A Taste of India - Mumbai

Well it is the start of my fifth full day here in India. I spent the first few days getting adjusted and exploring the streets of Mumbai - formerly known as Bombay. My first order of business was to opt out of the typical taxi ride and hit up the local metro train into town. You could say I'm sort of addicted the the excitement that comes with being completely thrown into a foreign culture. The acute sights, smells, sounds, and new procedures. The feeling that you have been missing out on a totally different way of living your entire life. It is also in these first few days that you can best detect subtle cultural differences before they later fade into normalcy.

Thus, after a train ride comprised of door-dangling, banging drums, and smelly armpits, I hoofed around the sites of downtown Mumbai: the Gate of India, Hanging Gardens, the Prince of Wales and Gandhi Museums, Victoria Station, the Outdoor Laundromat, and Marine Drive (reminiscent of "the Bund" in Shanghai). Rent in downtown Mumbai is comparable to that of lower Manhattan. The buildings are basically a smattering of old colonial architecture and expensive residential apartments that are home to India's wealthiest business tycoons and Bollywood stars.

The next day, aside from the usual tourist spots, I was privileged enough to get a taste of "the real Mumbai", i.e. the lives of the 8 million+ people (more than half of Mumbai's population) that dwell in slum areas. I found an organization online that provides ethical guided tours of Dharavi - Asia's largest slum. Located smack dab in the middle of metro Mumbai, Dharavi is known by many as the filming location for 2008's Slumdog Millionaire.

(Understandably, there was a strict no-camera policy so the picture above was the only image I was able to snap of Dharavi)

A quick anecdote:
Right outside the slum, I had my first up-close-and-personal experience with dire Indian poverty. This image will probably be etched into my head for the rest of my life: a migrant family (from rural villages), comprised of three adults and six kids were sitting on the side of a road. As I got closer i noticed a baby, probably 5-6 months old, completely naked and still, laying on a dirty piece of cardboard. The baby's skin was scabbed, bloody, and peeling all over her scalp and two legs. Flies swarmed on and around her body. Her father came up to me, and with a sense of urgency, he showed me an empty medicine bottle and pleaded with me for some rupees. I stood there, fresh off a bad experience with some pushy street beggars, and debated whether this guy was honest or if this was all some sick money-making scheme, operated by some demented underground boss. But the guy's eyes told it all. He was honest and desperate, and he also knew that this baby wouldn't survive much longer without help. So I checked the baby's pulse (to make sure it was still alive) and gave him some money. I instructed him to go to the hospital as soon as possible and buy some medicine. Tears of thanks began to well up in his eyes.

I walked away, watching the streams of middle-upper class cars drive by, half angry at them for not helping and half realizing for the first time that India's problems are simply beyond the scope of man.


Overall, the slum tour was incredibly inspiring, and in many ways it renewed my faith in human ingenuity and the importance of personal responsibility in economic development. I was guided by two young men, ages 18 and 21, who had grown up in similar slums of Mumbai. Their English was exceptional and they seemed to take a liking to me... providing me some of the inside scoops about Dharavi and its people.

Dharavi - although dirty, dilapidated, and unsanitary - is home to over 1 million people, and they are quite proud of the place. For good reason too. Dharavi itself generates a turnover of over $500 million per year, mainly due to its creative cottage industries which include plastic recycling, metal recycling, pottery and textile businesses. I was especially amazed at the single-room recycling factories, full of migrant men and women sorting and processing what us in America would consider trash. A look over the rooftops shows a whole second-story of activity. Acres and acres of recyclables being stored, leather being dried, and kids flying kites.

The two guides also took me through the residential area, where 6 person families are crammed into one-room houses, and where there is an estimated one toilet for every 1,500 persons. Dharavi's smell was unsavory, and I worried for the children especially, who I saw playing in the toxic gutters and dumps. But the place had a sense of resilience and community about it, and I felt both welcomed and safe walking around in these people's neighborhood. The tour ended at an NGO kindergarten/youth center which is funded from revenues gained by the tour. Earlier on the tour, my two guides had openly expressed with me their struggles with "succeeding" in the unjust and corrupt economic system of Mumbai. As I left, I encouraged them to continue working hard and to never give up, but deep down inside, I wondered if they would ever really make it out of the slums.

For the sake of time and space, I will spare you the rest of my day. Let's just say that I was still curious about life in the slums after my Dharavi experience. I went to Juhu Beach and met a henna tattoo artist who invited me to a Hindu temple and next thing I knew I was enjoying a meager dinner of rice with her family at her house in the slums. Probably not the smartest thing to do at night, but so worth it. This lady was smart and a hard worker, and she knew the importance of educating her kids. Her kids were also adorable, but without money to pay school fees, they worked on the beach dusk till dawn everyday. I left their house torn about giving them money for food and school.

On the rickshaw ride back to my hostel, I was approached by a beautiful young street girl, probably 7 years old, dressed in a colorful green sari. She looked me in the eyes and asked for some money. I stared into her glazed eyes and could tell she was stoned. I have heard stories of ringleaders who introduce drugs to kids so they can control their begging activities. So I told her no and turned my head away. But that stoplight seemed frozen in time, and I looked back up into her lifeless eyes and just about it lost it. I had hit a breaking point. Tears began welling up in my eyes. God, why all this suffering? Why all this poverty and pain? Where the hell are you in this bane and broken mess??