Despite fearing for their lives, many workers of the Srisailam Left Bank Canal are faced with a difficult choice: prioritise survival and leave a job that has provided a living or risk their lives and enter the perilous tunnel again.
Published Feb 27, 2025 | 9:00 AM ⚊ Updated Mar 16, 2025 | 6:11 PM
SLBC tunnel workers.(Sumit Jha/South First)
Synopsis: As efforts to rescue eight workers trapped under the catastrophic collapse of the Srisailam Left Bank Canal (SLBC) Tunnel project in Telangana continue, fellow workers who were present at the site when the disaster struck recount their harrowing experiences and share why they have refused to re-enter the perilous tunnel despite mounting pressure to assist with the rescue.
It was the morning of Tuesday, 25 February. Inside the compound of the Srisailam Left Bank Canal (SLBC) Tunnel project, operated by Jaypee Associates in Domalapenta, Nagarkurnool district of Telangana, a water tanker moved across a dusty field, spraying water over a helipad.
The dust had to settle before the arrival of the Deputy Chief Minister of Telangana, Mallu Bhatti Vikramarka, whose helicopter was expected to land soon.
Amid the controlled chaos, a man in a torn blue vest and half-pants walked past the helipad. He was short, lean, and muscular – a labourer hardened by years of physical toil.
His name was Phoolchand, and he was in his late twenties. Unlike the officials and police personnel moving around, his mind was elsewhere.
From a distance, the sounds of laughter and occasional arguments filled the air. Some workers sat in small circles, playing cards, their voices rising in excitement and friendly teasing.
Others went about their daily routines – scrubbing utensils under a running tap from another water tanker standing a few metres away from their camp, or methodically cleaning their teeth with twigs.
Inside one such room, where four dormitory beds were stacked tightly together, eight men shared the little space available.
Phoolchand pointed to one of the lower bunks – its blue bedsheet neatly tucked, a few clothes hanging from a string tied to the bed frame. The bed belonged to Anuj Sahu.
Anuj Sahu bed at SLBC camp
“This was his bed,” Phoolchand told South First, his voice quiet. “And these… these are his clothes.”
Anuj Sahu was one of the eight workers trapped inside the collapsed SLBC tunnel since 22 February. It has been over 100 hours since the disaster, and efforts to reach them so far have been futile.
Phoolchand looked around the room as if searching for something more – something that still carried Anuj’s presence. He walked over to a corner and picked up a small pan and an eating plate.
“This is all he had,” he murmured. “He used to cook sometimes, so he kept this pan. And this plate… this is what he ate from.”
There was nothing else. No valuables. No personal belongings.
“He had a phone,” Phoolchand added, after a pause. “It was expensive. But he took it with him… into the tunnel.”
Plate and pan of Anuj Sahu
That phone – now buried in darkness along with Anuj – was his only connection to the outside world. To his family. To life beyond the steel walls of this cramped labour camp.
For now, his bed remained untouched, waiting for him to return.
Sudana has been working at the Srisailam Left Bank Canal (SLBC) tunnel for the past eight months. On the morning of 22 February, like every other, the team had started early.
“The tunnel was being fitted, the machines were getting ready. We started at 7 am, and took the loco to reach the site. It took an hour. We didn’t even have tea before entering.
“When we got there, we saw water rushing in from above. We tried to stop it, stuffing thick plastic jute bags into the gaps to slow it down. And then – boom.
“It was the mould. Someone screamed, ‘Run!’ So we ran. The people near the head of the cutter, just two or three meters away from the machine, got trapped in an instant. We didn’t see anyone. We just ran.
“I ran the whole way – 13 or 14 kilometres – until I reached the exit. Some others managed to escape on the loco,” Sudana recounted to South First.
Once outside, the counting began.
Deepak(blue-tshirt), Sudana(in middle), and Phoolchand
“We checked the register, calling out names one by one,” he continued. “That’s when we realized – eight of our men were still inside.”
Fear had gripped them. Some of the workers wanted to go back, to help with the rescue, but the terror of getting trapped again held them back.
“They’re from different villages, but they are our friends,” Sudana said quietly.
Deepak Sahu, another worker, recounts:
“We had barely started work on the TBM – just 15 or 20 minutes in – when we heard the boom. There was water. I had two or four people behind me, and we all started running.
Jeetu Sahu in middle
“Some climbed onto the conveyor belt, others onto the pipe. The ones who rushed out first made it. But the ones closest to the TBM machine… they got stuck.”
Deepak’s voice wavered as he recalled the night before the collapse. They had been carrying out their routine work, and the water had been receding.
“But that day, suddenly, a huge surge of mud, debris, and water rushed in all at once. The mould we had put up to contain it collapsed in an instant.
Two Jaypee Associates officers and two people from Robbins (the technicians operating the Tunnel Boring Machine) were right there in front. Everyone saw the water coming, but no one realized how fast it was moving.
The machine was about to start in that shift – but before anything could be done, chaos took over,” he told South First.
