The invisible cost of GRAP 

January 5, 2026 Leave a comment

Delhi slips into a public health emergency as air pollution reaches hazardous levels every winter. The government responds by invoking the most stringent measures under the Graded Response Action Plan (GRAP III and IV), suspending all construction and demolition activities, halting infrastructure projects, and restricting dust-generating work. These steps are necessary and justified for pollution control and the health of people. However, the cost of Delhi’s clean air policies is disproportionately borne by construction workers and daily wage labourers, whose livelihoods are abruptly and completely cut off.

Delhi has a massive daily wage construction labour force, estimated between 10-12 lakhs workers, with only around 5.4 lakhs officially registered (around 2.6 lakh active). Construction restrictions under GRAP III and IV are designed to curb particulate pollution, particularly PM10, a major contributor to Delhi’s smog. However, the construction sector is sustained almost entirely by informal labour. Migrant workers, hired through layers of contractors, work without written contracts, income security, or social protection. When work stops, wages stop instantly. There are no savings to fall back on, no paid leave, and often no local support systems. For these workers, a week-long (or longer) pollution shutdown can mean hunger, unpaid rent, mounting debt, or forced return to their native places under distress.

The injustice lies in the fact that these workers are not the architects of Delhi’s pollution crisis. Air pollution is the result of long-term structural failures, like unchecked urbanisation, rising private vehicle use, industrial emissions, poor public transport planning, weak enforcement of environmental norms, and regional factors like stubble burning. Construction workers operate within this system, responding to demand created by the city’s growth. Yet, when pollution peaks, their labour is the first to be criminalised, as if survival itself were an environmental offence.

The common defence of GRAP rests on a false dichotomy between public health and livelihoods. This framing assumes that income loss is a tolerable short-term sacrifice in the interest of long-term health. For daily wage labourers, livelihood and health are inseparable. Loss of income leads to undernutrition, stress, untreated illness, and increased vulnerability. Clean air achieved by pushing workers out of their wages is a policy failure and not a public health success. India’s environmental governance has consistently overlooked this social dimension. While regulations effectively restrict polluting activities, there is little institutional thought given to compensating those who lose income due to regulatory action. 

On 18th December 2025, the Delhi Government announced financial assistance of  INR 10,000 through Direct Benefit Transfer (DBT) to registered construction workers affected by the curbs under GRAP. While this is a welcome announcement by the Government, a clear policy solution is required in the long run for the provision of minimum wages to construction workers and daily wage labourers, both registered and unregistered, for the duration of GRAP shutdowns. This compensation should not be framed as charity or welfare, but as a rightful payment for income loss imposed by public policy in the interest of collective well-being. If the state mandates a halt to work for environmental reasons, it must also accept responsibility for the economic consequences of that mandate.

The most viable way to finance this support is through a dedicated ‘pollution tax.’ Delhi already collects various environment-linked charges, including green cess on vehicles, environmental compensation from polluting industries, and penalties for regulatory violations. These revenues can be consolidated into a Pollution Mitigation and Compensation Fund. Additional sources could include congestion charges in high-traffic zones, higher fees on large real estate developments, and stricter fines on construction firms that violate dust-control norms. Those who contribute most to pollution should bear the cost of its social mitigation.

Beyond immediate compensation, such a policy would also strengthen environmental compliance. When workers are protected from income loss, resistance to pollution-control measures will also decline. Environmental regulation will become a shared responsibility rather than an imposed punishment. Over time, this approach can build public trust in pollution governance, which is currently eroded by perceptions of unfairness and elite insulation from consequences.In the longer term, Delhi must move towards cleaner construction technologies, year-round dust control enforcement, better urban planning, and formalisation of labour. But these structural reforms will take time. Until then, compensating workers during pollution-induced shutdowns is a matter of basic justice. Environmental policy that ignores inequality risks becoming morally hollow and politically fragile. Clean air should be a shared achievement, not one built on empty stomachs and silent suffering.

