Hyderabad: In the narrow lanes of a small town in Telangana where the scent of dried tendu leaves lingers in the air, Adlagatta Gangadhar, now a 59-year-old headmaster and renowned abacus teacher, recalls his childhood—not with bitterness, but with quiet pride.
“I was five or six when I started helping my mother roll beedis,” he says. “I used to cut the leaves, tie the threads, and bundle them into neat stacks. That was our life from morning till night.”
Like millions of beedi workers across India, his mother earned a few rupees a day, often less than Rs 150 after hours of manual labour. “It was my mother’s sacrifice, her sweat and silent suffering, that allowed me to dream,” Gangadhar says, emotion evident in his voice. Today, he is not only a respected primary school headmaster but has also carved a niche as one of the best abacus instructors in the region. “All of this,” he adds, “was made possible because of the strength of a woman who never went to school but ensured I never missed a day of it.”
The Beedi Workers: Invisible Yet Indispensable
A Ministry of Labour and Employment press release dated March 17 states that 49.82 lakh (4.98 million) beedi workers are officially registered, most of whom are women. In states like West Bengal, Madhya Pradesh, Andhra Pradesh, and Tamil Nadu, entire families are engaged in the industry — rolling hundreds of beedis a day for as little as Rs 150 to 200. In comparison, a construction labourer earns Rs 350–500 for the same work hours, often with greater legal protections and access to formal welfare.
Beedi workers operate primarily from their homes, receiving raw materials from middlemen and returning finished bundles, often without formal contracts or worker protections. Child labour, though technically banned, remains a grim reality as children assist parents to meet quotas.
“Beedi work traps generations,” says a local activist from a welfare NGO. “Without education and alternative livelihood opportunities, most children end up repeating the cycle.”
Gangadhar broke that cycle. He remembers a time when a scholarship of Rs 8–12 made the difference between buying a book or going without. “Even that felt like a fortune,” he says with a smile.
His story is rare, but not singular. In every rolled beedi lies a story — of struggle, of sacrifice, and, sometimes, of silent, extraordinary triumph.