Mithu barabar che? (Is the salt alright?), asked Ruksana as she served a meal of Dal rice to the reporter. The harmless query brought sarcastic smiles as the family sat around a large plate, all eating from one plate. “Salt farming is our traditional livelihood and my family has been making the journey to the Little Rann of Kutch for the past three generations,” said Ruksana’s husband Chhanabhai. As the monsoon recedes, and the flooded salt marshes grow dry, Chhanabhai and his extended family, including women and children, hop on to trucks and tractors to migrate to the Little Rann of Kutch and stay there in extremely poor living conditions with very limited resources for 8 months to begin salt production. Just before the onset of monsoon, they sell their entire harvest to traders and return to their native villages. 

Little Rann of Kutch is an uninhabited and seemingly never-ending stretch of cracked earth that is spread over an area of 5180 sq km (Singh et al. 1999). It is a desert for eight months of the year and flooded for the remaining four when the seawater from the Gulf of Kutch on the Arabian Sea turns the dry surface into wet marshes over briny water. At the beginning of the farming season in October, around 60,000 members of the Agariya community leave behind their homes in the towns surrounding the marshes and travel to the desert to undertake the backbreaking work of harvesting salt until June (Kaur 2021). Although salt farmers contribute to capitalist production and are nominally included by the state, their lives are managed in such a way that they are constantly exposed to deadly threats. In other words, to borrow the language of Giorgio Agamben (1998), they live in a state of “inclusive exclusion.” This makes salt farmers a modern figure of bare life, trapped “at the deadly intersection of poverty, illiteracy, and migrancy.” 

According to the Comptroller and Auditor General’s (CAG) report 2020, the salt workers in Gujarat are largely bereft of benefits from welfare schemes owing to a serious lacuna in imposition of basic clauses to deter exploitation in leasehold agreements as well as due to a lack of inter-departmental coordination and an absence of long term policy in place. The Agariya community remains socio-economically poor, perpetually exploited, ecologically threatened, and administratively unattended and uncared for. 

This paper is an attempt to study the ecologies of migrant workers (Agariyas) in the Little Rann of Kutch, shedding light on the intricate dynamics of salt production through a gendered perspective. By centering Agariya women’s experiences, the paper challenges conventional conservation narratives and shows how conservation approaches, ostensibly aimed at protecting wildlife, have systematically marginalized the Agariya community. The analysis highlights the paradoxical position of Agariya women, who are both indispensable to salt production and yet rendered invisible by patriarchal and capitalist structures. Salt production in Gujarat is predominantly processed and distributed for industrial purposes, rarely appearing with a “Product of India” label in high-end grocery stores. However, the techniques employed for its extraction remain remarkably artisanal. 

Thus, I argue that salt making is not just an economic activity but a complex social process deeply embedded in gender relations, ecological constraints, and historical power dynamics. Contrary to reductive interpretations of salt as a mere currency of emotional labor performed by women to placate men in their lives, on the western coast of India, where the burdens and benefits of salt production are highly gendered, it’s a product of their physical labor as well. However, women’s essential economic contributions are systematically devalued and invisibilized, despite their indispensable grunt labor in the artisanal process of salt production. Therefore, there’s a need for improved infrastructure and organizational support,  through which women can gain control over their time and labor and can reconceptualize traditional work into an opportunity for economic empowerment. The Banaskantha study showed that when women had access to improved infrastructure to facilitate water supply and organizational backing, they could transform time saved into economic gains of Rs. 750 to Rs. 5,500 annually (James et al. 2002). Similarly, investing in better infrastructure at salt pans and providing organizational support could help women salt workers move beyond mere labor to become stakeholders in the production process. 

This paper uses a combination of methods to understand the Agariya community and its relationship with the landscape of Little Rann of Kutch. Press clippings and primary data gathered by the Agariya Heet-Rakshak Manch, a non-governmental organization, provided valuable insights into the community’s ground realities. Additionally, key community members were interviewed, and group discussions were conducted using a semi-structured questionnaire to gain a deeper understanding of their perspectives. Due to the absence of a reliable list of households for selection, the “random walk method” of sampling was used to identify participants. The research primarily focused on the South East zone, as it is the largest area and contains the highest quality brine for salt production. The research was structured to examine the relationship between gender and salt production, with particular attention to women’s experiences and challenges in the industry.

