Reflections on gender, justice, and land in a rapidly urbanizing India.
Growing up in cities all my life, land was a very complex yet simultaneously simple aspect of my life. Finding land was extremely difficult, but was mostly a question of affordability and more importantly, some form of security for a typical middle class family. I would overhear my mother and aunt discussing the ancestral home fondly, but living in a city and shifting multiple houses only put me in a place to choose what was most comfortable for me- a young girl who needed the right friends, school and at most well-lit roads.
As I travelled to different cities in India for my education, my institutions were not placed in what would traditionally be the residential heart of the city but the chaotic outskirts. Simultaneously, my parents shifted to a semi-urban town due to work opportunities. These places initially felt disconnected and uncomfortable to me. However, as I began to stay and interact with people there, I realised the complex web of power, gender, and rapidly shifting economics. I began to realise that the socio-economic cost of my definition of a ‘well-connected place’, came at the cost of the ‘local people losing their connection’ with their land.
Thus, India's land question isn't merely about who owns what. The statistics tell only one part of the story: approximately 86% of farmers in India are small and marginal landholders with less than two hectares of land. The human realities I witness each time are more nuanced. For example, one of my dear friends was supposed to inherit land after her father's death. However, her male relatives made it incredibly hard for her to gain ownership, even going to the extent of saying they would cover all her wedding expenses instead! Despite constitutional amendments granting women equal inheritance rights, customary practices act as barriers to women. Even today, only about 14% of agricultural landholders in India are women.
The changing nature of land itself presents another dimension. Climate change has transformed once-reliable rainfall patterns and has left us with constant fear of floods every monsoon. Groundwater depletion means the borewells must go deeper each year; today we account for tanker charges as much as we plan for rent. As the cities grow bigger, there is a huge influx of migrants building and working in apartments for urban professionals on what was once farmland and water bodies.
The most concerning is the gradual disappearance of the commons—the ponds, grazing lands, and community forests that once sustained entire communities. As I read through the names of the rapidly developing areas, I find Tamil words for lakes and marshes but no semblance of the same.
This troubling disconnect exists among my generation, with many young people lacking awareness about the value and management of these shared resources. The only time we talk about this is when the roads fill up during monsoons and we blame an abstract idea of government for allowing constructions in low lying areas, while still approving or building housing projects in similarly vulnerable areas. This knowledge gap exists alongside rampant encroachment and privatisation, with both mutually expanding in each other. As we lack understanding of traditional common property management, we lose both the resources themselves and the social cohesion built through their collective stewardship.
At the same time, I’ve witnessed indigenous communities, including fishers and Adivasis rise in resistance, as land holds spiritual and cultural significance beyond economic value. Their traditional rights face constant threats from developmental projects and conservation efforts that exclude human interaction with nature. While the state comes up with digital initiatives like the Digital India Land Records Modernization Programme towards accessibility and transparency, it begs the question if technology alone can resolve deeper questions of justice. Who decides what land is for? Who benefits from its digital transformation? These remain essentially political questions requiring democratic engagement beyond technocratic solutions.
This question is particularly urgent for India's youth, who face unique barriers to land access in both rural and urban settings. As a young woman witnessing this changing landscape, I find myself caught between worlds. I value the economic opportunities of urbanization while mourning the erosion of agricultural communities. I celebrate women's growing legal rights to land while recognizing how far social attitudes lag behind. I appreciate development's potential while questioning its inequitable implementation. Most importantly, I question how people of my age, from marginalised communities are grappling with their relationship to their land. Firstly, for those of us under 35, skyrocketing land prices in both rural and urban areas make land purchase virtually impossible without substantial family wealth, perpetuating intergenerational inequality. Second, the fact that I have more security in my rented house but someone living in a slum could be evicted from what they consider their own home is an irony I continue to be baffled with.
Thus, land access represents more than just property—it's about economic independence and cultural identity. The land beneath my feet connects me to history while pointing toward an uncertain future. As we navigate this transition, ensuring that marginalized voices—women, youth, Dalits, Adivasis, small farmers and fishers—remain central to policy decisions will determine whether India's development truly serves all its people.
For India to harness its demographic dividend—with approximately 66% of our population under age 35—meaningful youth participation in land governance is essential. We need more than just digital land records; we need educational initiatives that build land literacy, especially around commons and policy reforms that create dedicated spaces for youth representation in decision-making bodies. This path forward requires neither blind preservation of the past nor uncritical embrace of the future, but rather thoughtful engagement with both. Our relationship with land must evolve, but its essence—as the foundation for community, identity, and livelihood—remains as vital today as it has for generations.
Rashmi Sridhar will present her insights on "Understanding the Land Question: Why It Matters for Youth" during the ILDC Regional Workshop, taking place in Bengaluru on May 30–31, 2025.
About the Author
Rashmi Sridar is currently a student at Azim Premji University. She is an aspiring researcher interested in the political ecology and economy of commons, particularly the coasts.
Photo: Village of Naduvacheri, in Coimbatore district of Tamil Nadu, India, September 8, 2000. Groundnut and cotton farmers discuss climate-related risks with researchers. Photo: James Hansen (CCAFS). (CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)
