Nomads Of Stigma: The Forever Fight For Justice By India’s Denotified Tribes

Until three years ago, Kiran and her family of four had found a semblance of stability in their hutment in Sector 56, Gurugram, on the site where the Banjara market once thrived. But a series of demolitions that began in 2021 has left behind a trail of devastation, forcing them to migrate from place to place. Now, in Gurugram's Ghata village, Kiran has been struggling for two days. As she assembles bamboo poles to erect yet another makeshift home, her future remains uncertain.

“There is no home and no assistance from the government. We spend our days under the scorching sun and sleep here at night under a mere sheet. We receive no rations, no money for food. We set up our makeshift shelters to sell our goods, but the police come and dismantle everything. They tell us to leave. Where are we supposed to go?” she asks.

Kiran’s plight reflects a broader reality for many nomadic and denotified tribes in India. Their names may appear on the voter rolls, yet they are stripped of the constitutional rights that should be their due.

Bulldozers frequently arrive to evict them from their so-called 'illegal' settlements. According to Manoj Gujjar, a landowner in Ghata village, the argument against them is that they refuse to settle. “You can’t make them understand, no matter how hard you try,” he says. He believes that the police will soon arrive to dismantle their shops again. “They’re irrational, they don’t want to settle anywhere,” he adds dismissively.

The vibrant tents now populating the beloved flea market belong to the Gadiya Lohar community, a subgroup of the Banjara tribe who originally migrated from Chittorgarh in Rajasthan. According to folklore, this community was once allied with Maharana Pratap, the revered ruler of Mewar. They vowed that if Maharana Pratap failed to reclaim Chittorgarh, they would never return to their homeland. True to their word, following Maharana Pratap's defeat, the Lohar community embraced a nomadic lifestyle, traveling from place to place and setting up tents to sell their crafts.

For generations, nomadic and denotified tribes (DNTs) have faced a fate more harrowing than that of other marginalised groups. They have been systematically rendered invisible by the state and its institutions, stigmatised as ‘born criminals’—a term imposed by colonial rulers.

Two centuries ago, under British rule, any opposition to colonial expansion was labeled criminal. This included communities of minstrels, fakirs, traders, transporters, and hunters. By 1871, the British codified these communities into a formal list of 'Criminal Tribes' through legislation. Although this Act was replaced by the Habitual Offenders Act in 1952 and eventually repealed, the stigma persisted, leaving these communities categorised as Nomadic and Denotified Tribes. Despite the change in nomenclature, governmental measures and promises of basic rights have remained woefully inadequate, and these communities continue to be targeted and labeled as ‘thieves,’ ‘looters,’ and ‘illegal settlers’ by law enforcement.

“The British did not act alone; they were supported by Savarna communities that reinforced the caste system and continue to do so,” observes Shiva Gor, a Mumbai-based artist from the Gor Banjara community in Maharashtra.

Today, more than 90 per cent of these communities live below the poverty line, with only a minuscule percentage securing government jobs. They endure rampant caste discrimination, including mob lynching, rape, harassment, police brutality, illegal detentions, and custodial deaths.

In the narrow lanes of Delhi’s Gharoli village, near the Uttar Pradesh border, a cluster of permanent homes shelters the Sapera and Nat communities. The stench from the nearby Ghazipur landfill permeates the area, yet the community calls it home.

The Sapera community, a denotified tribe spread across Rajasthan, Delhi, and Uttar Pradesh, has a storied history in India’s performance culture. Just a few decades ago, they were a fixture at weddings, family gatherings, street performances, and cultural events. “It was a great source of pride for us,” recalls Mewa Devi, an octogenarian from Sapera Basti. Her late husband, a renowned sapera, was also known for his healing abilities. An idol of him now stands in the central lane of the basti.

Mewa Devi shares her memories through an album featuring pictures of her son, Bahadur Singh Nath, the last of the saperas in their family. “He performed at the Commonwealth Games in 2010, the opening act,” she says with pride. Bahadur was among 120 snake charmers who showcased their skills at the Games and performed for then-President Sheila Dixit. “He was even considering going abroad, but then it all ended,” she laments.