Salt Making: A Historical Perspective 

In Little Rann of Kutch, several traditional communities like Chunvalia Koli, Miyana, Sandhi, Wagher, Jat, Rabari, Bharwad, Patel, Darbar, Ahir, etc., living in the 107 peripheral villages spread across five districts along the Kutch region, and are involved in diverse occupations. Of various livelihood activities pursued by the people here, salt making, fishing, charcoal making, and pastoralism have a strong dependence on the resources of Kutch. Interestingly, all these activities are seasonal. Studies indicate that salt making is one of the largest economic activities for the people living in the peripheral or fringe villages (Singh et al. 1999). Traditionally Chunvalia Koli community has been known for its excellent salt making skills (Kathiawar Gazetteer 1889). It involves making pans with two-foot high bunds. These pans are filled with brine, pumped from underground wells. The brine gradually dries out through evaporation, allowing for the harvesting of Vadagra, a type of large crystal salt, typically collected once per seasonal cycle. However, in places where tidal water is available apart from subsoil brine, karkach salt (small crystals) is harvested 10-12 times in the same duration. The salt-making tradition of the Agariyas has deep cultural roots, with their folkloric songs continuing to resonate and be sung across generations, keeping their heritage alive. 

For instance, this song describes how the salt pans of Odu city have brought prosperity to many of the people; though it makes them dark by working in the sun and makes life difficult, it gives them money to be able to buy various things from the market. 

સારા પરતાપ સેર ઓડુ અગરના,

ભવની ભાંગે ભીડ રે, ગાંગડો વાલો લાગે

પૈસાનો સાબુ બજારે મળશે,

ઉજળા થઇ ઘરે આવો, ગાંગડો…

The agars, salt pans of Odu town, bring good luck. It brings lifetime respite to all of us. [And therefore] We all love the crystal of salt. By paying, you can get the soap from the market. [through the money earned from salt] Go, wash, get fairer, and then come home. 

The early history of salt making is not known, but it is believed that large-scale salt making has been going on in the areas of Patadi, Jhinjuwada, and Kharaghoda since the 10th century (Campbell 1887). The method of salt farming was well developed by 1680. A Firman issued by the Mughal emperor Aurangzeb in 1669-70 states that Jashwantsinh, the king of Halvad, was reinstated as the rightful owner of Agar (salt pans). From the firman, it appears that in 1669 the salt was taxed, but probably taxes were low. Salt was not a state monopoly item under the princely rule, and the licenses were held by the people from other states too. In many other places, Agariyas made their own salt and paid small royalties to the state. This salt was sold at low prices, and specific occupational groups like farmers, tanners, etc., were even allowed to collect Ghasiyun salt [This was the lowest quality salt, albeit easiest and quickest to make] for free (Watson 1886). It is only when the British Government intervened and took control of salt production, distribution, and began heavy taxation that the salt became a monopoly of the Victorian rule. To secure their heavy duties on the salt, a customs line was established across the whole of India (Moxhom 2001). After 1880, salt production and distribution in the Little Rann of Kutch was highly restricted, and in order to exercise complete control over salt manufacturing and its market, by 1900, the making of Vadagara salt was completely banned by the British Government which was lifted in 1924 but only for the native states. People were still barred from making it. British rule had imposed severe restrictions on the native states for expanding their sources of revenue including salt (Williams 1958:253). 

In 1930, Salt protest events started taking the coastal areas of colonial India by storm, a snowball effect of a mass pilgrimage, led by Mahatma Gandhi, to the seaside town of Dandi. Here, Gandhi and his followers made their own salt in resistance against the British Empire’s Salt Act of 1882; the law prohibited Indians from collecting and selling salt, forcing them to rely on heavily taxed imports instead. Part of the protest’s power stemmed from the symbolism that salt, in many ways, is life. Without salt, there is no preservation, no flavour, and no sustenance. Dandi March was followed by the Gandhi-Irwin Pact in 1931. As demanded by Gandhi, the British Government after almost 200 years of total control over salt in India, granted the local villagers in salt-producing regions the right to manufacture and sell salt for both domestic use and local trade. It is then that Agariyas of Little Rann of Kutch got their rights for independent salt making. 

