New Delhi: “People mock me for smelling bad,” said Ravi in Govindpuri in south Delhi. “But they don’t understand. I just can’t bring myself to bathe in there.” Ravi doesn’t have a toilet at home and his only option is the public facility, the same one his mother and sister use every day. He added, “I’d rather go days without a shower than step into the public toilet alone. They attack us with blades if we enter the stalls they have occupied.”
The ‘they’ that Ravi is wary of are drug addicts, who have taken over many of the community toilets in the city. Scattered matchboxes, broken syringes, crumpled foil and empty pill strips litter the floors of these facilities. The stench of rot clings to the walls, mixing with the sharp tang of smoke curling from scorched aluminium foil. The glassy eyed addicts carve out their own corners inside, their fingers trembling over stolen syringes.
Women approach such toilets in groups, never alone. Children hold their breath and count the seconds as they dart in and out. In Dakshinpuri’s Sanjay Camp, Suresh and Chahti, both 80-year-old women, sit on a worn-out bed outside the community toilet, keeping a silent vigil at the entrance. “Yahan ladkon ka mela rehta hai. Kaun dekhega? Toh hum hi nazar rakhte hain (Boys gather here for enjoyment and we keep an eye on them),” muttered Suresh explaining how Chahti and she had assumed this role over the years to ensure that nothing bad happened in the evenings when addicts took over the facility.
“The addicts don’t just use the washroom — they turn it into a marketplace for drugs, buying and selling within its cramped stalls at night,” said Chahti, who along with Suresh earn Rs 500 a month as sweepers, an income that is too meagre for them to add a toilet in their homes.
The story repeats itself across the city. Delhi Urban Shelter Improvement Board (DUSIB) manages these community toilets. There are 662 jan suvidha complexes serving over 15 lakh people, most of them residents of the capital’s slums. DUSIB employs staff or contractors to maintain the toilets, but the caretakers are vulnerable to the threats of the drug addicts. At the grimy, ill maintained structure near Seemapuri bus depot, sanitation worker Mohammad Saeed took off his shirt to reveal a fresh wound on his shoulder. “When I tried to keep this place clean, I was attacked with a blade,” he said. Scattered across the washroom floor were syringes, drug vials and crumpled balls of aluminium foil.
In 2017, a 21-year-old caretaker of a public toilet in west Delhi’s Nangloi was stabbed to death for opposing drug consumption there. In Seemapuri, a sanitation worker bears fresh blade wounds, the consequence of trying to enforce order. In Bawana, mothers speak in hushed tones of daughters who disappeared, last seen near the shattered stall doors of the abandoned toilet.
But there is danger for the addicts too. Suresh Kaushal, an NGO worker, gestured toward the scattered syringes in the Seemapuri facility. “The addicts reuse syringes, digging through trash to find one that seems usable. We’ve tried HIV/AIDS intervention drives, but the cycle continues,” he shrugged.
Thousands live in a JJ cluster right next to the public convenience. Among them are Aaisha, 30, her sister Murshida, 32, and Muslima, 34, all raising their children in the shadow of this decrepit and dangerous structure. “Hamari jhuggi isse satti hui hai, raat ko saans nahi aati hai (my shack is attached to the toilet washroom, we can’t even breathe at night),” sighed Aaisha. The toilet ventilators now spew toxic smoke.
Muslima claimed that it was almost a daily dare to be able to use the toilet after 7pm. “Our children stand guard at the door when we shower. But tell me, why should my five-year-old son have to do that?” she asked. Murshida added, “Every morning, we have to turn it into a game for our children — who can hold their breath the longest, who can run in and out the fastest.”
At the public toilet at Seemapuri Macchi Market, the evidence of drug use isn’t just inside. A makeshift hut outside — a wooden board leaning against the wall — serves as a shelter for the addicts, who mumble incoherently when asked what they are doing.
Peeking at the abandoned toilet across the street through the curtains of her house in Bawana’s JJ Colony, Pooja, 40, hesitated before speaking. “You shouldn’t be here at this hour,” she warned. Glancing at the empty street, she said, “Afternoons are the worst; fewer people are around and anything can happen.” When asked again about the toilet, she repeated the warning, before sighing, “What can we do? We’ve given up. No one says anything anymore.”
Ashok, 30, an e-rickshaw driver who lives next door, said, “I came here hoping to build a future for my family. That washroom, like every other in the colony, became a drug den over the years. When I saw kids following the addicts inside, I knew I had no choice — I sent my wife and children back to our village.”
Electrician Mohammad Javed, 35, his three-year-old niece clinging to his back, stopped his bike and said, “Every street has a ‘Tutan’ — an addict slumped in a corner. “I can’t send my family away, so I keep my niece locked inside the house. Why not demolish this drug den? After all, women feel watched, kids are trapped.”
Pointing at the two amenities in the block, social worker and local Rajesh said, “Every night, 20-25 addicts take over these spaces.” He added, “We’ve tried fixing this for 15 years, but lack of money has hampered our efforts. I’ve seen countless children lost to these drug toilets.”
In Govindpuri, tutor Preeti, 25, gestured at Ekta Park, where children were playing, adults lounged on benches, some watching their pets, others conversing quietly. To the right of the park’s entrance was a public toilet. A small group of people huddled behind the building, their movements cautious and secretive. Preeti lowered her voice. “My students have told me about this place. It is where most of them first see drugs being used,” she said.
When TOI wanted to see the toilet, Ravi, 18, one of Preeti’s students, stepped forward. “Let me go in first,” he said, advising caution. “The addicts hide blades on their tongues and don’t hesitate to attack if you disturb them.” Inside, the shelves meant for soap held alcohol bottles. Some of Preeti’s students, from five-year-olds to those preparing for graduation, know about the dangers of drugs. “But many are falling prey, some as young as 8 or 9 years. And not only them, even their parents are caught in the same cycle,” said the tutor.
The city’s public toilets today stand at the crossroads of necessity and risk —essential yet unsafe, used yet feared. Can they be restored to serve society without intimidating citizens?
When contacted, a Delhi govt official said it was the responsibility of police to ensure the safety and security of people, especially in vulnerable areas like slums where people do not have individual toilets at home and rely on community toilets. The official added that there were instances when drug addicts threatened the caretakers of Jan Suvidha complexes.
“As far as increasing the number of community toilets is concerned, DUSIB has been granted a budget of over Rs 200 crore for the 2025-26 financial year, which is more than 10 times the last fiscal’s. There are about 22,000 toilet seats across 660 Jan Suvidha complexes, while the demand is for 60,000. We hope to increase the number of seats to over 40,000 in this financial year. We are in the process of making an action plan and prioritising the areas where the shortage of seats is acute,” the official said.
He conceded that there were certain lacunae in the terms and conditions for the agencies granted the tender for cleaning the community toilet blocks, which would be corrected in the next cycle. “But we are going to improve the monitoring of the cleaning work. The photos of before and after cleaning will have to be updated twice a day on a mobile app. The area MLAs will also be given access to the app to decentralise the supervision,” the official added.