way down one of the lanes I tried searching for a friendly face, there were none. Within brick walled courtyards I could see piles and piles of circuit boards or phenoleg as they call it. Large plastic drums frothing with acid, piles of burnt plastic and scattered amongst this women bent over piles of electric equipment searching for copper. I used a lame story- mai Kurukshetra university ki student hun. Research kar rahi hun. Jaana chahte hun ki kis tareh se en boards se aap tamba nikalte hai? (I am a research student from the Kurukshetra university. I would like to know the process you use to extract copper from these circuit boards).

The labor employed is mostly women. Each of these groups had a leader. The labor I later learnt earns Rs. 50-70 per day and the leader Rs. 1500-3000 per month. I visited about 12 such units. Of the 50 odd people I met, barely 4 spoke to me. I was mostly told of their ignorance and that the owner knew what it was and that they were clueless about what they were made to do. Some just chose to disregard my presence. I had to check in the mirror to see if I had suddenly vanished. The few, who did speak, after much coaxing, told me – the circuit boards are sent from Seelampur, where the electric goods are first dismantled. The boards are then washed and scrubbed in water and caustic soda. The weaker boards are burnt while the stronger ones are soaked in acid (hydrochloric acid, sulphuric acid and nitric acid). The tiny quantity of copper wedged between the fine patterns of the circuit boards are extracted from the boards and the acid, caustic soda, dirty water, plastic ash are thrown on the surrounding land. This land incidentally has fields of vegetation. I hear the food grown on this land is sent for the mid-day meals provided in schools. The material is purchased at Rs. 2- 12 per Kg and is sold on the percentage of impurities at Rs. 50-100.

When I inquired about the health of their children, cattle, crops, they said it was fine. I did not have to ask, I could see the rash on the forearms caused by constant exposure to sun and acid, I could see the tired look on the faces of the children, I could see the buffalo’s hide raw and burnt like a dry scorched paddy field.

It did not bother me that these people were not ready to communicate. After all if the government did take an action against their boss, they in turn would loose the meager salary they earn. The problem is not that the government allows tonz of toxic e-waste to find its way to our shores and neighborhoods. The problem is not that the units that dispose off electronic waste are extremely dangerous for their employees or that the residue they leave behind is causing lead and harmful acid to mingle with our ground water and food. Or that in turn this is potentially a grave ecological problem. The biggest problem is that most of us are too poor to leave the tiny bit of money w can make at the cost of our lives, the lives of our children and the masses. That if any action is taken it would mean that one more man will sleep hungry.

The e-waste sites were not the only proud share holders. The rest of the land is shared with battery recyclers and factories of cloth dyes.

When I was walking out of the lane, one cheeky young boy dug his hands deep into his trouser pockets and said- bahut log aate hai madam. Sab apne kitabo me likhte hai, par kuch nahi hota. Aap bhi likh lo. (Lots of people come here madam. They write in their note pads and leave. Nothing ever happens, nothing ever changes. You also write)