Despite many natural sources for salt making and known traditional technologies in many parts of India, including the Little Rann of Kutch, due to British policies, India was heavily dependent upon salt imports till its independence in 1947. After independence, in 1948, the Indian Government took steps to democratize salt production by allowing individuals to set up small salt works (under 10 acres) without licenses or applications. This particularly benefited the Agariyas in Little Rann of Kutch, who could now produce salt independently on small plots, known as ‘dus acre Agariyas’ (Aggarwal 1956:533). While this initial policy helped restore rights to small producers, subsequent salt policies mostly favored large-scale producers and market interests over small-scale salt makers. 

Until 1952, the Agariyas were classified as a “Denotified Tribe” according to the Constitution of India; although this label is no longer used, it birthed persistent social and administrative biases that still haunt the Agariyas and other indigenous groups to this day. Moreover, Little Rann of Kutch, a traditional homeland of Agariyas during salt farming, is known as “Survey Number Zero” because no official land survey was ever conducted before or after independence, and it also did not figure in government revenue records. Consequently, leaving the Agariyas’ traditional land rights unrecognized. Thus, some pre-independence claims have been recognised while post-independence leases are deemed invalid. The post-independence industrial policy’s focus on large-scale salt production marginalized small producers. The 1948 delicensing of small producers, while seemingly liberalizing, actually removed them from formal recognition systems (Arularasan, Balaharish & Babu 2023).

The Agariyas’ relationship with salt production represents a classic case of how colonial and post-colonial policies transformed traditional resource rights and livelihoods. The Agariyas maintained customary rights over salt production in the Little Rann of Kutch, operating within a decentralized system of resource management. Their traditional knowledge and techniques were integral to the local salt economy. The British enacted the Criminal Tribes Act of 1871, which severely impacted the Agariyas along with other indigenous communities. This legislation reflected the colonial state’s attempt to control mobile populations and resource-rich territories through criminalization (Radhakrishna 2001). The colonial salt monopoly fundamentally altered traditional production systems. The British introduced licensing requirements and restricted access to salt pans, effectively delegitimizing traditional claims to salt-making areas.

The contemporary challenges faced by Agariyas stem from this historical trajectory of dispossession and non-recognition. Climate change impacts exacerbate these vulnerabilities; unpredictable rainfall prompted by climate variability and floods from the drainage of the nearby Narmada River quite literally wash away any harvest, and increasingly frequent dust storms sully the salt, lowering its price. The lack of formal recognition means they cannot access disaster compensation or industrial subsidies (The Hindu 2022). Up to 76 per cent of India’s salt is produced in Little Rann of Kutch. But the Agariyas have for generations been compensated little for their labor, and they bear the cost of their own supplies. These salt farmers earn an average of only 150 Indian rupees ($2.10) per ton of salt—even though the market price is 17,000 Indian rupees per ton, which is 239 US dollars (World Bank Report 2021). Until recently, the salt farmers were compelled to accept the prices set by middlemen and moneylenders. But for the last few years, the Self-Employed Women’s Association (SEWA), a trade union of more than 2 million women, has been advocating low-rate loans tailored to their situation. 

Conservation policy and its gendered outcome:

Agariyas, like many other nomadic or semi-nomadic indigenous communities in India, were evicted from the lands they generationally occupied, without being provided definite alternatives. In 1973, the government designated 4,840 sq. km of Little Rann of Kutch as Wild Ass Sanctuary, with an additional 112.81 sq. km added in 1978, totaling 4,952.81 sq. km (Singh, Patel and Pravez, et al, 1999). The Surendranagar district administration for the Wild Ass Sanctuary issued a formal directive on September 25, 1997, requiring Agariyas (traditional salt workers) to document their land rights within the protected area within 60 days. Officials mandated that this notice be broadly circulated throughout all Panchayats in villages surrounding the Little Rann of Kutch, with implementation reports to be submitted to the additional collector’s office appointed under the Wildlife Protection Act 1972. However, when the notification was issued, most Agariyas were already working in the remote salt pans of the Rann, areas that exist beyond any Panchayat jurisdiction or revenue village boundaries. As a result, the critical information failed to reach the majority of salt workers, leaving only a small fraction able to file their claims before the deadline expired. In the four decades since the Sanctuary’s establishment, numerous developments have unfolded, but this initial communication failure had significant consequences for the salt farming community (Singh et al, 1999).

