Ghost Train to the Eastern Star

Dharavi was in the news, because with Mumbai's new prosperity the slum land had become valuable. Mumbai is essentially the gigantic island of Salsette, and most of it had been claimed. There was a move afoot to tear down Dharavi and put up expensive houses for the rising class in the new Mumbai. The idea of demolishing Dharavi was an example of the cunning greed of property speculators, because "slum" did not really describe it. Far from being a fetid precinct of despair, it was a self-sufficient part of the inner city, indeed a city itself, and parts of it did not look much different from any other part of Mumbai. The Chor bazaar district, for example, was just as ramshackle and grim, yet just as packed with thriving businesses and hectic households and the Indian mob. The Indian mob, here as elsewhere, was made up of shrieky young men and boys who seemed driven by a frenzy of sexual repression and high spirits—but sexual repression most of all, seeking release, with the grabby hands, squiffy eyes, and damp eager faces of scolds and onanists.

Kartik's family history was typical. His father had come from the southern state of Tamil Nadu when he was fifteen years old. Some relatives lived in Dharavi. He shared a small room with five other boys and worked at a hotel, cleaning tables for the equivalent of $2 a month—this was, interestingly enough, at about the time I was on my Railway Bazaar trip, in 1973. After a year or so, Kartik's father got a casual job on Indian Railways, cleaning carriages and earning $4 a month. This led to a proper job and some training as a plumber and fitter, dealing with water tanks on the railway. He had started out earning 900 rupees a month (about $20) and now earned about 7,000 rupees ($150). In that time, over thirty years, he had married and raised a family, yet he had never moved from Dharavi slum.

"He is happy. He is getting food. He is not begging," Kartik said. "But we were poor, and we are still poor. My brother is unemployed. I got a job because I managed to pass my driver's license when I was sixteen. There is plenty of work in Mumbai for a driver who is reliable and honest."

We were sitting on stools in front of the shack his father had built against another shack. Kartik didn't want to show me the inside. He said he was waiting for some men to come and fix it, but I took this to mean that he was self-conscious about its size, just a hen coop really, with squalor all around it and an unbelievable racket that made its flimsy planking chatter and throb.

"But software engineers also live here in Dharavi slum," he said. "They work for IBM and earn forty thousand rupees a month"—$900. "My friend is marrying a girl who is in the U.S. He is a Tamil, named Shekhar. She is from a wealthy family. Her dowry is one kilo of gold and two lakhs of rupees"—$4,500—"and a motorbike."

"What about your marriage prospects?"

"None. I would like to meet such a girl."

There are other consequences of living at such close quarters. According to the Hindustan Times, a recent study of 3,600 girls in Delhi concluded that one in eight had been raped by a family member, and three quarters of them feared being raped by someone in the family.

I left Kartik and walked towards the more salubrious part of Mumbai, keeping to back streets because of the crush of people and the traffic on the main roads. When I reached the Church Gate area, and was cutting through a wide lane that was closed to cars, an old woman in a blue sari walked quickly to keep pace with me and asked where I was from. When I told her, she said, "Welcome."

Three children walked along with her: a small girl of about ten, a boy of about fourteen, and an older skinny girl, perhaps sixteen. They all looked undernourished; it was hard to tell their ages. The older girl caught my eye because she was graceful and was dressed in the thick gauzy skirts of a Gypsy. Most noticeable was the fact that her left forearm was missing.

"Maybe we can help you," the old woman said. "What is your name?"

"I'm Paul. Are these your children?"

"I am their auntie."

I had a pretty good idea what that meant. It was early evening, a coolness and a darkness descending, and I wanted to know what she was offering. If there is a difference between being a tourist and a traveler, this was it. A tourist would have been at a temple or a museum; I had been in a slum, and out of curiosity was strolling along with the soliciting Mistress Overdone, the bawd, and her three depraved-looking youths.

"What do you want?" I asked.

"Just talk, sir"

"Go ahead, talk."

"Better we talk in there"—she indicated a teashop.

So she led the way to the shop, where I sat in a booth next to the skinny one-armed girl, with the old woman and the other two children on the opposite side of the table.

"Chai, chai," she said to the waiter.

"Do you want anything else?"