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The tricolour above the Kerala Secretariat flutters gently in the evening breeze, its colours dulled by dust and time.
A little away from it, outside the mighty compound wall, a large number of women sit in the open, their placards hand-written and their faces marked by fatigue and quiet defiance.
They are Kerala’s ASHA (Accredited Social Health Activist) workers, the community health volunteers who became the state’s frontline defenders during the COVID-19 pandemic.
For several months now, they have been on strike before the Secretariat, demanding fair wages, social security and dignity.
“We have served every home in Kerala. We were the state’s strength during the pandemic. But today we are forgotten,” said M A Bindu, a known face of the continuing agitation.
“The government says Kerala has no poor left. Look at us. We are the proof that it is not true.”
On November 1, Kerala’s formation day, the state government run by the Left Democratic Front (LDF) will hold a grand public event in Thiruvananthapuram to declare the state “free from extreme poverty.”
Chief Minister Pinarayi Vijayan will share the stage with film icons Mammootty, Mohanlal and Kamal Haasan. They will read out the formal proclamation that Kerala has eliminated extreme poverty and will henceforth be the first state in India to achieve it.
The government’s claim rests on the Extreme Poverty Eradication Programme launched in 2021 across the state.
Through a survey carried out by local bodies, 64,006 households were identified as “extremely poor” families without adequate food, shelter, health care or livelihood.
After verification, the government says that 4,421 families were found deceased, 261 were untraceable, and 59,277 were “rehabilitated” through micro-plans that connected them to welfare schemes.
Local Self-Government Minister M B Rajesh described the achievement as a “historic milestone.” “Kerala has shown that political will and decentralised governance can eradicate extreme poverty,” he said. “Every identified family has been linked to a housing project, a livelihood scheme or pension. Nobody in Kerala will sleep hungry or homeless again.”
The tone is confident, but on the ground, the story is far from conclusive.
At the protest camp outside the Secretariat, the ASHA workers’ strike has continued for over six months. The women, mostly from low-income families, arrive every morning with lunch boxes and mats. They spend the day chanting slogans and return home in the evening. Their demand is simple: a daily wage of Rs 750, social security, and permanent employment status.
“We do everything from vaccination to disease surveillance, maternal care and counselling. Yet we earn less than a daily wage labourer,” said 38-year-old Prameela from Nemom. “We are not volunteers. We are workers who keep this system running.”
Their letter to the three film stars who will join the declaration ceremony went unanswered. “We are not asking for charity,” the letter reads. “We are asking for justice. Before declaring Kerala poverty-free, visit our protest camp and see how its women workers live.”
Government officials insist that the strike will not be allowed to overshadow the celebration. “This is a time to showcase Kerala’s progress,” said a senior officer in the Chief Minister’s office, who preferred anonymity. “It would be unfair to paint a negative picture on such an occasion.”
In the tribal settlements of Wayanad, where mist rolls down from the forested slopes, poverty still clings to the soil like moss. In Thavinjal panchayat, the huts of the Paniya and Adiya tribes are built from bamboo poles and plastic sheets. Inside, smoke curls from clay stoves and barefoot children run through the rain.
“They came here last year with tablets and cameras,” said tribal leader Manikkuttan Paniyan. “They asked about our food, our income and our health. They said we would get houses and land. Now they say Kerala is poverty-free. But where is our land? Where is our house?”
According to the Kerala Scheduled Tribes Development Department, the state has 426,000 tribal people, of whom 152,000 live in Wayanad. Across the tribal belts of Wayanad, Palakkad, Idukki and Kannur, over 85 per cent of tribal families remain landless.
“Our poverty is not about food. It is about not owning the soil we live on,” said K Ammini, leader of the Adivasi Vanitha Prasthanam. “The government gives us rice, pensions and houses, but without land or water, we cannot survive.”
In Attappady, the tribal heartland in Palakkad district, the situation is grim. A recent health department study found that nearly one in four tribal children is underweight. “Every few years there is a new mission or a new declaration,” said social worker Shiny Muthan. “But poverty here is like the mountains — it does not move.”
On the coast of Thiruvananthapuram, in Valiyathura, the sea has swallowed streets, courtyards and memories. What were once rows of fishermen’s homes now end abruptly in mid-air, the earth beneath them gone.