The situation became more complex with the enactment of the Forest Rights Act (FRA) in 2006, which recognized the rights of communities dependent on forests and protected areas for their livelihood. Since 2007, Agariyas have faced multiple eviction notices demanding documentary evidence of their salt farming rights in Little Rann of Kutch, with threats of imprisonment. This has placed enormous pressure on this traditional community, threatening their primary livelihood (Singh et al. 1999). The Agariyas have lived in harmony with wild donkeys for centuries and have played a crucial role in the species’ survival. However, despite this coexistence, the Agariyas faced threats of eviction, and their traditional salt-harvesting practice was labeled “illegal,” ostensibly to protect the wild donkey population (Bharwada and Mahajan 2008). It shows how the product of Agariyas work is fundamental to our nourishment, but they are shunned as obscure interlopers in its production. As a result of these policy decisions, the Agariyas have been marginalized and effectively reduced to the status of indentured servants, their vital contributions dismissed and their way of life imperiled. 

The landscape hosts multiple forms of life and livelihood, each with its own rhythms and requirements. Shy wild ass generally runs away from any movement or any effort to get closer to them. But it shares a close relation with Agariyas. Wild asses are often seen very close to the salt pans, even sharing Agariyas’ drinking water. Agariyas often express their cordiality with wild asses by saying that the ass and their children often play together.  There have been no incidences of Agariyas harming the wildlife. The field discussions with many Agariyas and their representatives indicate that most Agariyas are willing to get involved in any effort towards conservation and peaceful co-existence. This demonstrates the “heterogeneity and multiplicity” in conservation contexts and shows that conservation involves complex assemblages of humans, animals, landscapes, and cultural practices that cannot be reduced to simple binary tensions (Chua et al. 2020:51).

The wildlife conservation model in India since colonial rule has been exclusionary, often displacing indigenous communities from Protected Areas due to the perception that their livelihood activities threaten conservation efforts. Protected Areas are always perceived differently by different sections of society. Urban conservationists see them as sanctuaries for wildlife and tourism, local communities regard them as ancestral lands vital for their survival, and industrialists view them as sources of economic resources. These conflicting perspectives create tensions that challenge conservation efforts, highlighting the need for a more inclusive and balanced approach to environmental protection (Saberwal et. al. 2001:71). 

Before the founding of the Little Rann of Kutch wildlife sanctuary, the publicly owned desert land was leased to private owners with whom the Agariyas would negotiate the terms of their salt production. Since 1997, when the settlement process related to the wildlife sanctuary began to unfold, leases have ceased to exist, but the salt farmers continue to rely on the informal credit system called dhiraan: the former lease-owners provide the Agariyas with an advance payment for the salt they will harvest. The payment, however, is a discordantly small compensation for their labour. They earn about 0.30 rupees (or three-hundredths of a cent) for a kilogram of salt that is later sold on the market for 20 rupees a kilogram (Kaur 2021). By the end of the season, many Agariyas had spent about half on fuel for the water pumps they used for brine collection, and most of the remaining funds were on repairs, labour, and basic supplies for survival in the desert. This means they habitually leave Little Rann of Kutch with almost no profits and often accrue debt.

In 2012, the Forest Department introduced the World Bank-supported Biodiversity Conservation and Rural Livelihood Improvement Project. While this project aimed to conserve biodiversity and improve stakeholder communities’ livelihoods, its implementation focused mainly on periphery villages, effectively excluding the Agariya salt farmers, who are major stakeholders and play a crucial role in wildlife conservation according to members of  Agariya Heet-Rakshak Manch (AHRM) (Pandya 2020). Conservation policies that separate the Agariyas from their ancestral land have profoundly impacted their lives. This underscores how conservation efforts, whatever their intentions, can disenfranchise Indigenous communities by severing their connection to vital ecosystems and resources. Marginalized groups like the Agariyas often rely heavily on the natural resources and ecosystem services, such as salt, that their environments freely provide. Forced displacement strips them of these critical resources, exacerbating their vulnerability and deepening existing inequalities.

