India loves grand reforms the way it loves grand weddings—loud, glittering, photo-ready, and utterly confusing. The new labour codes, stitched together from 29 older laws and unveiled as the biggest labour reform since Independence, fit perfectly into this tradition. They promise a new social contract for workers in the world’s fastest-changing labour market. But the more one reads, the more it feels like a contract written in invisible ink. The government hails them as the dawn of a modern India: universal minimum wages, simplified compliance, social security for gig workers, and broader formalisation. All true. All admirable. And yet, something about the whole structure feels like a house built on uneven ground—impressive from outside, unstable once you step in.
Let’s begin with the good news, for there is some. The most striking reform is the statutory recognition of gig and platform workers. For years, these delivery riders, app-based drivers, freelance technicians and digital piece-workers lived in a legal no-man’s land, invisible to the welfare net. Now, aggregators must contribute a portion of their turnover towards social security funds intended to insure and protect them.
The second major win is the National Floor Wage—a baseline below which no state may go. Unlike the old system that covered only “scheduled employments,” this establishes a universal floor, theoretically protecting even workers in sectors the old laws forgot. Together with mandatory appointment letters and strengthened rules for timely wage payment, the codes do bring seriousness to labour rights, at least on paper.
Then there is the long-promised simplification. The old labyrinth of laws—some dating back to the British Raj—has been replaced by four consolidated codes. Fewer ambiguous clauses, fewer opportunities for inspectors to shake down employers, and fewer excuses for companies not to comply. If implemented honestly, this could, in fact, reduce corruption and improve predictability. But reforms in India tend to shine brightest from the podium and dull the moment they encounter the everyday life of an Indian worker. This is where the problems begin.
Recognition without clarity is a familiar Indian trick. Yes, we have named gig workers in law. But what benefits will they actually receive? How will contributions be calculated? Who will enforce compliance? What happens when a worker is “deactivated” by an algorithm that acts as judge, jury and executioner? Details are pushed into rule-making—the place where industry lobbying is strongest and worker representation weakest. Labour law is only as strong as the rules drafted.
And then we come to the biggest blind spot: domestic workers. Millions of homes employ maids, cooks, nannies, drivers, gardeners and watchmen. Their work is indispensable, yet their rights are fragile, their pay frequently below minimum wage, and their bargaining power almost zero. The codes promise universality, but provide no practical machinery to enforce labour protections inside private homes. There is no inspectorate for kitchens, no payroll system for living rooms, no grievance forum for a worker dismissed because “madam doesn’t like talkative people.”
Some states have welfare boards for domestic workers, but these are patchy, underfunded and uneven. Without a national mechanism, household workers will continue to fall into the oldest category of Indian labour—“workers whose rights exist only in the brochure.”
The other elephant in the labour room is enforcement. Raising thresholds for layoffs and easing contract-labour norms might attract investment, but they also weaken job security. For large corporations, compliance is manageable. For MSMEs, already gasping after Covid-19 shocks, stricter wage definitions and increased social security contributions may push them to the informal side of the fence. India already has the world’s most informal labour market; these codes may unintentionally deepen that informality.
Workers themselves may find that the celebrated reforms leave their pockets lighter. Higher statutory deductions—provident fund, insurance contributions—can reduce take-home pay even as long-term benefits increase. For a delivery rider struggling to pay rent and EMIs, a promise of future pension does little to solve the hunger of the present. This is the eternal Indian development dilemma: policy looks noble in the long run; workers live in the short run.
The biggest question, however, is not in the fine print. It is in the political will to enforce any of this. India’s labour ecosystem has operated for decades on informal understandings, occasional compliance, and a collective shrug. Inspectors are understaffed, unions are weakened, and workers in new-gen sectors have no collective voice. Without enforcement, even the best-designed welfare nets become museum pieces.
Will the new laws uplift gig workers? Possibly—if the rules are honest, if platforms cooperate, if regulators stay awake. Will they protect domestic workers? Not unless the government confronts the inconvenient truth that rights inside private homes require politically risky enforcement. Will they make India more competitive? Perhaps—but competitiveness built on cheaper, more insecure labour is the oldest trick in the capitalist playbook.
The codes are a start, not a settlement. They create the scaffolding for a better labour future but leave vast holes where the poorest still slip through. In a nation where most people work without contracts, without safety nets, without dignity, the simplest expectation from a modern labour code is not ambition—it is compassion. India does not need a labour law that looks progressive. It needs one that feels progressive to the woman who cooks your meals, to the man who guards your gate, to the rider who delivers your dinner in the rain. Until they experience change, the reform remains a headline, not a revolution.
