NEW DELHI: In the narrow, sun-scorched lanes of Bhalswa, the towering landfill looms like a grotesque monument to Delhi’s indifference. Rising nearly as high as a 15-storey building, the dump does more than dominate the skyline—it suffocates daily life.
The health crisis has never left, even after the pandemic. Respiratory issues, constant headaches, and recurring fevers are everyday realities, especially for a 46-year-old resident, Latifa, who sorts through the landfill’s debris to earn ₹300 a day. “My head and eyes hurt the whole time I work,” she says. A large portion of her wages goes towards medicine. When illness keeps her home, what little she’s saved vanishes into treatment.
For Bhalswa’s residents, COVID-19 wasn’t just a health crisis—it was the tipping point that snatched away futures. Education came to a standstill, incomes dried up, and the virus crept through with ease in the tight-knit lanes where social distancing was an impossible luxury.
“I wanted my daughters to study at least one more year,” says Latifa, her voice heavy with resignation. “But during the lockdown, I had no choice. I married them off after Class 11.” Her regret is a familiar echo in a community forced to make impossible decisions between survival and aspiration.
At 23, Suraya juggles motherhood and survival. “We’ve gotten used to the pollution,” she shrugs.
“Water comes only if we complain. Sometimes, 20 litres isn’t enough for my family of three.” In Delhi’s blistering summer, that shortage becomes a silent emergency.
As trucks roll in and machinery hums toward the landfill’s eventual flattening, the community beneath it waits for clean air, clean water, and a future that doesn’t stink of rot. Will they be relocated? Rehabilitated? Or forgotten as the garbage mountain shrinks?
The Delhi government has pledged to clear the landfill by March 2026.
Environment Minister Manjinder Singh Sirsa claims progress—its height has come down from 60 metres to 53. But, for now, Bhalswa breathes—barely.