Women, who generally have less access to capital, land, and resources than men, are even more dependent on the ecosystem. A 2006 report on the ‘Socio-Economic Status of Workers in the Salt Industry in India’ revealed stark inequalities: women salt workers earned significantly less than their male counterparts, and literacy rates among women salt workers in Gujarat were just 14%, compared to 28% for men. This disparity leaves women less equipped to withstand economic shocks and with fewer opportunities to transition to alternative livelihoods. If Agariya women were displaced from the land they have farmed for generations under the guise of fortress conservation—a policy approach that has definitely overlooked the need for gender-sensitive measures, they would face extremely limited options for survival and adaptation.

In September 2023, the Gujarat government reversed its earlier decision to evict the Agariyas from the Little Rann of Kutch, allowing salt workers with leases for up to 10 acres to continue production in the area. Agariya women now possess identity cards issued by the Gujarat Forest Department, officially recognizing them as part of the salt-working community. After decades of restriction, the department has officially acknowledged the role of the Agariyas in wildlife conservation, and it has also recognized salt production as a “traditional occupation practiced for centuries”, granting the Agariyas legitimate access to financial markets (Hindustan Times 2023). However, a formal decision on their land rights remains pending, leaving the community vulnerable to continued insecurity. The economic implications of this insecurity are significant. Merchants have been hesitant to establish fixed prices for salt, and access to financial services remains limited. Moreover, the government’s recognition has been accompanied by new, often stringent, conditions governing salt production, making it challenging for the Agariyas to maintain their livelihoods. 

For instance, Deviben Patel is forced to work as a farm laborer in Surendranagar district due to the economic hardships and uncertainty in the salt-making profession. With a large family of 8 to support, Deviben and her husband struggle to make ends meet. The lack of formal land rights means she cannot use her salt pan as collateral for loans, limiting her access to formal financial services. Even with solar panels reducing operational costs, the stringent new production conditions—including restrictions on entry into the Little Rann and the constant threat of equipment confiscation make it difficult to maintain a stable income for her family. Like many Agariya women who spend eight months of the year in the desert with their families, Deviben must balance salt production with caring for her family in their makeshift desert home, all while navigating the additional vulnerabilities that come with uncertain land rights and changing governmental policies.

Agarias’ poor financial condition has worsened due to exploitation by moneylenders and traders. Although Agarias are major salt producers, debt and market activities have transformed them into wage laborers. According to SAVE (2005), salt makers earn only 1% of the market price for their physical labor and skill, while merchants and others receive nearly 99%. Under economically bonded conditions, salt workers’ labor rights are violated. Limited resources and access to information hinder growth and development. Agariyas often enter the Rann with debt and leave with even more, perpetuating the cycle.

Agariya women, if given an alternative, might envision different lives and aspirations for themselves and their children—a choice that deserves recognition and respect. With increased income from solar pumps, new generations of Agariyas are focusing on education and diversification of livelihoods. For example, Gauriben Zinzaria, a long-time SEWA member from Nava Kuda village, has two solar pumps and a small flour mill. Her children now go to school more regularly as she can afford to leave them behind at home with an elderly family member during the salt production season. Plus, she can afford to travel back home, over 5 kilometers from the Rann, more frequently. She also hopes to send her children to high schools outside the village with the rise in income because of her solar pumps. Dozens of other women like Gauriben are using their solar pumps to create a brighter future for their children (NRDC 2018). The increased financial stability from solar pumps has allowed some women like Bhavnaben Koli to invest in additional businesses, such as flour mills, while continuing salt farming. SEWA’s interventions since the 1990s have helped mainstream women’s role in income generation activities and increased their decision-making power in households. However, while some women are diversifying their income sources, salt farming remains their primary occupation. Their increased participation in financial decisions and asset ownership suggests greater mobility and agency compared to previous generations, although this progress remains fragile.

Traditional practices should not be synonymous with oppression, as a sustainable food system cannot rest on a foundation of exploitation. Once again, salt is pivotal in the fight for the freedom to choose how to live in India, but it is not Gandhi who is marching. This time, the rebellion is led by resourceful and resilient Agariya women, who for centuries have been the leaders of a traditional cultural practice. Perhaps, like salt on our food, we wouldn’t fully appreciate the essentiality of the Agariya women unless they were gone.