The majority of the Sapera community is illiterate and lacks alternatives to snake charming. Many resort to street performances for a meagre income. While Bahadur and a few others managed to sustain their profession for a time, the Wildlife (Protection) Act of 1972, which eventually banned snake charming, dealt a fatal blow.

“This is Maneka Gandhi’s doing. Since she enacted the law, all our performances have ceased,” says Savita Nath, Bahadur’s wife. Maneka Gandhi, an animal rights activist, played a key role in implementing this law. Subsequent raids on Sapera settlements alleged illegal snake trading, venom sales, and animal cruelty, further marginalising the community.

“We never harmed snakes; we worship them,” Sultan Nath asserts. “We still save people from snake bites without killing the snakes. This law made us scapegoats.”

The community feels that the government’s actions, meant to protect animals, have disrupted their lives without providing alternative means of livelihood or security. “They used us for entertainment but gave us nothing in return,” Sultan Nath says.

The systemic exploitation of denotified tribes drives them to the fringes of society, stripping them of their cultural capital and damaging India’s heritage in art, languages, and performance-based professions.

“Our culture has lost its place in the mainstream,” laments Deepa Pawar, an NT-DNT activist and founder of Anubhuti Trust. “Many nomadic and denotified tribes have been forced to abandon their traditional practices and take up menial labor. Should we all become bonded labourers?” she questions.

Pawar, from the Ghisadi tribe in Maharashtra, recounts her own struggles. “Our family was blacksmiths, and making swords was our craft. During the Babri Masjid riots of 1992-93, we lived in a tent near Sewri, Mumbai. But whenever there was unrest, the police would apprehend us, despite our innocence, and accuse us of arming rioters.”

This criminalisation affects all marginalised communities without stable homes. “Instead of supporting us, they accuse us of crimes,” Pawar says, highlighting the deliberate lack of representation. “We are the easy targets.”

The Chhara tribe, residing on the outskirts of Ahmedabad in Chharanagar, faces similar adversity. This densely packed ghetto of around 15,000 people is often stigmatised as a “bad area”, with residents struggling against pervasive garbage and dampness. Historically, Chharas were nomadic entertainers known for their acting skills. However, as criminalization spread, some turned to robbery. The enduring stigma labels them as ‘thieves’, ‘dacoits’ and ‘addicts’, despite the community's efforts to redefine themselves.

“The government boasts of development, but none reaches our colony. They dismiss us as ‘criminals.’ Even our children struggle to find employment,” says Advocate Kaikesh Ghasi, a self-employed lawyer and shop owner. Over 200 self-practicing lawyers in Chharanagar, like Ghasi, strive to uplift their community.

A significant milestone was the establishment of Budhan Theatre by activist Mahasweta Devi and linguist Dr. GN Devi in 1998. This community-driven theatre has provided a platform for Chharas to reconnect with their performing arts roots and advocate for social justice.

“When Budhan Theatre began, and we performed street plays about marginalised communities, some well-wishers started seeing us differently, not as ‘criminals’,” says Atish Chhara, a member of Budhan Theatre.

Though progress has been made, it is slow and still lacks administrative impact. A recent RTI response revealed that Chharanagar received zero budget allocation for development in 2023. “The government allocates budgets for everything but us. It’s clear how little importance we hold,” says Dakxin Bajrange, an award-winning filmmaker and artistic director of Budhan Theatre.

Bajrange notes that despite numerous efforts and demands for reservation, denotified tribes struggle to form a cohesive political force like other marginalised groups. Most are dispersed in remote areas, and commissions meant to represent DNTs are often led by upper-caste individuals.

“Can someone who has never seen our struggles or experienced our injustices truly represent us?” he asks.

Every August 31, DNTs across the country observe Vimukti Diwas, or Liberation Day. Yet, as long as the systematic invisibilisation of nomadic and denotified tribes continues, can they truly be considered free?

Deepa Pawar emphasises that without strategic planning and budgetary allocations for basic rights, there is little hope for the advancement of NT-DNTs. “Surviving all this fuels our fight for justice,” she says.

Shiva Gor concludes, “Constitutional protection and societal dignity are the only paths to true freedom.”