Motihari/Bihar: Stepping into a narrow alley in the city, one is immediately met with rows of shanties and homes covered with tarpaulin sheets. This is the Dom Basti, a community whose identity is intrinsically linked to bamboo and the products crafted from it. For generations, this has been their profession. Here, someone is always stripping bamboo, while another holds an unfinished basket. But their lives, much like these baskets, are fractured in places, incomplete in others, and filled with the hardships of everyday existence.
In Bihar, the Dom community is classified as a Mahadalit (most marginalized Dalit) group, constituting less than 0.2% of the state's total population. Spread across both urban and rural areas, they have traditionally been associated with bamboo work, crafting baskets and trays, cremation duties, and sanitation work.
Children from the basti who attend schools outside its confines report being forced to sit in separate lines, segregated from children of other castes. Speaking to The Mooknayak, an 11-year-old student said, “The teacher says, ‘You people sit separately, you are Doms.’” Hearing these words, the elders of the community fall silent, for it is the same ancient pain they have endured for generations. Talks of social justice remain confined to official documents, with no tangible impact reaching these children.
The bamboo trade, the cornerstone of the Dom identity, is collapsing. From weddings to festivals, bamboo trays, baskets, and winnowing fans were once considered essential. But plastic and machine-made goods have stolen their market.
Rajkumari, sitting outside her raw hut weaving a basket, told The Mooknayak, “A few years ago, we could easily make 500-600 rupees a week. Now, we can't even make 50-60 rupees a day.” The lines of worry on her face are clearly visible. She explains that demand for bamboo products was once steady for both daily needs and ceremonies, but that work is gradually disappearing.
“Splitting bamboo from morning till night scrapes our hands until they bleed,” she says. “Yet, our hard work has no value anymore. People used to praise our handmade trays and baskets; now those same people buy cheap plastic or factory-made goods. Our sweat, our art, it has all become worthless.” Her words reflect not just an employment crisis, but the pain of a generations-old identity being erased.
Rajkumari adds, “The situation is worsening every day. It's hard to even fill our stomachs; children's education is a distant dream. If our hard work was paid fairly, perhaps we could live with dignity. But now it feels like we have just been abandoned. Governments only make promises, but all we get is poverty and untouchability.”
Many have now taken up work as sanitation staff for the municipal corporation, but even there, their labour is not respected. “Salaries are held up for months, and when we do get paid, it's so little it's hard to support a family,” a resident said.
Ranjeet, a sanitation worker cycling past in the sun with a broom tied to his cycle, spoke with us. His forehead was sweaty, his face tired. “We start work at 4 a.m.,” he said. “We clean the city’s filth, but the monthly salary is only 13,000 rupees. It's difficult to run a family on such a low income. Sometimes, our wages are stuck for months.”
He continued, “We keep the city clean, but people call us dirty. Far from respect, we are looked at with hatred. My children ask, ‘Papa, why do people look down on us?’ But I have no answer. I just keep thinking that maybe, one day, things will change.”
For this community living in shanties, securing two meals a day is the primary challenge. When feeding the family is difficult, children's education becomes an impossible dream. While some children do reach school, a combination of discrimination and poverty often forces them to drop out.
A woman, Savitri Devi, explains, “Even if we want to, we cannot afford books and notebooks for our children. Often, children leave school to help with splitting bamboo and making trays.”
The health situation in the basti is extremely worrying. If a young child falls ill, it becomes a major crisis for the family. The disarray in government hospitals is no secret, and the situation becomes even more precarious for the poor and illiterate, who face neglect there as well.
A woman from the basti reported, “When our people go to the doctor, they just tell us to take the government medicine, they don't pay much attention.”
Children growing up amidst poor nutrition and unhygienic conditions are perpetually at risk. Malnutrition is evident in many households. The Dom community, forced to live this life, simply endures it.
Most homes in the basti are hut-like. While there are houses of other caste communities with concrete structures, most Dom families live under tarpaulin sheets and in shanties. When the rains come, these homes start leaking.
Sapna Devi, speaking to The Mooknayak, gestures toward her house. Its walls are made of tin, bamboo, and tarpaulin. “Our house is a raw hut,” she says. “When it rains, it feels like we are sitting outside.” The monsoon season is their biggest fear, as leaking water soaks half their belongings.
“The small children get wet, clothes and bedding all get soaked,” Sapna says. “Often, diseases spread. We don't sleep all night, just thinking about when the rain will stop.” Her words reveal that poverty is not just about hunger; the lack of a safe roof over one's head is an equally profound pain.
Sapna Devi says the government has promised houses under various schemes but the condition of the basti remains unchanged. “Leaders come, they make lists, get photos taken, and then never return. We are still living in tarpaulin shanties. Perhaps our suffering is invisible to everyone.”
The biggest problem in the Dom basti is the lack of basic facilities. Electricity and water arrangements are in name only. When hand pumps break down, people are forced to fetch water from dirty ponds for drinking. This spreads disease, but with no alternative, entire families remain dependent on it.
There is no safe place for children to play. They grow up amidst narrow, filthy lanes. The conditions are such that women are still forced to defecate in the open, jeopardizing both their safety and their health. It is clear that the basti remains far from development and human dignity.
The people of the basti say that every government comes during elections, promising them houses, employment, and development. But as soon as the elections are over, the politicians vanish.
A woman, Savita Devi, told The Mooknayak, “It seems we only exist to vote. After that, no one comes to check on us.” She explains that during elections, leaders roam every alley, setting up chairs outside shanties and making a stream of promises—pucca houses, clean water, jobs, and a better life. But as soon as the elections end, everything evaporates. They get neither houses, nor employment, nor the proper benefits of government schemes. “Politicians only do politics over our poverty and helplessness,” Savita says, her words dripping with completely shattered trust.
An elderly woman, listening in, angrily said, “For politicians, we are just a number, a vote count. Our children are made to sit separately in school, we live in filth, we don't get treatment when we fall ill. The government and the leaders know this, but no one cares. It's as if we are not even human.” Her face showed deep frustration and profound helplessness, making it clear that the pain of the Dom basti is not just about poverty, but about the repeated neglect that makes them feel like mere ‘vote banks’ in this democracy, not citizens.
Tufan Ram, a former member of the Bihar State Mahadalit Commission who also belongs to the Dom community, has spent a large part of his life struggling for its upliftment.
He told The Mooknayak that the wretched condition of the Dom community is evident to all. The caste system, untouchability, and a sense of inferiority have prevented them from living as equals. Lack of education, employment, and respect are the biggest challenges.
“Our struggle is ongoing,” he said. “This movement will not stop until the Dom community gets equal opportunity and socio-economic justice.”
Socially and politically, the Dom community's voice has been extremely weak. Despite being classified as Mahadalit, they have not received the full benefits of government schemes. Their representation in politics is also negligible, although some social activists and leaders have recently begun raising their voices for their rights and dignity. Yet, the path to true equality and justice still appears long and arduous.
The constitution's book may be written with words of equality, dignity, and justice, but the Dom community says they have never felt it. From children to the elderly, everyone carries their share of discrimination. Isolated from society, deprived of livelihood, and cheated by the government, this community remains shackled by the same chains of untouchability that were promised to be broken decades ago.
The story of Motihari's Dom Basti is not limited to bamboo baskets and trays. It is a picture of the social and economic injustice still being endured by the country's most marginalized sections.
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