Women Agariyas: Between Tradition and Survival 

The case of Agariya women shows us how market-oriented production tends to create gender polarization in rural communities where women continue traditional subsistence production and are categorized as housewives despite their essential economic contributions, whereas men are increasingly viewed as breadwinners (Chitra 2002). This process doesn’t fully transform rural labor into wage labor, nor does it completely convert women into dependent housewives. Instead, it creates a hybrid system where women’s vital economic contributions are systematically undervalued and hidden (Mies 2012). Despite this systemic discrimination, they continue to preserve and innovate upon their traditional harvesting practices. 

For instance, the song Agariyo Agnani is a complaint of a village girl to her parents for marrying her off to an Agariya and all the drudgeries and hardships involved in being wife of an Agariya.  This is one of the many pieces of folk music that illuminates the harsh lived experiences of Agariya women.

અગરીયો અજ્ઞાની માડી, મુને અગરિયાને શીદ આલી

કુઇઓ ગળાવતો ને ટાપા તળાવતો, ઝીલો લેવડાવતો દાડી, માડી મુને . .

Oh mother, Agariya is ignorant and illiterate, why did you marry me to him? He makes me dig salt wells, pull the mud from the well and toss it out. 

Landscapes remember the labour lost in them: 

Agariya women in Little Rann of Kutch working in Salt pans 

Source: Sugato Mukherjee/Al Jazeera 

The modern economic paradigm represents a masculine project that systematically devalues women’s contributions. It sees the essential work performed by women—cooking, caregiving, and resource gathering as non-productive and economically irrelevant. This narrow mechanistic framework recognizes only commercial transactions as legitimate economic activities, creating a system where capital becomes real while actual human realities are rendered invisible.

The Agariya community exemplifies these distortions in practice. Agariya women face severe ecological precarity and socio-economic vulnerability within the artisanal labor sector. They bear the brunt of this system, experiencing multiple layers of discrimination and exploitation despite being pivotal to salt production. Their labor, though integral to the community’s survival and production, is systematically rendered invisible. This narrow mechanistic thought and highly alienated artificial economic system grants personhood to corporations and sees actual people, particularly women in subsistence economies, as non-persons whose contributions remain uncounted and unvalued in official economic calculations.

The working conditions for women salt workers are particularly stringent, characterized by poor nutrition, excessive physical labor, and health risks associated with pregnancy and childbirth (SAVE 2005). Agariya women’s reproductive labor constitutes a critical yet largely invisible aspect of their daily existence, intricately linked to both their physical well-being and the survival of their families. In addition to the strenuous, visible tasks in salt production, these women shoulder intensive reproductive responsibilities—ranging from childbearing and domestic caregiving to managing household sustenance under harsh conditions. The constant pressure to reproduce, driven by high child mortality rates within salt worker families, exacerbates health risks and compounds the physical strain incurred during long hours at the salt pans. Moreover, women face domestic violence and social discrimination, often linked to their husbands’ alcohol addiction. This indicates how women’s labor in salt industries subsidizes family survival but is excluded from formal economic calculations. Their income from labor or product sales doesn’t cover their reproduction costs, although they serve as the ultimate guarantors of family survival through various types of paid and unpaid labor.

At the pan site, women contribute an average of eight hours per day labor.  In the production cycle, women are involved from the preparation stage to production stage. She has to do tiring work of preparing a makeshift production unit in the ground, which requires the formation of bunds with use of mud paste (garo) that collects underground brine in a well, and concentrates it in salt pans called pattas. These pans have hardened bases to prevent the liquid from sinking back into the soil, and are moulded manually through the ancient practice of paglee — being stepped on with bare feet, usually for over a month — often by Agariya women. Which is used to precipitate perfectly shaped and sized salt crystals as the captured brine evaporates under the sun’s burning heat. During the salt production stage, women also bear the responsibility of monitoring the engine and stopping accumulation of dust particles in the salt. Since engines run for 12-24 hours for eight months, it becomes difficult for women to manage the household and monitor the engine together. The type of salt produced influences the working hours of women staying in the salt pan. The women working in marine salt production have to work for more than eight hours, mainly due to more harvesting where women are involved in lifting the salt. Though women contribute an equal amount of physical labor, the traditional role of women in the production cycle is restricted to invisible, intensive, unskilled work. 

