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Time of India
4 days ago
- Business
- Time of India
Janpath: A people's path now forgotten
If somebody writes an epitaph to Sangita, it should be headlined 'Happy Soul'. Nothing fazes her. No challenge is too big. A fan of James Bond's 'never say die' spirit, just like him she thrives on adrenalin rush as she fields every curveball life throws her way. Sangita is a person with multiple disabilities. A patient of Spinal Muscular Atrophy (SMA), Sangita is a wheelchair user and hearing aids user. For the past 10 years, she has been whizzing past life in a wheelchair, notching professional milestones. She believes nothing is insurmountable, certainly not limitations imposed by disabilities. Sangita has three decades of experience in the media, content and communications industry across verticals and industries. She has been associated with the development and disability sector and featured in the first Directory of Development Journalists in India published by the PII. She has also functioned as a media representative of the Rehabilitation Council of India and has conducted various S&A programmes for bureaucrats. Sangita is the founder of Ashtavakra Accessibility Solutions Private Limited, a social enterprise dedicated to the inclusion of the disabled. LESS ... MORE The history of Janpath is older than you or me. Older than modern Delhi itself, in some ways. Once the beating heart of Lutyens' Delhi, Janpath was more than a road—it was a rhythm. A pulsating, living artery of craft, culture, and commerce that brought together locals, domestic tourists, international backpackers, and curious drifters, all drawn to its kinetic charm. If Delhi was a body, Janpath was the nerve that lit it up. The name Janpath—literally, The People's Path—wasn't just poetic branding. It was an ethos. In a city known for high walls, power corridors, and social silos, Janpath was democratic. You could be a diplomat's daughter or a first-time traveller with a shoestring budget, and you'd still end up sipping cold coffee from Depaul's and buying a pair of handmade earrings from a Rajasthani vendor who'd swear they were silver. Everyone bargained. Everyone lingered. Everyone returned. Before it became Janpath, the road was part of Queen's Way during the British Raj, constructed as a ceremonial boulevard alongside the grand Central Vista. But while Rajpath (now Kartavya Path) stayed tethered to officialdom, its sister street—Janpath—broke free. It became the people's republic of small pleasures. Each kiosk on Janpath was a time capsule of regional identity. Gujarat sent its mirrorwork. Kashmir sent its pashmina. Nagaland sent beads and cane. Rajasthan sent block prints. West Bengal sent terracotta. Everything that you'd otherwise need to travel the country to collect—Janpath brought it all to one crowded street. It was India's pop-up museum of the handmade, the homespun, the street-smart. My association with Delhi—and with Janpath—is older than I am. My parents lived in Delhi in the '60s, and we returned each year during the school holidays. Some of my earliest memories involve the scent of sandalwood wafting through the stalls, the gleam of copper bells, the feel of cotton kurtis hanging loosely on metal rods, and the sound of languages—so many languages—mingling in the air. Later, as a student at Delhi University, Janpath became a ritual. A midweek escape. A happy place. We'd hop on a bus with 20 rupees in our pockets and the whole day ahead. Wandering. Laughing. Browsing. Then ending the day with a snack from a nondescript joint or a creamy cold coffee from Depaul's, which, like Janpath itself, seemed to never change. Years later, as Managing Editor of India Now, the India Brand Equity Foundation's flagship publication, I had the chance to walk those lanes again—but this time professionally. I was reporting a feature story on legacy markets of Delhi and their role in India's cultural soft power. Naturally, Janpath was on the list. I retraced my steps through the market, unearthing generational tales from each store. It was a walk down memory lane—with a journalist's notepad in hand. Stories of a grandfather or great-grandfather setting up shop when the market came up, of ministers' wives and international dignitaries in search of 'authentic India', and of tourists from across the world came pouring out. It took me several visits to Janpath to piece their stories. I remember scribbling notes furiously while sipping Depaul's iconic coffee and thinking: this place deserves to be on the world map. But something had already started to slip even then. The store owners also spoke of declining footsteps and revenue. Then came the silence. Not the silence of nostalgia, but of absence. My sojourns to Janpath ended abruptly when I became a wheelchair user. A broken footpath, a single step, a crowded walkway—these small obstacles become walls when you move on wheels. Inaccessibility crept in like a slow disease. Not because Janpath had changed all at once, but because the city hadn't cared to change with me. Delhi has always had a complicated relationship with accessibility—beautiful on the surface, brutal beneath it. And yet, my love endured. Like many things in life, it became long-distance. I'd drive by Janpath just to feel close. I'd leave the engine running while my driver dashed into Depaul's for my regular. I'd sit parked illegally, scanning for traffic cops, heart swelling with the