Alipur Factory Fire: The Human Cost of Delhi’s Oversight Failures

Fire, Grief, and the Wait for Justice: Inside the Alipur Factory Tragedy

On the evening of February 15, 2024, a deadly inferno tore through a paint factory in Alipur, Delhi, leaving eleven people dead and several others injured. The unit, operating illegally in open defiance of safety norms, turned into a death trap within minutes. Nearly twenty months later, families of the factory workers are still waiting for justice — and for the compensation they were promised.

Among those still mourning is Ragini Devi, who lost her husband, Anil Thakur, in the fire. The mother of three has received ₹10 lakh from the Delhi government, but she says that does little to fill the void left behind. “He was the only breadwinner,” she said, her voice breaking. “Now the man responsible for my husband’s death walks free.”

Recalling the day of the tragedy, Ragini said her husband had spoken to her barely an hour before the blaze. “He called me at four in the evening. Everything seemed normal,” she recounted. “Later, a relative called to say there was a fire at his factory. I tried calling him again — the phone kept ringing, then switched off. My daughter called twice and started crying. We rushed to the factory, but by the time we reached, everything was over.”

She remembers confronting the factory owner, Akhil Jain, over the phone that evening. “He said, ‘I’m not in Delhi, and I don’t know what’s happening there.’ But when I reached, it was all finished,” she said softly. “I wasn’t in a state to even look at his body.”

The tragedy did not just claim one life. It ripped through a network of workers from poor families who came to Delhi in search of daily wages.

Twenty-year-old Brij Kishore, from Gonda in Uttar Pradesh, was among those killed. His cousin, Asha Ram, said Brij had been unwell but couldn’t afford to skip work. “He had fever for two days,” Asha Ram recalled. “I told him to rest, but he said if he missed work, his wages would be cut. He earned barely seven to eight thousand rupees a month.”

According to Asha Ram, the factory lacked even basic safety equipment. “He had no shoes, gloves, or uniform — just his old clothes covered in paint,” he said. “There were fire extinguishers, but they were useless — so old that only powder came out of them.”

Residents and witnesses say the tragedy was compounded by a delayed response from authorities. “Neither the police nor the fire department came on time,” Asha Ram said. “The police turned their bikes around when they saw the flames. The fire brigade came after one and a half hours — by then, the fire had already destroyed everything.”

He added that it was the locals in Alipur who called for help. “We informed the fire brigade ourselves,” he said. “When they came, they only controlled the crowd; they didn’t let us go near to try rescuing anyone.”

Families say their loved ones had long complained about the toxic working conditions. “The chemicals made them sick — white patches on hands, irritation on the face,” said Asha Ram. “If the fumes went into the nose, it caused cold and fever.”

Even today, many locals don’t know the name of the factory where the fire broke out — a sign, families say, of how invisible the workers were in life and in death.

One of them, Harish Chander, also perished in the blaze. His son-in-law, Babu Prasad, remembers what he saw at the hospital. “Most of his body was burnt; only the legs were left,” he said quietly. “His slippers and a small diary were the only things that survived.”

According to Prasad, the factory’s owner, Akhil Jain, made partial compensation payments only after the families approached the labour court. “He hasn’t paid us properly in one and a half years,” Prasad said. “He used to pay once a year, sometimes after one and a half years. Even that stopped.”

Harish Chander’s wife, Sumitra, is too weary for demands. “What can we even ask from the government?” she said. “They themselves should think about it.”

The Law, the Lapses, and the Silence Around the Alipur Fire

A day after the devastating factory blaze in Alipur, the Delhi Police filed an FIR on February 16, 2024. By April, a chargesheet named three people — landowner Raj Rani, factory owner Akhil Jain, and his father Ashok Jain, who had also died in the fire. The chargesheet confirmed what many already knew: the factory had no licence, no fire clearance, and no safety measures.

Workers had been locked inside the premises, windows bolted, exits sealed. Police noted that the accused were booked for culpable homicide — not mere negligence — since the risks were known and ignored. But months later, little has changed. Justice remains a distant promise, and the families still wait.

Harishankar Yadav, whose brother Kripa Shankar Yadav died in the fire, said the factory was an illegal setup hiding behind the façade of a small paint unit. “I worked there myself for two years,” he said. “The owner had got welding work done that day, and that’s how the fire started. My brother had just stepped inside to drink tea when the blast happened. In five minutes, everything was over.”

He described his brother as “a noble man” who worked tirelessly to support others. “He used to say, ‘Diamonds can be missed, but not cumin seeds,’ meaning no act of kindness should be ignored,” Harishankar recalled. “Now his little children are orphans.”

