Neetu’s life is a powerful reminder that sanitation is a human right, and one that becomes even more urgent when viewed through the lens of disability. Her journey shows the extraordinary resilience required to claim dignity in a world that often overlooks women living with disabilities.

Neetu, now 44, grew up in Dehradun. When she was a year and a half old, she was diagnosed with polio—far too late for timely intervention. The delayed diagnosis left her with severe mobility challenges.

Instead of support, she faced stigma. Some relatives openly called her a burden. Her maternal grandfather even suggested giving her poison. Her father, however, stood firmly by her side and fought for her right to live.

Crawling was her only way of moving around the house, leaving her vulnerable to infections and chronic stomach ailments. From an early age, both gender and disability shaped her daily struggles—especially around movement, hygiene, and privacy.

Neetu didn’t enter school until she was 13. As the oldest child in her class, she faced humiliation and bullying. The school toilets were inaccessible, and she often had to depend on male staff to carry her—an experience that caused deep embarrassment and, at times, even violence. To avoid the ordeal, she would hold her urine all day, harming her health.

Menstruation brought more challenges. Neither her family nor the school gave her any guidance. Changing cloth pads was painful, unhygienic, and emotionally distressing. Her mother often scolded her in frustration, leaving Neetu feeling guilty for something that was beyond her control. She faced multiple, overlapping barriers, such as limited mobility, inaccessible toilets, lack of information, and social silence around menstruation.

“Because of my physical constraints, it used to be extremely difficult to change my sanitary pads without assistance. Often, I had to crawl to reach the toilet, and avoiding leaks or infections became a constant struggle.”

Despite this, Neetu never stopped showing up. She crawled to school daily with her bag on her back. The school became her first space of hope, until she was asked to leave after Class 5 because she was ‘too old’.

Still, she persisted. She later joined a blind school and continued her education up to Class 8.

For most of her life, Neetu had no choice but to defecate in the open. When her family eventually built a toilet inside their home, it was still inaccessible, forcing her to crawl and struggle through infections, rashes, and humiliation, especially during her periods.

After her father passed away, life became even harder. Her mother grew abusive, and her brother removed her name from their father’s property. Feeling unwanted and unsafe, Neetu left home and stayed in missionary schools for several years.

Even there, the toilets were far from her room. During the rains, she would sometimes continue wearing soiled clothes until she could crawl to the bathroom. These small, everyday obstacles, ones most people never think about, were tiring for her.

Despite hardship, Neetu found strength in learning. She joined skill-training programmes in stitching and candle-making. With determination and support from mentors, she eventually opened her own stitching centre.

Here, she began training other women and girls with disabilities, enabling them to live with dignity, confidence, and financial independence.

Neetu met her husband at work, and they chose to marry despite her family’s disapproval. “A disabled woman shouldn’t dream of marriage,” they told her. Their rejection hurt deeply, but she moved ahead with courage.

Her husband’s family welcomed her warmly. Together, they moved into a small slum dwelling near her stitching centre. The house was small, and water was scarce; only one handpump served over 200 households. Her husband often spent hours queuing for water, carrying heavy buckets back home. Because storage space was limited, they rationed water strictly, drinking less, using the toilet less, managing their days around scarcity.

Acting on the need for safety, Neetu built a small toilet inside their home—despite neighbours criticising her. For her, the dignity of a private space mattered more than anything. Sometimes, she felt guilty for having to depend on her husband for even small daily tasks, but he never made her feel inadequate. He stood by her as a patient, supportive partner, encouraging her dreams.

With his support, Neetu continued running her stitching centre and even opened a small balwadi (a preschool in India that provides early childhood education, care, and nutrition) for local children.

Neetu transformed her struggles into leadership. She established Neetu Beginning Foundation, an NGO focusing on disability rights, sanitation access, and education. She now counsels caregivers, supports girls with disabilities in accessing schools and entitlements, and raises awareness on the need for accessible toilets.

For Neetu, the message is clear: the right to sanitation is fundamental for dignity, safety, and inclusion, and must not be denied to anyone because of disability or gender.​

In her small home, Neetu has learned to adapt to her physical surroundings: she can do chores like cooking and washing utensils comfortably from her bed. She dreams of building a fully accessible toilet one day, one that allows her to live without pain, fear, or dependence.

Her deepest hope is that no girl living with disabilities should face the humiliation, neglect, and everyday barriers she once did. “Sanitation is not a privilege,” she says. “It is a basic right. Everyone deserves to live with dignity.”

Neetu’s story highlights what an ableist society often refuses to see: that disabled individuals face immense, invisible barriers around sanitation, mobility, privacy, and safety. Her life has been a long struggle against neglect, inaccessible infrastructure, and social stigma. Yet, through extraordinary courage and determination, Neetu rebuilt not only her own dignity but also created pathways for others. Her fight reminds us that sanitation, accessibility, and dignity must be universal rights, not privileges granted only to those who fit society’s norms.

— Nisha Rani, Programme Coordinator, CREA