(Cover image generated using AI)

First published at LinkedIn on 22nd December 2025

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Gustaakh Ishq

December 29, 2025 Leave a comment

Genre: Romance | Year: 2025 | Duration: 128 mins | Director: Vibhu Puri |  Medium: Theatre (PVR Cinemas) | Trailer: HERE | Language: Hindi | Cast: Naseeruddin Shah, Vijay Varma, Fatima Shaikh, and others | My rating: 4/5

Favourite Dialogue: “जेब में कलम रखने से शायर नहीं बनते, कलम ज़ख्मों में रखनी पड़ती है”

Gustaakh Ishq evokes the spirit of mid-20th-century Urdu-Hindi cinema full of ‘mushaira’ evenings, old printing presses, dusty lanes and small towns of India, peeling walls, hearts heavy with memories, understated longing and emotional restraint. It is a romance steeped in nostalgia, where even silence has a voice. The film beautifully interweaves mood, texture and poetry. There are moments when the film feels like a delicate ghazal, which is slow, heartfelt, and rich in unspoken emotions. As one of the song’s shayari goes,

‘मेरा लहज़ा कैक्टस–सा खुरदुरा, तेरी बातें रात–रानी की तरह…’

Such lines, and many others woven through the film, give it a lyrical soul. The music with songs like ‘Ul Jalool Ishq’ and ‘Aap Is Dhoop Mein’ sprinkles the narrative with the charm and warmth of classic romance.

Set in the crumbling lanes of a North Indian town, the film’s lead character, Nawabuddin (Vijay Varma), a man desperate to save his late father’s printing press, seeks out an ageing, reclusive poet, Aziz Beg (Naseeruddin Shah), hoping to publish his forgotten poetry. Along the way, Nawabuddin becomes attracted to Aziz’s daughter Minni/Mannat (Fatima Sana Shaikh), and the old-world romance between generations, art and longing unfold.  Naseeruddin Shah is the emotional anchor of the film, and his character radiates dignity, nostalgia and weariness, carrying the weight of rueful regrets and mutable hope. Vijay Varma brings earnestness with his character’s love for verse and sincerity, offering a believable link across generations. And Fatima Sana Shaikh as Mannat becomes the soft heartbeat of the film.  

The film’s greatest strength lies in its texture and intimacy. The director’s gaze lingers lovingly on the details, creating a world that feels lived-in and emotionally honest. The cinematography does not chase beauty but rather discovers it in decay. The film is like a visual poem, which is its emotional backbone. Lines of poetry drift through the narrative like ghosts of feeling,

‘तुम्हारी ख़ामोशी भी एक इल्ज़ाम बन गई, और हम हर रोज़ खुद को दोषी पाते रहे’

Conversations are sparse, glances that linger a second too long, gestures left unfinished, words swallowed, this sensibility, where silence itself feels accusatory, defines the emotional climate of the film.

The performances of all the actors deserve special mention. Naseeruddin Shah brings a weary grace to the role of someone who has lived too much and lost too often. His eyes carry entire libraries of regret. Vijay Varma’s portrayal of Nawabuddin anchors the film with sincerity and his yearning to preserve art in a world that no longer cares feels achingly real. Mannat, a woman whose stillness hides tremors of rebellion, played by Fatima Sana Shaikh with quiet strength, is the film’s most layered character.

One of the most striking aspects of the film is how it treats love. This is not love as possession or dramatic union. This is love as distance, as restraint, as something that exists more powerfully in what is unsaid. In one of the film’s most beautiful moments, this sentiment finds voice,

‘हमने चाहा भी तो चाहने की गुस्ताख़ी न की, दिल दिया भी तो जताने की ग़लती न की’

The background score deserves credit, where the music does not intrude, but it hums like an old wound. Songs are well placed when emotions can no longer be contained by silence. Lyrics feel like extensions of the characters’ inner lives rather than commercial breaks. One such line captures the film’s aching spirit,

‘इश्क़ वो दरिया है जिसमें शोर नहीं होता, बस लहरें होती हैं, और हम डूबते रहते हैं’

Yet, for all its beauty, Gustakh Ishq is not without flaws. The screenplay sometimes confuses stillness with stagnation. Certain emotional turns are hinted at rather than explored, leaving the viewer wanting deeper psychological meaning. The bond between Nawabuddin and Minni, despite its lyrical foundation, sometimes feels emotionally underdeveloped in execution. Perhaps that is the nature of this film, as it is not designed to entertain as much as to envelop. It is more like a fog of memory and longing through which one must walk slowly. Another verse in the film captures this ethos perfectly,

‘कुछ रिश्ते किताबों जैसे होते हैं, शोर नहीं करते, बस चुपचाप समझा देते हैं’

For viewers used to fast-moving plots, clear romantic arcs, or dramatic catharsis, this film may feel meandering, slow, and even frustrating. The pacing demands patient acceptance of nuance, subtle gestures, and quiet sorrow. For those willing to surrender to its rhythm and appreciate the small pauses, soft glances, whispered verses and the ache between two silences, it offers genuine beauty.

