A life changing day

Today was a big day. A day we knew we would never forget. We were excited and nervous, unsure of what we were going to experience. On the way to the tour, we sat in the back of an air-conditioned taxi, and at the first stop of the car we were faced with the gut wrenching reality of child beggars. One boy, about the same age as mine, pressed his face against the window, gesturing with his hand towards his mouth. My friend and I looked at each other, without words we knew exactly what we had to do – what we had been told to do. We turned away. That experience of ignoring a needy child so blatantly will stay with me forever. The guilt, the confusion, it was all just too much. We both took deep breaths, and the cab kept on moving.


Our tour guide’s name was Thomas. He was a handsome Indian man in his twenties. He had a brilliant smile. We paused for a moment on top of a bridge going over a train track. Over the bridge was one of the world’s largest slums, Dharavi. On the bridge Thomas’ matter-of-fact account of the number of people who are killed daily by the trains below, who are so packed with people, was surreal. On each side of the tracks, people picked through the garbage on the tracks when the trains were gone. “17 a day probably”, he said. The trains below us, on the bridge, kill seventeen people a day. “Everyday I come I see some body parts down there. Today, nothing. You are lucky”, he continued. If only he knew how lucky we were, in too many ways to count. Behind us came two laughing children, probably no more than 4 years old who kept pointing at my water bottle and yelling “water!”. Thomas, without hesitation, swatted them on the head with his newspaper. They went on the merry way. “Thomas, please, no need to swat the kids” I said. He laughed.

view of Dharavi Slum from the bridge

Then, as we walked down the cement stairs of the bridge, we made our way into a city within a city, into the slum of Mumbai. There are a million people living here, all within 400,000 square feet. In the slum area, there is little wind, and it is very, very hot. The slums are separated by religion here. Muslims, Hindus, and Christians, all live within their own neighbourhoods. We started the tour in the industrial part of the slum. Thomas showed us the various trades of the people. The slums export more than 650 million dollars US internationally. Next time you buy a purse, think of where it was made. If it says made in India, it was made in the slums. The people of Dharavi are industrious. They are specialists in textile, leather goods, plastic recycling, pottery, among many other trades. Thomas told us that these workers have trouble finding work outside of the slum, even though they are qualified, all because of the stigma of being the lower people in a caste system. Those who get out, he says, are those who lie about their addresses in order to get jobs outside and make more money.

Living in a slum costs 2500 Rupees a month and an average salary is 3000 Rupees a month. This is about 35$ USD. That leaves little for food for a family of 6-10 children. “Who do they pay this money to”, I ask. “To the slum lords. You see that car that is covered by a sheet? That is the slum lords BMW. He lives in America, and pays someone to watch his car here all day and night. This is a reminder that he is the boss”.

Everywhere we walked, there were people. Children play in the dark spaces between the houses not more than 2 feet wide. Sewers run openly through the streets, and onto the streets. Children run barefoot, smiling and playing in piles upon piles of garbage. As Thomas took us through the dark alleyways we could see inside the houses, which were no more than a room where everyone ate, slept and bathed. All 10 of them. Young children would walk through the maze of houses as though they owned the place, smiling at me saying hello. Children would run up to us to shake their hands and tells us their names. Without hesitation, we shook their hands, and they went happily on their way, proud to have just met 'those other people'. "Shake their hands", said Thomas. "It makes them feel like they matter. "

It was smelly, extremely hot, full of noise and people. I was overwhelmed. At one point, I thought I would be sick. Thankfully, Thomas took us to a place inside a textile building where there was a fan. There, I had some water, feeling guilty for being so weak during my 2 hour stay in Dharavi. These people live here for ever.

What surprised me the most was the industrious nature of the people in Dharavi. This was truly a city within a city. The people were hard working, earning a living, raising a family. The people were very nice and courteous. The women were especially nice to us. Bringing their children beside us so they could view the white people, a novelty for most. We waved, said hello.

On our way back to the hotel, we took a cab that wasn’t air conditioned and the cab driver took us to the wrong hotel. Our trek, in what must have been 40C heat, took over an hour. During this time we once again were confronted with child beggars, this time with the windows down and within heavy traffic. A 3 year old boy, walking between 3 lanes of moving cars, came to ask us for money. We looked him in the eye and said, “no”. These images will stay in my heart forever. The unfairness of this world, where people like me who are among the priviledged are told to turn our backs on those less fortunate. Why?
Because we can't help them all, I am told.
I continue to struggle with my entitlement.
Back at the hotel room we were completely deflated, tired, sweaty, and dehydrated. This from only 4 hours of experiencing India. How spoiled I feel now back in my air-conditioned hotel room, sipping my Evian water. How privileged I feel. How much I miss my own children back home.
I have so many stories to share with them.