Legal experts say the tragedy exposes deep cracks in India’s enforcement machinery. Surya Prakash, a labour law advocate, called the factory a case study in systemic failure. “Violations occurred under both labour and criminal laws,” he explained. “Under the Factory Act, the employer must maintain wage registers, EPF and ESIC records, display pollution boards, and ensure safety compliance. None of that existed here. There was no employer–employee record, no compliance, no accountability. Every law — labour, environmental, and criminal — was violated.”

But while the Alipur factory owner now walks free, the bigger question looms: what about the authorities who allowed such a unit to operate in the first place?

For Naksh, the pain is still raw. He lost his mother, Meera, in the fire. “I used to visit her two or three times a day,” he said. “That evening, I was eating roti when I saw people running. I thought maybe there was a fight. When I went outside, I saw fire in my mother’s factory.”

Families like Naksh’s have been left with nothing but unanswered questions. Aarti Devi, the wife of another victim, Pankaj Kumar, said simply, “We are poor people. Everyone who died was young. When such a big incident happens, the government should at least provide some help.”

Among the many widows left behind is Babita Singh, wife of Ram Surat Singh, another worker killed in the Alipur fire. Her voice trembled as she recalled the night of February 15. “I kept calling him in the evening, but he didn’t respond,” she said. “Later, people from the village told me a terrible fire had broken out. When they went searching, they found he was gone.”

She could not even see his face. “Everything was burnt,” she said softly. “We identified him by his belt and his phone’s SIM card. When it was inserted into another phone, our messages appeared. That’s how I knew it was him.”

Babita blames the factory’s layout for the high death toll. “The gate was locked, and the entrance was so small,” she said. “If the main gate had been open, my husband might have survived. There was another big gate, but that too was locked. People said the factory stood on 300 square yards, but the workers were trapped in one small room.”

That morning, she recalled, her husband had left home smiling. “I packed lunch for him and gave him prasad,” she said. “He kept it in his bag and said he’d eat later. I didn’t know that was the last time I’d see him.”

Her grief deepens when she speaks of her daughter, a civil engineering student. “The government should think about our children,” Babita said. “My daughter worked hard to study, but now her future is uncertain. She wanted to buy a laptop — that dream is gone. My husband’s death has taken everything from us.”

Justice Denied: How the Alipur Fire Exposed a System Built on Neglect

When the paint factory in Alipur went up in flames, authorities acted swiftly — but only on paper. Police arrested two men, including the factory owner’s son, Akhil Jain, in February 2024. But within weeks, both were out on bail. What families describe as “cosmetic arrests” have done little to heal the wounds of those left behind.

“The factory owner is responsible,” said Shyamu, whose brother Shubham died in the fire. “People say the owner also died, but that’s not true — it was his father who died. Akhil Jain, his son is also a co-owner and he was outside that day. The government is equally responsible. If such factories are allowed to run in established areas, then the authorities should share the blame.”

For the victims’ families, this impunity feels like a second tragedy. They have watched the case fade from headlines, even as they live its consequences every day.

Among the many stories of quiet heartbreak is that of Vishal, a daily wage worker who left home that morning unaware it would be his last. His brother-in-law Pintu remembers him fondly. “He came in the morning, drank his tea without straining it, and told his sister that filtering tea removes all the vitamins,” he recalled with a faint smile. “He packed four chapatis and vegetables, then left for duty at 8 AM. After that, we never saw him again.”

But the Alipur fire was not an isolated tragedy — it was a symptom of something far deeper. “There are thousands of such factories in Delhi,” said Surya Prakash. “The government has the machinery to regulate them, yet nothing is enforced. Factory owners focus only on profit and push all risks onto workers. Do you think the local police or district officers are unaware? Money moves from the factory to the police station, to the DM’s office, and even to local politicians. That’s why these places continue to run openly.”

Incredibly, despite multiple news reports about his arrest, Akhil Jain was accessible by phone last year — and willing to talk. When asked about the Alipur fire, he dismissed the questions. “The case is in court,” he said curtly. “I can’t discuss it. Everything is in process — with the court and the government.” When pressed about compensation for victims’ families, his tone turned defensive. “If I hang up on you, will you feel good? You’re asking unnecessary questions.”

Months later, in September 2025, he revealed something astonishing. “The case against me has been discharged,” Jain said. “I’m a free man now.”

When we approached the local police to verify his claim, we received evasive responses. No one could explain how a man once accused of culpable homicide was now walking free.

And so, the questions linger: How did an unregistered, unsafe factory operate for years in Alipur? Who bears responsibility for the deaths of the workers? What consequences have the guilty faced? The grim answer — none.

The Alipur fire stands as a chilling reminder of how easily human lives are lost — and forgotten — in the machinery of negligence, where justice flickers out long before the flames do.