Dreamlike Reality:
the Dharavi Slums

The air starts to fill with rust and dust as we are crossing the steel blue metallic bridge between the two worlds. India’s largest city, containing Asia’s largest slum. Dharavi is located in the heart of the financial district of Mumbai, providing home to an estimated one million people, spanning over a two-square-kilometre area. From a birds-eye view, it seems vast and almost endless under the scorching mid-January sun. What lies beyond the sand-covered cramped huts, and who calls them home?

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“I consider myself lucky,” says our local tour guide, Sushil, with a broad smile “I used to live here, but then I moved over there with my family, you see” as he points at the pinkish multi-story building standing tall in the distance. It becomes quite clear that you need to be trusted by the community in order to bring outstandingly outsider-looking strangers to their territory. Sushil proves his trustworthiness each time he enters his former residence, as he takes small groups of seven to respect the inhabitants’ private sphere and of course, not to draw too much attention to his profession.

 

Despite all our efforts to blend in, people look at us differently. We are welcomed by many curious pairs of eyes with a sort of hostile spark in them. Well, hostility at first glance, at least. From the very moment you open up a conversation, their faces fill with a playful bliss as if they are flattered. “Main photo leta hoon” I attempt to ask in rubbish Hindi if it is alright to take their picture, to which the response is two prosperous smiles. These workers squatting in the shadowy chamber, half-way swimming in a sea of debris, are so accustomed to recycling mainly plastic and metal pieces that they developed an acute sense to recognise the type of material by merely touching it. The literal endless heaps of waste is the product of Asian countries, as India refuses to deal with American waste, due to its increasing volume.

 

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The concrete buildings convey a slight sense of garishness embraced by a myriad of colours ranging from cobalt blue to canary yellow. As we are passing through the narrow barricaded pathways we steal a quick glimpse behind each door, or rather the outline of a door, to discover the countless mini-industries. Trades like pottery, embroidery or high-quality hand-made leather production, long forgotten by westerners, are seemingly thriving. We get to observe a specialist who removes the reddish paint from used cans as part of the recycling scheme before we move onto the little pastry shops selling home-made litchi muffins, which seem tempting for a moment. The smell of baked goods quickly gets chased off by the disappointing bouquet of drainage, raising concerns about public sanitation.

 

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We stop for a minute to commemorate the famed passage where the Slumdog Millionaire chasing scene was shot. As we are looking around, our eyes are quickly drawn upwards where we detect an almost artistic spiderweb of cables against the cloudless sky. Not worrying too much we make our way to the family households.

 

“No pictures here” emphasises Sushil, with a firm voice. We begin to witness how families and other inhabitants coexist as a truly closely-knit community. Everyone knows their place, their role in this confined society. Approaching a narrow aisle we are alerted: “Follow each other and pass on the warnings!” So we follow Sushi with confusion, but soon it all makes sense: “Watch the head… there’s a hole…metal thingy on the right…” as it echoes behind me. Astoundingly, a shoeless little kid passes us with ease, as she seems to know every bit of the hazardous maze by heart. After a few minutes of gloomy darkness, we get to see the sunlight again arriving at our final destination.

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Dust fills the open square as children are running about aimlessly, some kicking small rocks instead of balls near the cheerful playground. For a moment, we are simply observers, onlookers. Photos are back in the game, causing a sort of euphoria amongst the little ones, who for some reason are obsessed with seeing themselves on the camera’s LCD screen. “One more, one more” demands the girl with the matching hazel eyes and hair, wearing a scruffy yellow silk shirt and baggy red pants, and of course, no shoes. Shy at first, then encouraged by her friends, she smiles confidently.

 

Leaving the slums, it is hard to digest much of what we have just seen, but it was doubtlessly a worthwhile cultural experience. When someone is in such close proximity to extreme poverty,it is a mistake not to take the opportunity to delve into it, even if only for a few hours. The sun is setting now causing the mild orange tones to cast a shadow on the cramped metallic rooftops. We spent hours exploring the slim streets of Dharavi, yet it is difficult to grasp the dwellers’ lifestyle fully and comprehend who they really are. For them it is the reality, for us, it is still dreamlike.