Bombay Sunset

I know we’ve seen a lot of sunsets recently, but I thought the contrast between Shimla’s beautiful colors and Bombay’s indistinct skyline had something to offer.

Dharavi

I’m writing this post from the rooftop of the Calcutta Swim Club. Around me loom several 19th century buildings, their colonial brick walls propped up by bamboo scaffolding. Farther on, the lights wink off, one by one, from the floor-high window panes of modern office buildings. After a sweltering day, the air has cooled. My toes stretch out, into a small puddle caused by the recent rain. It’s 2 in the morning in Bengal, and the city is sleeping.

 

I’m thinking about Dharavi, the infamous Bombay slum which we visited earlier this week. It is reportedly the largest slum in all of Asia, with over a million inhabitants, and it sits squarely in the middle of Bombay. This, ironically, means that the land which houses this slum is some of the most valuable in the world. Dharavi is also a center of thriving mini-industry, where inhabitants make a living selling home crafts and running small recycling or manufacturing factories out of shacks as large as a walk-in closet. This economic model has brought in business leaders from around the world to visit Dharavi, to see what principles can be applied to their own endeavors. I can’t help but think of this cynically; powerful men in three-piece suits travel to visit  the ‘least of these’, but only to figure out how to further their own fortunes.

 

It would be easy to paint you a compelling picture of the abject poverty that we found in Dharavi. I only would have to describe the naked children running near industrial machinery, or the garment workers sewing t-shirts in a poorly ventilated single room for perhaps 40 rupees an hour (a relatively good job, in Dharavi), or the piles of human refuse mixed with discarded trash that surrounded one of the few working toilets in the area.

 

It would also be easy for me to leave you with a sense of hope and affection for Dharavi’s people and its future. I could mention the piles of papadum that women would leave to bake in the sun, perched ten at a time on woven baskets. Or the crowds of smiling children who would breathlessly use their entire English vocabulary on us as we passed by. Or the female teachers, hired by the non-profit we were touring with, playing tug-of-war with their children in the newly built kindergarden toward the edge of the slum.

 

I myself reflected on something different as I traveled through the cramped alleyways of Dharavi, however. I asked myself, “Why, exactly, am I even here?”

 

I had felt compelled to see Dharavi ever since I began planning the trip. I spoke to several friends of my desire to tour the slum. Their response to my proposal was mixed, unconsciously echoing my own mixed feelings. On the one hand, I felt that it would be an unpardonable offense if Elliot and I treated ourselves only to a sugar-coated version of India, immersing ourselves fully in its exotic flavor while keeping at arm’s length the parts of India’s society that wouldn’t fit well on a postcard. And in India, despite the widespread presence and high visibility of poverty, it is uncomfortably easy to do this. Elliot and I learned quickly to ignore the small children who tapped on the window of our taxi, the crippled men who brought their hands to their mouths in a pantomime of hunger, the young women with babies in their arms who called out to us in Hindi. In many ways, our response to Indian beggars is simply a response to American beggars: look away, continue walking. No one is proud of it, but we all do it.

 

In India, I felt, the sheer magnitude of the poverty present on the streets contributed to our ability to ignore it. It became the omnipresent background, part of the scenery. Something we passed through as we went on to our destination. I am tempted to conclude, based on my own observation, that this may affect the Indian mindset, as well. If so, such pronounced social stratification means that two Indians can live in the same society while occupying completely separate social spaces. There is a Delhi for the rich, a Delhi for the destitute. There is a Bombay divide that goes beyond North/South. Calcutta has its Victoria Monuments, and it has its Mother Teresas. Dharavi is literally in the middle of Mumbai, but for all intents and purposes, it is its own city.

 

I felt the need to see this side of India. On the other hand, touring the Dharavi slum seemed profoundly exploitative. Elliot and I were quite literally touring poverty. I worried that that, despite the assurances of the tour guide that we had the peoples’ permission to be there, the Dharavi citizens would feel like they were on display. A South Indian television station interviewed me as we were leaving the slum; I believe that they wanted me to cry out in horror at what I had seen, so that they could have a shot of the Westerner reacting in amazement to conditions in Dharavi. Little did they know that they were interviewing a lifelong b.s.er; I gave a ten minute interview without saying anything of substance. But my own concern stays with me, even now. Can we feel anything but embarrassment for temporarily acquainting ourselves with poverty, and then simply passing through?

 

I understate the altruism of the touring program when I say this; Reality Tours is an excellent program, and an NGO that has several projects designed to better conditions for Dharavi citizens, for which our tour money is earmarked. I would recommend them to anyone else. My criticism lies not with the experience, but with my own motivation. What was I looking for? And what exactly did I expect to do once I found it?

