A 1990 inspection and a doorstep conversation in 2026 reveal a stubborn truth. India’s labour protections often stop at the statute book.
To ensure that inspectors conducted their duties properly, the regional director assigned about 3% of total inspections as special inspections to assistant and deputy directors.
Similarly, in cases where inspectors had concluded through surveys that certain factories or establishments did not fall under the purview of the Act, a few such units were randomly picked for re-survey.
One such special survey of an establishment, which as per the survey report did not attract coverage, was assigned to me.
The earlier finding was straightforward: fewer than 20 employees, and therefore outside the law’s ambit. (The threshold has since been reduced to 10.)
The facts, however, told a different story.
When records go missing, it is rarely by accident.
On August 27, 1990, when I visited the establishment, only an attendance register was produced. This was not unusual.
Early in my tenure handling special inspections, I noticed a pattern, though not a universal one. Non-production of records was selective.
It surfaced more often in cases handled by officers known to be strict and inclined to follow the rule book.
In such instances, managements would claim that key documents, particularly ledgers, were “with the auditor.”
To formalise this explanation, neatly signed letters from auditors would be produced. It was less a systemic absence of records and more a calibrated response to the nature of scrutiny expected.
The attendance register listed seven office staff. The accountant and watchman were not recorded. All other documents were, predictably, unavailable.
A routine question cut through the arrangement: how were LPG cylinders being delivered?
“Yes, we have delivery workers,” came the reply.
But they were not on the rolls.
Instead, a small daily log, a “chitta”, was produced. It recorded who worked each day and how many cylinders were delivered.
The entry for the previous day listed 15 delivery workers.
Add them to the visible workforce, seven office staff, one accountant, and one watchman, and the number rose to 24. That was enough to overturn the earlier conclusion.
The establishment clearly fell within the scope of the law. Coverage was positive at least from August 26, 1990.
Faced with the evidence, the management agreed in writing to comply.
Whether the law applied even earlier would be determined later at the Regional Office.
On April 20, 2026, after a four-day wait, an LPG cylinder was delivered. Out of habit, I asked the delivery worker about his coverage under the ESI and EPF Acts.
The answer was immediate.
No.
The agency now operates three more branches in the same town. In the branch where he works, there are about ten delivery workers and six office staff.
None, I was told, are covered under the schemes. The situation, he said, may not be different in the other three branches.
More than three decades after that 1990 inspection, the method appears unchanged. Workers remain off the books. Compliance remains selective.
The law, meanwhile, has evolved, culminating in the Social Security Code, which promises wider coverage and consolidation. Yet on the ground, enforcement still depends on whether someone asks the right questions and insists on the answers.
With May Day approaching, the slogans will return: “Power concedes nothing without a demand.”
The sentiment is valid. But demands without documentation rarely travel far.
If there is a case to be made this year, it is a practical one: move from rhetoric to record. Trade unions and worker groups nationwide could collectively present labour offices with specific, unit-wise instances of non-compliance, not abstractions, but names, numbers and omissions.
The issue is no longer the absence of law. It is the persistence of evasion, and the space allowed for it.
(Views expressed in this opinion piece are those of the author)
Read earlier parts in the series:
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