The gendered division of labor in salt production mirrors agricultural patterns, where women are excluded from certain visible, strength-symbolizing tasks. For instance, while women participate in most aspects of salt production, they are prohibited from operating the Dantari or Dantali (a wooden rake used for breaking salt crusts) in salt pans, similar to restrictions on plowing in agriculture. This division reinforces traditional gender hierarchies while maintaining women’s economic subordination.

Through the eight months, families deal with many small crises: the pump stops working, the level of the groundwater decreases, there are unseasonal rains or sandstorms. If the family has not made enough salt at the end of the cycle, they will be in debt to the salt trader the following year. The rewards are few, but still they take pride in making the best and whitest salt in the world. The severe living conditions and uncertainty about the success of salt production activity have created strong superstitions and customs, as well as addictions among salt-pan workers. The activities related to salt production are guided by ritual rather than any scientific method. For an Agaria, digging a well is a divine process. They do not follow any scientific method to identify the source of water but instinctively select a place. Many times they fail to strike water and are forced to move to another location leading to a repetition of the exercise. According to SAVE (2005), “Women are blamed if the well turns out to be barren.”

Agariya men often die young as a result of the serious physical and mental health risks brought on by salt processing, including skin conditions and blindness (Ranpara 1995). The life expectancy of male Agaria is always lesser than that of their female counterpart. They also face the dangers of operating diesel-run pumps, which spew noxious fumes and are known to combust. The nearby town of Kharaghoda is colloquially called the “village of widows” because of the unnaturally high number of widowed Agariya women it houses. The men die, but their debts live on, and the women often arrive in Little Rann of Kutch with children in tow — work to fulfill them. Life becomes miserable for a widow salt worker; she has to depend on her kinships for livelihood. Amidst the arduous task of salt harvesting, Agariya women simultaneously shoulder the responsibility of raising and caring for their families in the desert. As primary food providers within their households, their efforts extend far beyond their homes. Moreover, they play a vital role in preserving the traditional methods of salt production. 

For instance, at just thirty-two, Meena Savadiya carries the heavy burden of her late husband Rajesh’s debt. Rajesh, who spent years working with diesel pumps in the harsh landscape of the Little Rann of Kutch, succumbed to severe respiratory issues, leaving behind not only his family but also a debt of 50,000 rupees owed to a salt contractor, which now rests on Meena’s shoulders. Each morning, before dawn, she rises to begin her grueling work, leaving her two children—aged eight and twelve—in the care of her mother-in-law, who moved in after Rajesh’s passing. Her hands, despite the makeshift protective wrapping, show signs of the salt’s constant assault—cracked skin that never fully heals and white crystalline deposits that seem permanently embedded in her fingertips. She remembers how Rajesh’s hands looked the same way, how his eyes had gradually weakened over the years until he could barely see in bright sunlight.

During breaks, she sits with other women from Kharaghoda, many of whom share her fate. They exchange traditional salt harvesting techniques passed down through generations, discussing which methods yield the purest salt while requiring the least exposure to harmful chemicals. These conversations are punctuated by memories of their husbands and worried discussions about their children’s future. Like many women in Kharaghoda, she finds herself trapped between impossible choices. Despite everything, she maintains the precise traditional methods of salt production that have been practiced for generations. She knows exactly when to shift the brine between pans, how to test its density with experienced fingers, and the exact moment when the crystals are ready for harvesting. This knowledge, passed down through centuries, is both her heritage and her survival. Meena’s story mirrors that of countless other Agariya women—widowed too young, working to pay off generational debts, and somehow finding the strength to preserve their community’s traditional way of life while dreaming of a different future for their children.