familiar noise and scent of that place. A fragment of a former routine—but one that kept the memory alive. Because Janpath was still alive. Until it wasn't. I visited recently. I wheeled in with hope—and yes, I ended up shopping. I found those handcrafted juttis you never find online. I haggled over oxidized jewellery. I tried on funky trendy and dirt cheap shades at the same stall I'd known all my life. It was a hot, muggy day, but the joy was real. And I still ended the visit with a cold coffee, thick with nostalgia and slightly over-sweet. But something had shifted. The iconic bookstore in Janpath's cul-de-sac corner–now a closed chapter. Several stalls—gone. Whole sections—dusty, dirty and dead. Piles of garbage waiting forlornly. Janpath now wears decay like a borrowed coat. The grit that once gave it character now just feels like neglect. What was once a wild, colourful jungle of creativity now feels like a museum no one curates. A place caught between its legacy and its future, waiting for someone to care. A makeover is no longer a matter of taste—it's a matter of survival. Because cities have short memories, and public spaces don't preserve themselves. Once lost, Janpath won't come back in the same form. And if we're not careful, we'll wake up one day to find it replaced by some sanitised arcade that sells nothing handmade, tells no stories, and caters to no one except global brands and real estate profits. And accessibility? Perish the thought. Someone has attempted a tactile path—but it's as if the contractor installed it with their eyes closed. It winds awkwardly through the market—starting nowhere, ending nowhere. It loops awkwardly around obstacles, and ends in a dead end – a closed door literally. A tragicomic token gesture, more insult than inclusion. It's not just about wheelchair access; it's about dignity. About making sure everyone can participate in the city's pleasures. We can wait a little longer for Sugamya Bharat. But can we at least get a Swachh Bharat in the meantime? Clean streets. Working drains. Thoughtful footpaths. Basic respect. Janpath was never about perfection. It was about possibility. About bumping into strangers, discovering something unexpected, and walking away with more than you bargained for. It was—and still can be—a space where culture is lived, not just displayed. Today, it stands on the edge. Beloved Janpath, I rue your ruin. But I haven't given up on you yet. You gave us so much—memories, music, mayhem, and meaning. You were our informal embassy of Indian identity. A market of the people. A street of stories. Thank you—for a happy day. For many happy days. Nostalgia works like dopamine. But preservation works like love. Let's show Janpath some. Before it's too late. Facebook Twitter Linkedin Email Disclaimer Views expressed above are the author's own.
Time of India
09-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Time of India
Marriage for persons with disabilities: A choice, not a financial incentive
If somebody writes an epitaph to Sangita, it should be headlined 'Happy Soul'. Nothing fazes her. No challenge is too big. A fan of James Bond's 'never say die' spirit, just like him she thrives on adrenalin rush as she fields every curveball life throws her way. Sangita is a person with multiple disabilities. A patient of Spinal Muscular Atrophy (SMA), Sangita is a wheelchair user and hearing aids user. For the past 10 years, she has been whizzing past life in a wheelchair, notching professional milestones. She believes nothing is insurmountable, certainly not limitations imposed by disabilities. Sangita has three decades of experience in the media, content and communications industry across verticals and industries. She has been associated with the development and disability sector and featured in the first Directory of Development Journalists in India published by the PII. She has also functioned as a media representative of the Rehabilitation Council of India and has conducted various S&A programmes for bureaucrats. Sangita is the founder of Ashtavakra Accessibility Solutions Private Limited, a social enterprise dedicated to the inclusion of the disabled. LESS ... MORE Before saying 'Yes,' I had one clear condition: the decision had to be free from pity or mere romantic idealism. Love alone wasn't enough—it had to be grounded in the profound understanding of my progressive condition and everything it could mean. Twenty-two years later, I'm grateful I held firm. Today, my marriage is rock-solid because it's built on true companionship, unwavering support, and deep mutual understanding—not monetary incentives or societal pressures. However, that is not the story for the majority of people with disabilities. In India, where marriage is often seen as a societal milestone, persons with disabilities (PwDs) face unique challenges in finding partners due to pervasive ableism and societal stigma. To address this, several state governments have introduced marriage incentive schemes aimed at encouraging the union of PwDs. I find this deeply concerning. Currently, 19 Indian states offer such incentives, and charitable organisations regularly conduct mass marriages providing one-time financial support. Although well-intentioned, these practices risk commodifying marriage, mirroring dowry systems, and fostering relationships that may falter once incentives run out. While these schemes may seem beneficial on the surface, a deeper examination reveals complexities