For Rashida Bibi, Fridays are virtually luxurious. That day, one of the families she works for gives her a weekly break, another makes work trips to Delhi so they leave early, and a third hosts an event so they hire specialised staff. That means instead of 5.30am, she wakes up at a leisurely 8am. Her sore muscles are allowed some rest, her chai simmers longer, and her trip to the market is more of a canter and not the usual dash. The only people who grudge her Fridays are her two children, aged eight and five, who spend a tense morning under the watchful eyes of a mother anxious about their progress in school.

Last Friday, though, was anything but languid. Crouched on the floor of her shanty made of corrugated tin sheets held aloft by sticks of bamboo, Bibi sorted her family’s meagre belongings into essential and disposable. Stained sheets, sarees, and her husband’s lungis and shirts in one steel box, the children’s books and documents into the almost new suitcase her employers gave her last year, and pots and pans she had painstakingly collected over the years into a makeshift tarp bundle. Some plastic buckets, a stack of dented plates, and a crumpled towel didn’t make the cut. “Maybe if we come back..” her voice trailed off.

The migrant worker from Bengal’s Murshidabad district wasn’t alone. Over the past week, nearly 1,000 families of Bengali-speaking migrant workers have packed up and left Gurugram in hired trucks and buses, spooked by the city police’s drive targeting undocumented immigrants. The administration has said that they are targeting undocumented Bangladeshi immigrants – part of a wider national drive across multiple states – but migrant workers allege that the opaque process has triggered anxiety and fear among poor Bengali-speaking people, forcing them to abandon their posts as sanitation workers, domestic helps, cooks, guards, and auto and rickshaw drivers. Moreover, the demand for papers beyond the usual Aadhaar or voter identity cards has caused consternation. “This is what the government asks us to have every time. How will I get more papers? Where is the time?” Bibi asked.

Rush to flee crackdown

In a narrow lane behind the glittering towers of Sector 69 in Gurugram, a worn-out truck stood idling last Friday morning. Around it, families stuffed their belongings— rolled mattresses, plastic buckets, bags of clothes, battered utensils — into the open container. Aisha Khatun tried to keep her crying children calm as they clung to her kurta, begging not to leave their school and friends.

“We came here to earn with dignity,” said Khatun, a domestic worker who had lived here for three years. “Now we are being treated like criminals. I am scared every time I hear a knock at the door. My neighbour told me the police took her husband without any notice.”

In her neighbourhood, each family paid ₹25,000 to ₹30,000 to arrange their return, a bulk of it spent on transport and emergency expenses. This included truck rentals, fuel, agents, and basic provisions. “All the money we had saved in three years was spent in a single night,” said Shabana Parveen, a resident of slums near Sector 57. “We didn’t even get our salary since we left without any notice. Our employer said they will transfer it later on UPI, but I don’t even have a phone. I gave them my cousin’s number.”

A sudden, opaque process, say migrants

The Gurugram Police drive began around July 7, in line with several similar such initiatives across the country, including in Delhi. Gurugram Police public relations officer Sandeep Kumar said the trigger was concerns about undocumented people. He also clarified that basic medical assistance and food were provided. “There was a team assigned, but no critical medical issue arose,” he said.

He added that out of over 250 picked up, only 10 were found to be actual undocumented immigrants from Bangladesh. “All others were released after cross-verification. Everything was done under CCTV monitoring. No formal complaint of harassment was received,” he added. A senior police official blamed the panic on old videos. “Gurugram Police have not beaten up or harasses anybody. We are just verifying the identity of migrants, and only those with no valid legal documents were detained earlier. We have reached out to the RWAs to help us in spreading awareness,” the official said.

But migrant workers complain that the process was sudden and opaque, and complicated by the police’s refusal to accept documents such as Aadhaar or voter IDs. “They checked our documents and said that they have to confirm with some central list,” said Khatun.

Rahim Sheikh from Badshahpur, who worked as a security guard, alleged he was detained for three days before being released. “We were taken without notice. My wife kept waiting. I had no way to inform her. It was terrifying. We got food, but we didn’t know if we would ever get out.”

