By Rincy Roy
A Glance Into The Lives Of Workers With Bite-Sized Stories From Factories, Homes & Communities. This edition shares one team member’s reflections from conversations with women in Ambur, Tamil Nadu’s leather hub — stories of hard work and endurance where low wages, long hours, and few choices shape life, yet quiet resilience carries them forward
My work is mostly administrative, at the office – writing emails, coordinating, managing spreadsheets. When I was asked to organise a field visit for colleagues to Ambur, the leather manufacturing hub in Tamil Nadu, I saw a chance to step out from office and see the lives behind the data we work with.
Ambur, in northern Tamil Nadu, is famous for leather – tanning, shoemaking, export. From sophisticated leather goods factories employing hundreds of workers, medium-sized tanneries with dozens of workers, to home-based workshops with women involved in production, Ambur leather scene is hard to miss. However, the working conditions are far from ideal. Cividep’s research report ‘Threadbare: Working Conditions at South Indian Leather-based Workplaces,’ point to low wages, long hours, insecure employment without contracts, and limited access to social security.
As we entered the town around 5:30 in the evening, we passed a stretch of tanneries and shoe factories lined along the road. Women poured out of the gates in clusters, wearing coloured coats that marked which factory they worked in. Some walked long distances to bus stops; others squeezed into shared autorickshaws. The air was heavy with the stench from the tanneries – a smell that lingered. I wondered how anyone could live and work in it every day. But perhaps, for them, it has become a part of life.
The next morning, we met a group of women who work in these factories. At first, it looked like a picture of empowerment: women earning wages, being visible in the workforce, having economic opportunities, and independence. But as they spoke, some of that illusion faded quickly. Their stories echoed each other: low pay, high pressure, little rest. The workday stretches endlessly; even bathroom breaks come at a cost.
One woman said quietly: “There is safety equipment, but we use it only when audits happen. There are committees (work committees, internal committees), but we don’t know what they do for us. There are canteens, but we don’t use them. There are toilets, but we don’t have time to go.” Another added: “If we miss making a few pieces while on a bathroom break, we get scolded. We have to finish the work even if we skip lunch.”
Most of them were second-generation workers. Their mothers had worked in the same factories, and some of their children do too now. One woman told us she hides the hardships of her job from her family because she doesn’t want them to stop her from working or worse, to lose this only source of income. She doesn’t want her children to end up in factories like these.
Factory work is critical in Ambur. For women who haven’t had opportunities for education, it is often the only viable source of income. Many do not share the hardships they face for fear of being barred from working. The factory closures during the 2020 pandemic were a harsh reminder of their vulnerability: jobs vanished overnight, and even after reopening, many women were not called back. By then, most were already in debt, struggling to keep their households afloat, with few alternatives to turn to.
We also met home-based workers. Their bright smiles, warm demeanour, and brightly coloured houses contrasted sharply with the struggles they described. “Thank you for listening. Our relatives also do not have time to listen to our struggles, thank you for coming,” said a home-based worker warmly.