The bangle-makers of Firozabad are bom in poverty, live in poverty and die in poverty. For generations these people have been engaged in this trade—working around hot furnaces with high temperature, welding and soldering glass to make bangles. In spite of hard labour throughout the day, the return is measure. Some of them have to sleep with empty, aching stomachs. Others do not have enough to eat. Whatever they do get is not delicious or nourishing. 

The stinking lanes of their shanty town are choked with garbage. Their hovels have crumbling walls, wobbly doors and no windows. These are overcrowded with humans and animals. 

Poverty and hunger, social customs and traditions, stigma of caste and the intrigues of powerful lobby that thrives on their labour combine to keep them poor, uneducated and hungry. The moneylenders, the middlemen, the policemen, the keepers of law, the bureaucrats and the politicians—all are ranged against them. Children are engaged in illegal and hazardous work. Years of mind-numbing toil have killed all initiative and ability to dream. They are unable to organise themselves into cooperative due to lack of a leader and fear of ill-treatment at the hands of the police. They seem to carry the burden that they can’t put down. They can talk but not act to improve their lot.