If you appreciate cinema that smells of old books, handwritten letters, melancholic poetry and tender regret, and if you believe that sometimes love doesn’t demand grand gestures but hushed confession, the kind of love that bruises quietly rather than bleeding loudly, then this film will likely stay with you.

(For my love for Hindi-Urdu poetry, I ended up sprinkling this review with some poetry from the film in Hindi (Devanagari) script)

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Tere Ishk Mein

December 15, 2025 Leave a comment

Genre: Romance | Year: 2025 | Duration: 167 mins | Director: Anand L Rai |  Medium: Theatre (PVR Cinemas) | Trailer: HERE | Language: Hindi | Cast: Dhanush, Kriti Sanon, and others | My rating: 4/5

Favourite Dialogue: “Prem mein mrityu hai, mukti nahin”

I have a fascination with morbid romance, where passion is fierce and consuming, love and ruin walk hand in hand, and loss feels almost sacred. After a long time, I totally enjoyed a Bollywood film, Tere Ishk Mein, for its feverish, fractured, and fearless ode to obsessive love and loss. Anand Rai, as Director, and Dhanush and Kriti Sanon as actors have so beautifully portrayed the volatile landscape of love, messy and irrational, dark and bruised. It is a film that is less about romance and far more curious about what happens when love mutates, dissolves boundaries, and begins to reshape identity itself.

The film centres around Raghu (Dhanush), a young man navigating the emotional ruins of unrequited affection. His world is small, ordinary, burning with relentless restlessness, textured with the familiar lanes of Rai’s cinematic universe. When he falls in love with Mukti (Kriti Sanon), it is with the conviction of a man who sees devotion as delusional destiny. Dhanush’s performance is a masterclass. His portrayal of longing, with shoulders slightly slumped, eyes rimmed with unspoken ache, voice cracking in the in-between spaces of sentences, is brilliant. He brings a fragile humanity that compels empathy even when the character’s choices spiral into moral greyness. There are moments when Raghu’s yearning feels suffocating, and moments when it feels heroic. In several scenes, especially those dealing with solitude and heartbreak, the camera lingers on his face with cruel intimacy. He allows vulnerability to show across the frame, leaving behind emotional aftershocks.

The film’s leading lady, Mukti (Kriti Sanon), is a girl caught between affection, caution, and the burden of societal expectations. She is real, flawed, and aware of her own contradictions. Her emotional arc of moving from curiosity to confusion to a painful clarity is one of the more grounded aspects of the film. What stands out is that Mukti is not a passive recipient of Raghu’s affection. She pushes back, speaks for herself, asserts her boundaries, and refuses to become a prop for his emotional turbulence. In many ways, her character reminded me that intensity does not equal righteousness.

Rai’s filmmaking has always been rooted in the everyday—narrow streets, chaotic homes, lived-in locations where life unfolds in all its contradictions. In Tere Ishk Mein, he retains this aesthetic but adds a layer of psychological depth. His director truly excels in designing silences. Some of the best moments in the film are those where nothing is said: an unfinished sentence, a doorway half-shut, a glance held for one second too long. These are the moments when the film transcends melodrama and ventures into introspection.

What distinguishes this film from typical love stories is its willingness to confront the darker territories of attachment. The film does not glorify suffering, nor does it portray persistence as virtue. Instead, it presents a sobering reality that love can be transformative, but it can also be corrosive if it becomes entitlement.The climax, which is raw, unsettling and necessary, is where the film truly earns its place. It is neither triumphant nor tragic in a conventional sense. Rather, it is painfully truthful. It is a rare mainstream film that lets discomfort linger. A must-watch if you enjoy a turbulent exploration of love.

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Fabric of Resilience in Assam

December 8, 2025 1 Comment

I witnessed women weaving change in the villages of Assam through their skills, cultural heritage, hard work, perseverance, and collective will. Standing in a courtyard in Kamrup district, watching a woman at her traditional loom, I was struck by how quietly revolutionary this simple, everyday act truly is. The rhythmic motion of her hands, the steady concentration on her face, and the vibrant threads stretching across the loom were far more than craft; they were a statement of agency, identity, and economic empowerment. In that moment, it became clear that weaving in Assam is not merely a livelihood. It is a living narrative of resilience and progress, written by women who have refused to be left behind.

