Gravediggers live with stigma, poverty, and health risks, yet remain unrecognised by the state and society.
Written by Parsi Tariq
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Srinagar: “People will stop eating with me if they know I do this,” said Zubair (21, name changed), a gravedigger from Baramulla. “They won’t sit next to me.”
Zubair dropped out of school in Class 10. After his father’s death, his uncle, also a gravedigger, asked him for help.
“At first I used to cry while digging. I felt scared. But now I feel numb. I just want to be paid enough to go back to college someday.”
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On a good day, he earns Rs 500 to Rs 1,000 for a burial. But he refuses to call himself a gravedigger.
The label, he said, would ruin his chances of having friends, or even of finding a wife.
Stigma and silence
Ghulam Mohammad Dar (56), who has been digging graves since he was a teenager, explained what Zubair means.
“We bury the dead with our bare hands, wet dirt, rotting wood, sometimes even blood. No one gives us gloves, no one gives us masks. People don’t care about us, and neither does the government.”
For many, grave digging is only one part of survival. Most work as daily-wage labourers, carpenters, painters, or butchers to feed their families. Teenage boys often assist their fathers or brothers. “If I had to live only on grave digging, my children would starve,” Dar said.
The stigma pushes many to work outside their own villages. A man from Ganderbal digs in a neighbouring district to avoid being recognised. “Some people keep it quiet if they know, others make it a huge topic of gossip,” he said.
Another gravedigger from Pulwama explained why he refused to be identified: “If you print my name, people will stop inviting me to weddings. They will think I bring misfortune. Who will marry into our family after that?”
Not everyone, however, views the work with resentment.
Bilal Lone (40) from Anantnag called it ibadat or prayer.
“Digging a grave is the last service one can offer another human. Even if I’m not paid, I do it for Allah.” Still, he admitted, “People often tell their children to stay away from me. Even in the mosque, some move a little farther if they know I just came from a burial.”
Risks without recognition
Gravediggers, however, have more to worry about than social shame.
According to Dr Farhaan ul Hassan of Sher-i-Kashmir Institute of Medical Sciences, gravediggers face occupational hazards including falls, cuts, bruises, dust allergies, exhaustion, and exposure to decomposing bodies.
“Without protective equipment, long-term exposure leads to chronic respiratory illnesses, fungal infections, joint problems,” he said. “They should have gloves, masks, posture training, vaccinations against tetanus and hepatitis, and regular medical check-ups. But they get none of this.”
Unrecognised as formal workers, gravediggers are invisible to state healthcare. There are no medical cards, no insurance, no safety training.
Nighat Jan, a Village Level Worker in Singhpora-Baramulla, said that while sanitation workers and other essential staff received some acknowledgment during the pandemic, gravediggers remained unseen.
“There is no government support for them. Not even basic tools. Society sees them as people who bring death, as if speaking to them brings misfortune. It’s not just a lack of policy, it’s a lack of dignity,” she said.
Tariq Ahmad, president of a mosque committee in Habak, Srinagar, added: “They are not paid by the Waqf Board or the government. The family of the deceased hands over money, sometimes Rs 500, sometimes Rs 1,000, directly into their hands. They even buy their own tools.”
Forgotten
When 101Reporters met Dar he was preparing for the next funeral. “We are always ready,” he said. “It doesn’t matter if it’s raining or snowing, people want their dead buried.”
But, once the grave is covered, he walks away unrecognised, uncelebrated, invisible, until the next death.
For locals like Fayaz (34), a shopkeeper from Hazratbal, this invisibility is disturbing. “I grew up friends with my neighbour, a gravedigger. It is strange how society treats them as if they don’t exist. Why aren’t they recognised in government employment lists? Not even an ID card. What if they get injured during work? No one even knows their names.”
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In Habak, locals estimate that three to four men work as gravediggers. In Budgam and Baramulla, the numbers are similar, with each locality relying on a handful of regular diggers.
Waiting for recognition
Gravediggers told 101Reporters they have lived with these problems for decades, but poverty and lack of social standing prevent them from raising demands. “We can’t afford to leave work to protest or go to government offices,” said Dar. “We are already looked down upon. No one will fight for us.”
There is no fixed institution that pays them, and no union to represent their interests. “We tried to talk to the masjid committee two or three times,” Dar said. “But no one responded. We are poor, we don’t have connections. We don’t even know who to approach in the government.”
A panchayat member from Baramulla, speaking on condition of anonymity, confirmed there are still no schemes or budget allocations for gravediggers. “We know their condition, but without a policy from higher authorities, we can’t give them salaries or benefits.”
In a rare move, the Habak mosque committee is planning to appoint one gravedigger officially and pay him monthly. “Since each locality sees only three or four deaths a month, one is enough,” said Ahmad. “This is the least we can do for someone doing such sacred work.”
He added: “Everyone should know how to dig a grave at least once. When people see this work as holy, not shameful, maybe those who do it every day will stop being treated as outsiders.”
For many gravediggers, though, the future remains uncertain. “It is not the digging,” said Adil Bhat. “It is the way people look at me after.”
(Parsa Tariq is a freelance journalist and a member of 101 Reporters, a pan-India network of grassroots reporters)