FOOD

I thought, upon first arriving to India, that Elliot and I would end up losing weight during our trip. After all, we would be walking everywhere, and we’d mostly be eating vegetarian food.

We have been dangerously full more times than I can count on this trip. We started in the North, where the dishes were heavy on the creamy sauce. Butter chicken with naan, Punjabi style, was a favorite. I’d order seconds, and regret it later.

In Mumbai, the Sham family showed us no mercy. We would travel from streetcart to streetcart, eating freshly prepared sweets like mango tarts and custard apple icecream. At one point, the Shams took us out for an authentic Rajasthani experience. The food came in a large silver plate, with several smaller cups withi it. As soon as we thought we were done, waiters would come by and refill the plate. Mrs. Sham explained that the speed of service was deliberate; it was meant to bombard your stomach so that you were full quickly. That way, you wouldn’t linger at the table and abuse the buffet privileges.

This also meant that we were fit to burst upon completing our meal. When we were done, we rang a large bell to signify our contentment with the food. The entire restaurant staff yelled out “auhjo!” (I’m gessing on the spelling), a Gujurati word that meant “come back!” I don’t know how we could possibly come back to that restaurant, however, unless we fasted the day before.

We thought we couldn’t possibly get more full than Mumbai. Then the Poddars made a power move for the title, “make James and Elliot so full, they can’t think about food ever again.”

The Poddars, the family of my friend Harsh, are dedicated vegetarians. I assumed that whatever food they had couldn’t tempt me. I was wrong. Our first night in, they invited us to a large family dinner, serving us stuffed mushrooms, ‘puchkas’ with aloo (potato) filling, pasta, and nachas with Indian salsa. We ate to our hearts content, till our stomachs gently signaled surrender.

That’s when we learned that those were just the appetizers.

When the main course came, we were always convinced to ty ‘a bite of this’ and ‘just a taste of this one’. Our plates were refilled before we could finish our first helpings.

After main course, there was dessert. Three different kinds of dessert. After that, we had to drink some lassi, “just to help digest the meal.”

Mrs. Poddar says tomorrow she will make us an authentic Rajasthani meal. We know what that means.

And next week is Thanksgiving.

I don’t think we’re gonna make it.

-J.&E.

My Least Favorite Thing About India

I’ve been pretty much in love with everything in India so far. Even things that I would never tolerate back in the states take on a certain exotic charm here in India. Pouring buckets of cold water over myself for a shower? How energizing. Sour lime juice as a drink? That’s a new one! Cyclones that hit when you’re miles from your hotel? What a great experience! A paucity of toilet paper? Ain’t life grand!

There is one thing about India that I feel I could never get used to, however. One thing that gives America a decided advantage in the ‘places to live’ contest. One thing that I strongly believe should be changed immediately, for the sake of the country’s future.

The smog.

The air quality here came as a bit of a shock; I’d had Indian friends warn me beforehand, but I still did not think it would be as bad as it is. In Delhi, the uniquely congested traffic made me fear to roll my windows down. On the sidewalk, piles of trash had been lit on fire, and the resulting smoke produced an unpleasant smell. After a few days in that city, I felt the full effects of the smog, coughing constantly and negotiating to minimize our time spent at the center of the city.

When our friend Danish offered to drive us up to the North Indian countryside, I jumped at the chance, assuming that once I got out of the city, my lungs would be in a happier state. As we drove north, however, the sky remained a dull grey. Danish explained that the Punjabi farmers cleared their fields by burning them after harvest, despite the illegal nature of such activities. We passed several burning fields on our way to Ludhiana. Uttar Pradesh, as well, had several large factories that would belch pillars of fire from its smokestacks; our friends explained that the UP had a lot of industrial plants.

Bombay has been better in terms of smog, but coming into the harbor by boat allows you to see the air quality more clearly: the entire city seems bathed in a grey mist that is reminiscent of a Northern European fog. Coming back from the island of Elefanta, Elliot and I were able to see the sun set behind the city. It was a beautiful sight, a huge red ball of flame peeking out from between the skyscrapers that stood proudly above the city. However, the fact that we were able to stare directly at the sun without blinking gives you some idea of how much the smog had colored the Bombay air.

Gandhi wrote that “If we cultivate the habit of keeping the air pure and of breathing only fresh air, we can save ourselves from many a terrible disease.” Of course, it’s easy to admonish India for its air quality, but economic development through industrial modernization cannot easily occur without its ill-starred offspring, industrial pollution. And in a country of 1 billion people, it’s hard to regulate individual habits that contribute to pollution. If I had any solutions, I’d happily offer them here. In the meantime, when I see small street children running between stopped traffic in central Delhi, or South Bombay, I simply wonder what the price of this air pollution may turn out to be.

-J.&E.