“The company (Jaypee Associates) sent people here in the last two days, asking us to help the NDRF teams in the rescue efforts,” Deepak said, his voice firm but weary.
Workers in the camp playing cards.
“But we refused. Going back in is too risky. I’ve seen how things collapsed – our lives matter too. We have another chance to live, why should we gamble with it again? There’s debris, mud, silt… How can anyone go back in there?”
He paused for a moment, then added, “If the trapped workers are brought out alive, their fate will be different. But for those of us still here, we have to decide – should we continue working or leave for good? Right now, none of us want to step back inside that tunnel.”
Deepak has been working at the site since 2009. He remembered when the tunnel boring had only reached 2 km.
“Back then, this kind of flooding, this kind of collapse – it never happened. Sure, the machine wasn’t running for the last few years, and when it restarted, some water seeped in, but nothing like this. This is something else entirely.”
He looked away, lost in thought before speaking again. “We had never seen such danger before. This work fed our families. I had settled into it, thinking this was my job, my livelihood. But now… after this nightmare, none of us have the courage to even look at that tunnel’s entrance.”
Phoolchand Sahu nodded in agreement. “Back home, we have farming, but what do we really earn from it? Just enough to survive.
“There’s nothing else to do there. And yet, this fear – it’s like a nightmare. I’ve worked inside tunnels for years, but now, I can’t even look at one. None of us want to go back in.”
Phoolchand recalled the moment he informed his family about the accident:
“They knew it was dangerous. My wife told me not to go back in. She said my life is more important than any amount of money I could earn. I’ve thought about it so many times – who will take care of my kids if something happens to me? But at the same time, there’s no work back home. What choice do we have?”
Many of the workers shared the same dilemma.
“Some of us want to leave, to go home. But then we stop and think – how will we earn? This is the only work we know. Maybe we’ll have to go back inside the tunnel someday, but right now, none of us can even imagine it,” Phoolchand admitted.
Minister Uttam Kumar Reddy with Rescue workers
Deepak, who got married in 2013 and has children of his own, echoed the same sentiment:
“I think about my wife, my kids, my parents. For years, I believed this work was safe. If I had known about a risk like this, I would have never come here. I would have found something else to do for my family.”
And then there was the issue of wages.
“We haven’t been paid in three months,” another worker revealed to South First. “We were supposed to get our dues, but we only got one month’s pay.
“For the past five years, we’ve been receiving our salaries after three months, sometimes even five. Since December, we haven’t gotten anything,” he added.
Phoolchand sighed. “My family tells me – if you’re alive, you’ll find work anywhere. But don’t risk it again. Don’t go inside that tunnel.
“Right now, I just want to go home. I don’t know what I’ll do next, but for now, I can’t stay here.”
Holding a small polythene bag in his right hand, Jeetu Sahu stood quietly, surrounded by men with notepads and phones recording his every word.
He remained calm, dressed in an old t-shirt and tailored pants, a towel (gamchha) draped around his neck. His blue slippers, worn and cracked, were caked with mud – a sign of years spent working in the fields.
Jeetu Sahu, a farmer from Gumla district in Jharkhand, had travelled over a thousand kilometres with just one hope – to see his son again.
His son, 28-year-old Sandeep Sahu, was one of the eight workers trapped inside the collapsed SLBC tunnel.
Despite the weight of uncertainty, Jeetu spoke in a steady voice. He requested people not to take his photo, yet patiently answered their questions.
He stood about four kilometres away from the tunnel site, near the guesthouse of Jaypee Associates, waiting alongside four other family members for government officials to meet them.
“On the 22nd, I was working in the fields as usual. I am a farm labourer,” he recalled.
“I returned home around 5 pm. My son Sandeep came to work here more than a year ago. He visited home last September – on the 23rd. That was the last time we saw him.”
He paused, then continued, “He used to tell us he was earning ₹12,000 a month, sometimes ₹14,000 with overtime.
“He took this job, knowing the risks, because he wanted to earn more. He thought he’d come home in April or May, and we’d get him married.”
Standing beside Jeetu was Mahran Sahu, Sandeep’s cousin. His voice was filled with regret.
“Sandeep grew up at his maternal home. He had been working here for over a year,” he recounted.
“He visited our village in September, but I was away at work, so I couldn’t meet him. The last time we spoke was just eight days before the accident. We talked for over an hour.”
Mahran had tried to convince him to leave.
“I told him – if you’re not earning enough here, come work with me. I work in a cement factory in Budavada near Vijayawada, Andhra Pradesh,” he said.
“You’ll get better pay. But he refused. He wanted to learn how to operate the TBM machine.”
On Saturday night, when news of the accident reached him, Mahran couldn’t think of anything else.
“I couldn’t sleep. I took leave from work and rushed here on Tuesday morning,” he said.
“But the company isn’t giving us any information. We still don’t know anything about Sandeep. He has a younger brother, and two sisters – one of whom was recently married.”
As they waited for answers, the silence weighed heavy on them.
(Edited by Dese Gowda)
