Madhuri Kamtam explores the intersection of caste, gender, and labour rights by revealing the hidden struggles of Dalit women in northern Telangana, whose vital contributions to the beedi industry are often overlooked, while highlighting the stark disparity between legal protections and their harsh realities.

By Madhuri Kamtam, University of East Anglia, UK

“Just because you have an ID card doesn’t mean you get everything”

Growing up as a Dalit girl —part of a historically oppressed caste once labelled “Untouchables” under India’s caste system— in a small village in northern Telangana, my childhood was shaped by the steady rhythm of beedi rolling. Beedi is a hand-rolled country cigar made from tendu leaf and unprocessed tobacco, tied with a single string at the end. In our Dalit colony, where caste and class intertwined, beedi work wasn’t just common—it was the norm. Nearly every household had at least one woman engaged in it: mothers, sisters, aunts, daughters-in-law. Beedi work was stitched into daily life like cooking or fetching water.

Each evening after school, I sat beside my mother, folding leaves, packing tobacco, tying threads. The sharp scent of tobacco clung to our clothes, home, and bodies. Women gathered in narrow lanes and front yards, chatting as they worked, their hands moving with remarkable speed. Yet behind the laughter lay fatigue, blurred vision, aching backs, and mounting dues.

Their labour was the economic backbone of our homes, yet remained invisible—uncounted, undervalued, unprotected.

As a child, I lacked the language to question this. Beedi work was simply life. But as a first-generation learner who eventually navigated academic spaces, I began to see it differently. I started to ask: Why does labour law fail women like my mother? What does legal recognition mean if it doesn’t translate into protection?

These questions became the foundation of my doctoral research.

From memory to inquiry

My PhD explores the lived realities of women beedi workers in northern Telangana—how labour law manifests (or fails to) in their lives, and how they respond collectively. Using an intersectional feminist lens, I conducted a 10-month mixed-methods study: a survey of 320 women, 60 semi-structured interviews, two focus group discussions with union leaders and members, and key informant interviews with contractors, labour welfare officers, medical staff, and government officials. I also examined archival records and policy documents tracing the beedi industry's history of unionisation, legislation, and struggles for implementation.

This inquiry is deeply personal, but also grounded in theory.

The Capability Approach, developed by Amartya Sen and expanded by Martha Nussbaum, gave me a new lens: rights not as abstract entitlements but as freedoms—to live with dignity, plan for the future, access healthcare, educate children, and age meaningfully. Under this framework, labour law isn’t just a checklist of benefits—it’s a capability enhancer.

Yet on the ground, this vision falls short.

The law on paper, the gap in practice

Beedi workers in India are covered by two laws: the Beedi and Cigar Workers (Conditions of Employment) Act, 1966 and the Beedi Workers Welfare Fund Act, 1976. These promise housing, healthcare, scholarships for children, provident fund, and more. But most provisions are either dysfunctional or have eroded over time.

Beedi workers earn 33.6% less than Telangana’s statutory minimum wage as of 2024. Paid per 1,000 beedis rolled, their bundles must pass a contractor’s quality check—often leading to arbitrary rejections. Workers shared that these “rejected” beedis are frequently repackaged and sold by companies. Since the work is subcontracted, there’s no formal employer-employee relationship, leaving workers without protections or accountability.

Contractors not only control access to work but also deduct charges—reducing already low wages. After deductions and Provident Fund (PF) cuts, women lose 11–18% of their earnings.

"He rejects our beedis. We can’t retaliate—we need the job."

"They deduct PF every month, but when it’s time to collect it, we get nothing."

These compelling narratives from women beedi workers underline the urgent necessity for a labour law framework that not only acknowledges but actively addresses the systemic injustices they face, ensuring their hard work is rewarded with fair compensation and real access to benefits. Unfortunately, government welfare initiatives often fall short; the tuberculosis allowance has disappeared, health services remain either non-existent or out of reach, and scholarships for the children of workers are merely a promise, seldom realized in practice.

Scholarship amounts have been stagnant for over 15 years and do not reflect rising educational costs. Applying involves complex digital forms, collecting school signatures, multiple visits to government offices, and often paying for photocopies, transport, or informal fees. For many families, the effort and cost outweigh the benefit.

"The TB allowance is gone. Most of the health benefits we were promised don’t exist anymore. What’s the point of going to the dispensary?"

"We can’t afford to keep going to the office for a scholarship that barely covers a month’s tuition."

Despite holding ID cards that label them as “formal” workers, actual support remains rare.

"We are formally informal," another woman said. "Just because you have an ID doesn’t mean you get everything."

Labour protections that exist on paper rarely reach the ground. Implementation is inconsistent. Promises go unfulfilled.

Collective strength, reimagined futures

What does work, however, is women’s collective action.

In the field sites I studied, women-led unions moved beyond wage demands. They fought for their children’s education, access to healthcare, pensions, and community well-being. For them, labour rights weren’t just about the factory floor—they were about the right to live with dignity.

“We fight for our children’s future. For health. For pensions. Not just today’s pay.”

But even these spaces are shaped by caste. In the village I studied, the union leader was a woman—but from a dominant caste. As you move higher up the leadership ladder, men—often with no direct connection to beedi work—begin to dominate.

“We can lead,” one Dalit woman said. “But we’re kept at the bottom of the pyramid.”

Beedi workers are not a homogenous group. Dalit women, in particular, face systemic exclusion. They have the lowest union membership and are often left out of leadership, training, and benefits. Many described being ignored at meetings or passed over for responsibilities.

This reveals the limits of collective capability when inclusivity is missing. Union spaces, though empowering, can reproduce the very exclusions they seek to dismantle.

These stories challenge the idealised image of solidarity—but they also point to the radical potential of unionism when grounded in true intersectional inclusion, where leadership reflects lived realities and justice extends to all, not just a privileged few.

Rethinking law from the ground up

If we want labour law to truly matter, we must move beyond checklists and compliance. We must ask: What kind of life does this law create? Who is left behind? What exclusions persist?

Labour law can enhance capabilities—but only when it is rooted in people’s lived experiences. It must come from the ground up, shaped by collective voices and sustained struggle.

The women beedi workers I met are already embodying this. Their organising reflects a powerful vision. Grounded in care. Rooted in justice. Powered by women.

A note on the journey

This research began in memory but evolved through theory, fieldwork, and reflection. My full thesis, soon to be available online, will explore these questions in greater depth. But its core message is simple: law should not merely recognise—it should enable. It should expand what people can do and be.

And that’s a future worth fighting for.

Madhuri Kamtam is a final-year PhD researcher at the School of Global Development, University of East Anglia, UK, and an Associate Fellow of the Higher Education Academy (AFHEA). Her research explores labour, gender, caste, and welfare through an intersectional feminist lens. Her doctoral work examines the impact of beedi labour legislation on workers’ welfare using the capabilities approach, theory-based evaluation, and mixed methods, grounded in extensive fieldwork in India. She also writes about caste, mental health, and international student experiences. Madhuri is a Yale Academics Stand Against Poverty (ASAP) fellow, committed to advancing justice through research and advocacy.