The practice of hiring husband-wife pairs for salt production exacerbates women’s dependency. Widows and single women face near-complete exclusion, irrespective of their expertise, highlighting the gendered precarity of employment. Usually, the eldest girl child bears responsibility for siblings and hence always tends to be illiterate. The women were forced into salt making activity after their marriage. In fact, in Koli caste, the groom’s side has to pay dowry to the girl’s father. In addition to this, the groom has to agree and take an oath that he will not involve his wife in salt production activity. However, after marriage, every woman is forced to work in saltpans. This is a societal attempt to minimize women’s visibility as economic agents, only to contradict these norms post-marriage when labor demands rise. This practice is rooted in patriarchal and capitalist structures, and it demonstrates how women’s economic participation is contingent on their relationship to male counterparts. It reflects the broader historical trend where women’s labor is rendered invisible in both colonial and postcolonial economies. 

In other major salt-producing nations, the use of solar evaporation as a method is rapidly disappearing even though it is seen as superior in terms of its taste of origins, something akin to having merroir. But the Agariya women have doubled down on their efforts to protect the technique. While traditional solar evaporation methods have been central to the Agariya community’s identity, their manual nature entrenches the exploitative status quo. Recent initiatives, such as the introduction of solar-powered pumps, illustrate the potential of technology to alleviate physical labor and improve economic outcomes for women. 

In 2013, the Self-Employed Women’s Association (SEWA) tested a program to replace the typical fossil fuel-run pumps used by the Agariyas with solar energy-powered alternatives, based on the idea that solar-powered pumps would be less expensive, more efficient, and less polluting than their fossil fuel-powered counterparts. The scheme was eventually scaled up, with enormous benefits for both Agariya women and the climate. According to Harinesh Pandya, managing trustee of Agariya Heet-Rakshak Samiti, which maintains a constituency of approximately 6,000 Agariyas (traditional salt farmers), the integration of solar technology has yielded multifaceted benefits. These include enhanced product quality, increased production cycles, and improved byproduct recovery rates, coupled with a substantial reduction in working capital requirements. (Hindustan Times 2023) The region’s environmental initiatives have garnered international attention, notably through Hillary Clinton’s participation in the Self-Employed Women’s Association’s (SEWA) semicentennial commemoration. During this event, Clinton announced the establishment of a Global Climate Resilience Fund, allocating US$50 million to support women-led climate change mitigation efforts in the region. However, such interventions must be critically evaluated to ensure they do not reinforce existing gender hierarchies but instead empower women as equal stakeholders​ (The Indian Express 2023).

The Larger Picture 

The exploitation faced by salt farmers is a narrative of profound socio-economic and ecological significance. However, a more fundamentally tragic question at the heart of their existence is what compels them to return to the desert to labor tediously year after year, generation after generation? What meaning do they find in this existence? For the Agariyas, their existence is shaped by a long history of marginalization and exploitation, compounded by the enduring stigma associated with their community. Despite these adversities, they persist in the grueling process of salt production, returning annually to the saline fields of the desert.  This cyclical return is not merely a reflection of economic necessity but also speaks to deeper cultural, social, and possibly existential drivers that imbue their labor with meaning. The harsh ecological constraints of the desert—extreme temperatures, water scarcity, and the physical toll of salt extraction- underscore the resilience of the community. 

The role of Agariya women in salt production illuminates the complex intersections of gender, labor, and economic marginalization. While they perform essential economic work, they are categorized merely as “housewives,” a categorization that obscures their vital productive role. Feminist Scholars like Maria Mies (2012) and Silvia Federici (1975) have documented how capitalist and patriarchal structures systematically devalue women’s economic contributions. The invisibilization of their labor manifests in policy and economic frameworks, where their contributions remain unrecorded and their skills are undervalued. The salt pans serve as a microcosm of broader social inequalities, with women restricted to intensive, unskilled labor while being excluded from operating specific production tools.

The complexity of their situation is amplified by the reproductive dimensions of their work. These women manage households and bear children under extreme conditions while contributing substantial physical labor to salt production. This shows us how women’s dual burden of productive and reproductive work remains invisible, even in situations where they struggle to balance between the two at a significant personal cost. Ultimately, the Agariya women’s experience is far more than a localized phenomenon. It represents a critical case study in understanding global patterns of gendered labor exploitation within economic systems that simultaneously rely on and devalue women’s work. This paper is part of what I hope will evolve to become a historical class and gender perspective on the labor involved in Salt production in India.

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