Nazma Sultana, a house help from Sector 46, said her husband was picked up but released later. “He was scared out of his wits. We decided not to wait for another shock. We sold our fridge and fan to pay the truck guy.”

The police said four community centres in Sector 10A, Badshapur, Sector 40 and Manesar were turned into temporary detention centres, but added that given the fear, they were changing their approach. “We understand emotions are involved, and based on feedback, we have decided to alter our approach. Now, verification will be done locally at police beats, not at detention centres,” Kumar said.

The city’s underbelly

People like Bibi, Khatun and Sheikh form a 400 million strong pool of internal migrants who travel from under-developed sinks in rural Bengal, Bihar, Odisha and Uttar Pradesh to megacities such as Delhi, Gurugram, Bengaluru, Chennai or Hyderabad. Informal networks of kinship make this possible – Bibi, for example, came to Gurugram four years ago following the footsteps of her husband and his elder brother, who has since moved to Hyderabad. In India’s metropolises that thrive on a vast but informal underbelly of civic services, migrants plug important gaps by serving in a wide range of professions. The compact might be uneasy – it took Bibi’s family almost a year to occupy a permanent shanty – but it is rewarding. “In my village, I would just be cooking and tilling someone else’s fields. Here I was earning almost ₹30,000,” she said.

But the recent drive upset this balance, triggering fear that the mere sound of unfamiliar or unpolished Bengali was enough to trigger suspicion. “We started getting calls that people were being detained and sent to jail. They said there would be no bail,” said Jamal Mondal, who lived in Sector 55. “I called a relative in Kolkata who helped arrange a truck. 45 of us left the next day.”

Abdul Karim, a truck driver from Kolkata who came to deliver goods in Manesar, said he was hired by the families to ferry them back. “They begged me with tears in their eyes. I took two full trucks of families back. The kids cried the whole way.” Mohammad Rafiq, another driver from Howrah, said he came to Gurugram to deliver marble. “On my return, I took back 35 people,” he said. Last Saturday, HT spotted 10 trucks ferrying household goods out of slum clusters across South City 2, Sector 45, Sector 47, Palam Vihar, Sector 109, Sector 69–70, Sector 57, Wazirabad, and Badshahpur.

City without ‘help’

The urban villages that grew like moss around upscale neighbourhoods in Gurugram are now depleted. And across the (class) divide, there is some alarm too, but for different reasons.

“Our maid left overnight. No warning,” said Reema Singh, a South City 2 resident. “Now I do chores, work full-time, and manage a toddler. It’s exhausting.”

Rajiv Mehta, who lives in Sector 48, concurred. “Our car washer disappeared. He was from West Bengal. He had been with us for five years. Now, even if others come, how do we ensure they won’t leave tomorrow?”

Some residents expressed empathy. “My wife is a teacher, and I am in a sales job. Without our house help, everything is haywire,” said Vinay Malhotra. “But we are not angry at them. They left because they were scared.”

Imran Ali, a cook from Sector 57, said his employer helped him leave. “He gave me ₹2,000 and said, ‘Take care of your family.’ But not everyone was that lucky. Some employers didn’t even return their calls.” The departure has also triggered ripples in the city’s fringe zones, where rental homes in areas such as Wazirabad, Chakkarpur, and Sikanderpur now sit empty.

‘Won’t detain anyone but will continue verification’

Gurugram Police now say they will not detain anyone, but that verification will continue. “We are not holding anybody, but the verification is continuing. Now, only those who come across as very suspicious will be detained,” said Kumar. Many who left Gurugram said it might be too late. “We paid rent, followed rules, worked with dignity, and yet, we had to escape like criminals,” said Nazma.

Some are certain they won’t come back. “We burnt our bridges,” said Anwar Hossain, who worked as a cook in DLF Phase 3. “We ran, sold everything, spent every rupee. How can we come back?”

Others aren’t as sure. Bibi is now back in Bengal, secure in her large joint family where her sisters-in-law welcomed her. She is planning to travel to Kolkata and work there for a few months as whatever she can – cook, cleaner, helper. But she knows the market is saturated and the pay is far lower than what she was getting in Gurugram. “We will have to go back,” she said. Noile khabo ki (What will we eat otherwise)?”