What ‘bulldozer justice’ looks like from the driver’s seat

Every time a brick falls to the ground, Dheeraj Ankushe’s heart registers a tiny, agonised explosion. Thud-boom, thud-boom, thud-boom. It’s a dreadful, staccato rhythm.“It’s killing,” the 30-year-old bulldozer operator employed by the Kalyan-Dombivli Municipal Corporation (KDMC) says of his job. “At night, the faces return — wailing mothers, screaming children clutching their toys as walls collapse around them.” Their voices sometimes echo in his dreams, reducing him to tears. “But despite all this, for the sake of my family’s livelihood, I have to do my job.”Bulldozer justice. So often these days, one almost believes it’s the law of the land, the machines glamourised — emblazoned across T-shirts in poll-bound states, fluttering on the thin paper of kites during festivals — as they go about their business like purposeful tanks in battle.They haven’t stopped despite the Supreme Court’s frequent frownings, which recently even declared that demolishing homes without due process is “totally unconstitutional”, and on April 1 chastised the Prayagraj Development Authority for illegally razing the houses of six families in Uttar Pradesh, describing the move as “inhuman”. medium119939389Obeying ordersYet, when the orders come, men must execute them — the ones who sit like silhouettes behind the glass of roaring yellow machines, their damning actions forever etched in the memories of those who watch their homes disappear and merge in billowing mounds of dust.“Many times, I have had to demolish homes where families were still living. I knew I would be disrupting their entire lives. I have seen people crying. Senior citizens and children most desperately so. Those moments stay with me for a while — until another assignment takes over,” says Ankushe.He tells himself that his work is essential for a “better future of the city” — whether through road widening or removal of structures that hinder development. There is consolation in that.“Often, we demolish structures to build gardens or broaden streets. When my family sees the change, they understand. ‘Oh, this is why he does what he does’. The problem happens when there are poor people involved, who have nowhere to go,” he says.Mehar Baksh Shaikh knows that feeling only too well. A bulldozer man with the Brihanmumbai Municipal Corporation (BMC) since 2006, the 40-year-old says, “Orders need to be followed. My job is to operate the excavator and carry out demolitions according to my seniors’ instructions. BMC officials ensure all norms are followed. Our officers adhere to rules.”But no matter how well he sticks to edicts, tearing down dwellings of the impoverished is a burden his heart finds unbearably heavy to heave. He knows their pain — because he lives it. Shaikh resides in a slum area in Sakinaka with his family.“It is terrible to destroy homes, especially in slum areas. The sound of women weeping and lamenting, the shattering of kitchen vessels, the thought of lives tossed up in the air in an instant — it’s all so hard to take. But what choice do we have? If it’s illegal, it’s illegal,” he says.Shaikh has seen the desperation firsthand. “People build houses on public land because they have nowhere else to go. Our country is drowning in poverty. Families are living on footpaths, beneath bridges. They deserve rehabilitation,” says the father of three. medium119939682Call of dutyFor 32-year-old Mukesh Patil, though, it’s nothing personal. Orders come and go. It’s business as usual. Considered the Nagpur Municipal Corporation (NMC)’s most trusted operator, he says he is given the location of a demolition site just 15 minutes before he starts the mission. He’s off after that.That’s what happened on March 24, a week after violence erupted in Maharashtra following protests demanding removal of Aurangzeb’s tomb. Patil’s phone rang. As usual, he had 15 minutes to report to Sanjay Bagh Colony. Expecting a routine anti-encroachment drive, he arrived at 9am, only to find dozens of police personnel in riot gear, flanked by reporters and television crews. This was no ordinary operation.Before Patil stood a towering double-storey structure — home of the main accused in the riots, Fahim Khan. His machine stuttered and rolled. The operation began at exactly 10.40am. The second-floor windows shattered first, then the walls caved in, piece by piece. As cameras captured the event, Patil soon reduced the mansion to a graveyard of debris. In two hours, what had once stood as an imposing residence was gone. By 12.50pm, Khan’s apartment had been flattened — 100sq m of tiny concrete and fractured memories. Patil has nerves of steel.Far away in Uttar Pradesh, Devender Singh, 35, doesn’t. The bulldozer operator with the Bareilly Development Authority (BDA) admits he is shaken to the core during and after each assignment. “My hands tremble,” he tells TOI, speaking softly. “Every time I bring down a home, it happens. Because I know the immense effort that goes into building one. I don’t feel guilty when we demolish a criminal’s house, but what about the family? There are members who have nothing to do with a crime.”Singh recalls a “haunting moment” from March 2022 when he was ordered to level a building that had stood for decades. “Behind me, officials were yelling at us to hurry, while in front of me stood a hysterical woman, begging us to stop. I had no choice but to suppress my emotions but, inside, I felt hollow,” he says.Since that year, Singh has been part of 1,200 demolitions. It hasn’t got any better for him. While some experiences have faded from memory, others, like the bawling mother pleading with him to turn away, refuse to leave him. medium nocaptionhttps://nr.fatv8.com/3sw658_7hzteqpqoj/1ka_qIpjOognnN?2qxpm=8qrGbgeu02odF8kaQD1Hyysbowtqeoh hazardsThere is danger, too. Rage is inevitable. Those affected block bulldozers, climb onto them, and even attack the vehicles. When tensions flare, Ankushe shuts the glass windows of his bulldozer, trying to drown out the verbal abuse.Such protests occasionally escalate into violence, resulting in injuries. “I have been wounded by glass shards when people threw stones and shattered the windscreen of my excavator once,” Shaikh says.That aspect of their occupation brings bulldozer operators to one common grievance. Given the risks they face and the demanding nature of their profession, salaries are barely commensurate. Ankushe, who works on a contract basis, earns between ₹18,000 and ₹30,000 per month. After his father’s death, he is now the sole earning member of his family.Patil, despite being crowned NMC’s “most trusted operator” for carrying out complex demolitions, says he earns ₹12,600 a month.Bulldozer operators TOI spoke to in Uttar Pradesh said that unless they work independently, they are all employed by civic bodies on a contractual basis, earning on an average ₹500 per day for 10 hours. It can go up if the target to be pulled down is “abnormally big”, like a multi-storeyed building.In Bulandshahr, one of them says, “I’m on a one-year contract with the civic authorities and earn ₹2,000 per hour for a building. But the money we get for demolishing a home is dirty money. I donate it — as a form of penance.”In all this, there are men like Sumit Patel in Bareilly, who have steadfastly refused to participate in demolitions. Patel bought his own machine a year ago and has rejected police requests to obliterate homes.“By God’s grace, I have plenty of work. There is no need to play with my conscience. My machine has never touched a house or a shop. I cannot snatch away the roof over someone’s head, no matter how the government justifies it,” he says.