In much of rural India, the conversation around women’s empowerment often centres on what needs to be ‘given’ to women: access, opportunities, rights, financial inclusion, and public safety. All of these are undeniably essential. Yet what struck me in Kamrup was how much women were already giving to their families, to their communities, and to the preservation of an age-old cultural tradition. Assam’s weaving heritage is legendary, and most rural households have a loom. The women I met weave not only exquisite textiles like Mekhela Chadors, Gamosas, stoles, saris, but also new pathways for themselves, stitch by stitch.

The woman in the photograph, Jonali Das, from Paschim Bagta village, sits on a traditional handloom, made using local materials, framed by a raw brick wall and a sandy earthen floor. Nothing in this setting reflects modern machinery or industrialized production. Yet it reflects something far more important: dignity in work and pride in cultural identity. Her loom is more than a tool; it is a symbol of continuity. Generations of Assamese women have learned to weave from their mothers and grandmothers. The craft is deeply entwined with rituals, festivals, and the wider cultural ethos of the region. In many communities, a girl’s weaving skill is a marker of her readiness for adulthood. It is a quiet but powerful form of cultural education.

But the picture also reveals another truth: despite the beauty and value of these textiles, most weavers earn very little. The informal nature of the craft, the lack of organized supply chains, exploitative middlemen, limited access to raw materials at fair prices, and the absence of direct market linkages keep them trapped in low-income cycles. The fact that such a skilled craftswoman is working in a semi-open shed with bare tools is a reminder that heritage alone cannot sustain livelihoods unless the systems that support them evolve.

What struck me during conversations with the weavers was their clarity. They were not seeking charity. They were asking for fair access to better looms, training on contemporary designs, consistent market demand, and opportunities to sell directly. Their ask was not a transformation from the outside, but an enabling ecosystem that amplifies what they already excel at.

Local institutions like cooperatives, women’s self-help groups, producer companies, and artisan clusters play a pivotal role in negotiating prices, ensuring raw material supply, and aggregating products for larger orders. In Kamrup, I saw tremendous potential for women-led collectives that could own the entire value chain, from sourcing raw silk yarn of Eri and Muga to designing contemporary designs to managing logistics with digital tools. A decentralized, community-owned model would allow profits to remain in the village while giving weavers a bargaining voice.

There is also an urgent need to tell the stories behind these weaves. Consumers today increasingly seek authenticity, sustainability, and connection. Assam’s handloom sector embodies all three. Each Mekhela Chador woven on a traditional loom is not just a garment; it is hours of meticulous labour, generations of inherited technique, and the cultural soul of a community. Yet the lack of branding and storytelling often reduces these textiles to mere commodities. If India can celebrate Banarasi silk and Kanchipuram saris globally, there is no reason why Assam’s weaves cannot enjoy similar recognition, with the right investment, visibility campaigns, and market linkages.

Government programs like the National Handloom Development Programme and Deendayal Upadhyaya Grameen Kaushal Yojana have made efforts to support weavers. But ground realities show that the most impactful interventions are those that engage women directly, respect their lived knowledge, and co-create solutions rather than imposing them. Capacity building must happen in their language, in their community spaces, and at timings suitable to their daily responsibilities.

Most importantly, the narrative around rural women must shift. Too often, they are portrayed as vulnerable, needing rescue. The woman in the photograph, and countless others like her, are not symbols of vulnerability, but are symbols of strength. They run households, care for children and the elderly, manage farms, participate in community activities, and still take out time to weave. Their contribution to the rural economy is enormous, even though much of it remains invisible and unpaid.

As I watched the fabric slowly take shape on her loom, I realised that weaving is also an act of hope. Every thread layered over another is a gesture of belief in tomorrow, belief that their craft will survive, that their daughters will inherit both the skill and the opportunity to thrive, and that their labour will be valued fairly. If India is to build a truly inclusive development story, it must begin by recognising and uplifting such women, not through charity, but through partnership.

In the villages of Assam, women are already weaving change. They only need the rest of us to stop standing on the sidelines and start supporting the revolution they have begun.

(Cover Image: Jonali Das, Pashchim Bagta village, Kamrup rural, Assam)

First published on 20th November 2025 on LinkedIn

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