“I had two houses,” said fisherwoman Mini Joseph, 39. “The first was taken by the sea, the second by a bank loan. Now I live in a shed given by the church.”
Nearly 60 per cent of Kerala’s 580-kilometre coastline faces moderate to severe erosion, according to the National Centre for Earth Science Studies.
The government’s Punargeham scheme offers Rs 10 lakh to each family living within 50 metres of the high-tide line to relocate inland.
But that amount does not even cover the cost of a small plot in most coastal districts.
“Families are forced to borrow, and many fall into debt traps,” said Fr. Michael Vettikkal, who coordinates rehabilitation for displaced coastal communities.
“The new scheme removes people from the sea but not from poverty. The sea is behind them, and debt is before them.”
In Chellanam near Kochi, fisherman Antony Joseph sums it up: “They say Kerala is poverty-free. Come here during the monsoon and see how we live. The sea enters our homes. We sleep sitting up.”
In the high ranges of Wayanad and Idukki, the air smells of tea leaves and wet soil. But under that calm lies an old story of neglect. Generations of Dalit and Tamil-origin plantation workers still live in “line rooms” built by the British before Independence — single rooms of 10 feet by 12, housing entire families.
“Our wages are Rs 420 a day,” said R Selvi, 36, who works in a tea estate at Meppadi. “If it rains, we don’t work, and we don’t get paid. We have lived here for generations, but nothing changes.”
In the 2024 Wayanad landslides, many of the dead were plantation workers. “We lost everything,” Selvi said, looking at a photograph of her mud-smeared house. “But we are not poor in the government’s list because we have jobs.”
A labour department official admitted that such families were often excluded from the poverty survey. “They live inside company estates without land titles. Many have no documents to prove their income or address,” he said. “The system does not see them.”
Kerala’s achievements in literacy, life expectancy and healthcare are unparalleled in India. The NITI Aayog’s Multidimensional Poverty Index puts the state’s poverty at just 0.55 per cent, compared to the national average of 15 per cent. Yet beneath those numbers lies a deeper fragility.
A 2024 study by the Gulati Institute of Finance and Taxation shows that 22 per cent of Kerala’s workforce is employed in low-wage, insecure jobs. Among women, the figure is even higher.
“Kerala has reduced visible poverty but not vulnerability,” says public health activist, S S Lal. “The poor here do not beg on the streets; they borrow from banks and neighbours. They survive by debt.”
He added that Kerala’s poverty today is shaped by landlessness, climate stress and gendered exploitation. “It is a poverty of instability. One illness, one flood, one job loss can push a family to the edge.”
Inside the Secretariat, preparations for the November 1 event are in full swing. The stage has been designed to reflect “Kerala’s journey from poverty to prosperity.” A short film, music and speeches by the three stars will mark the declaration.
Officials insist the event will symbolise Kerala’s leadership in social justice. “These actors are loved by all sections of society. Their presence reflects the pride of Malayalis,” said Cultural Affairs Minister Saji Cheriyan.
But many see irony in the plan. “You have film icons and politicians announcing the end of poverty while the poor sit outside in protest,” said social activist P E Usha. “It is a paradox that captures Kerala’s current mood — success on paper, silence on the street.”
As the banners rise across Thiruvananthapuram proclaiming Kerala: First Poverty-Free State of India, the women outside the Secretariat continue their vigil. They take turns boiling tea on a kerosene stove, their slogans fading into the city’s evening traffic. “We will still be here when the stage is dismantled,” said Prameela. “Our poverty does not end with a speech.”
In the hills of Wayanad, Manikkuttan Paniyan folds his arms and watches the fog settle over his settlement. “They can say what they want,” he said. “We will believe it when our children sleep on land that is ours.”
And along the coast, as the tide rises under the moonlight, fisherwoman Mini Joseph sits on the edge of her broken veranda. “Maybe one day the sea will stop taking, and the government will start giving,” she said. “Until then, we will survive. That is what we do.”
When the music fades on November 1 and the cameras switch off, Kerala will still be what it has always been: a state of striking achievements and lingering inequalities.