that question their efficacy and ethical implications. The landscape of marriage incentive schemes Firstly, there is no conformity in the various marriage incentive schemes. For instance, Kerala provides a one-time assistance of Rs 30,000 to disabled women or daughters of disabled parents, while Haryana offers Rs 51,000 if both spouses are disabled. These schemes differ not only in monetary value but also in eligibility criteria, reflecting a lack of uniformity and clear objectives. Further, these incentives inadvertently mirror the dowry system by attaching monetary value to the marriage of PwDs. Critics argue that this commodification can perpetuate harmful stereotypes, suggesting that financial compensation is necessary to make a PwD 'marriageable.' Another strong criticism centres on the disability model these schemes are based on. Clearly, marriage incentive schemes fall within the charity model of disability, which views PwDs as dependents requiring aid, rather than as individuals with rights and autonomy. This perspective undermines the principles of the Rights of Persons with Disabilities Act, 2016, which emphasises equality and non-discrimination. Marriage in the absence of enabling infrastructure that promotes quality education, employment, independence of PwDs, is at best compounding the very challenges that they struggle with—especially when both partners are persons with disabilities. They will continue to face the same systemic barriers that hinder their social inclusion. Hence, without tackling these root causes, financial incentives do little to address the issues and offer only a superficial and temporary solution. Diverse perspectives within the community Even within the disability community, the opinions are diametrically opposite. Some individuals, particularly in rural areas, view the incentives as supportive measures that acknowledge their desire for companionship and family life, as highlighted in a recent article by a disability rights advocate ( However, urban disability activists often critique these schemes for perpetuating dependency and failing to promote genuine empowerment. In my view, while it is important to acknowledge the desire for companionship and family life, a marriage based on financial incentive runs the risk of denying both unless backed by individual understanding of what a union between/with PwDs entails. Marriages involving disability—particularly between disabled and non-disabled partners—require enduring empathy, patience, and commitment. Disabled women, in particular, often face heightened vulnerability in marriage, needing genuine, ongoing emotional and physical support from partners and families. This vulnerability is further amplified by patriarchal expectations that often place unrealistic burdens on disabled women while denying them autonomy and respect. The problem with mass marriages Mass marriages organised by charitable organisations raise additional concerns. These events may appear supportive on the surface, but they often bypass critical aspects such as informed consent, compatibility, and long-term agency. When conducted at scale with financial incentives, they risk reducing the institution of marriage to a symbolic gesture rather than a meaningful, informed choice. The optics of charity further dilute the focus on autonomy and dignity. Towards empowerment and autonomy True empowerment demands systemic change, better infrastructure, accessible education and employment, and comprehensive pre-marital counselling to ensure informed choices. Instead of adopting the charity model towards marriage of PwDs, the governments must focus on bringing about the much-needed 360-degree pivot in their approach towards PwDs. Firstly, invest in accessible infrastructure and services to enable independent living, rather than making charitable doles under various incentives. Secondly, promote education and employment that could create opportunities for PwDs, leading to financial independence and self-sufficiency. Thirdly, implement nationwide awareness campaigns to combat stigma and promote inclusivity. We need to challenge societal attitudes, not endorse them by showing PwDs as needy and a charity case, even in the marriage market. Fourthly, provide comprehensive support to marriageable PwDs through counselling, legal aid, and healthcare services that respect the autonomy and dignity of PwDs. Respect PwDs' autonomy & choice Whether marriages are made in heaven or not, for their survival and success on earth—especially given the rollercoaster of life that people with disabilities perforce have—they must be grounded in something far more tangible: companionship, mutual understanding, and a lifelong commitment that transcends financial transactions. While marriage incentive schemes for PwDs may be well-intentioned, they risk reinforcing problematic narratives and failing to address the deeper issues of inequality and exclusion. Empowerment should not come in the form of financial inducements for marriage but through systemic changes that uphold the rights, choices, and dignity of persons with disabilities. Marriage, like any personal decision, should be a matter of choice, free from coercion or financial persuasion. For PwDs too, marriage must remain a deeply personal, informed decision—never reduced to financial incentives or societal expectations. Based on secondary research Facebook Twitter Linkedin Email Disclaimer Views expressed above are the author's own.
