The Great Divide
Dawn is breaking and the Sun stealthily peeps over the horizon. It appears as if the Sun is playing hide and seek with the world. Suddenly, the game is over and you can see glimmering rays reflecting off the tin roofs in Dharavi and the tinted windows in Juhu.
Our explorations start with this dawn. Fellow Toastmasters and guests, I plan to walk you through two different mornings in India.
In Dharavi, a cheerful chirruping of sparrows replaces the mournful squealing of rats. Daylight seeps through a small window in Vinod’s mud shack. It reveals a curly black head. Further inspection shows that this is attached to a man's sleeping body, perched on a slim metal ledge, 12 feet above the ground. That is twice my height. He is sleeping as if an Army general has commanded him to be at Attention all the time. Any movement sideways, and he will fall like a ripened mango.
All is quite in a posh, marble white bungalow near Juhu Beach. The Church like stillness is occasionally interrupted by the hum of the air conditioning unit. In a bedroom of the bungalow, you can see pink satin blankets shuffling around. Peeking through these is a milky white face radiating contentment. Natasha is almost like a newborn child in her sleep, free of all worries. But suddenly her expression changes. It appears as if somebody is poking needles into her eyes, stirring up uncomfortable emotions. These needles are actually beams of sunlight. The maid hadn’t pulled the curtains close enough the previous night. She will have to be warned about this.
On one side is a family of 12 living in room the size of one and quarter car parks. On the other, is a slim lady occupying a master double bed in a room of the size of 4 car parks. Night-sounds suggest that in the former case, the occupants include an arthritic old man with a painful cough, a wailing colicky baby and an active amorous couple. While in the latter case! Well, the bedroom had to be sound proof.
Soon after 6 A.M, ugly screeches can be heard near Vinod’s hut. It sounds like hoards of crows and vultures are descending on a dead body for a meal. These are women jostling over water taps. “It's my turn! My husband needs to get to work!” a woman shouts. In Shiva Shakti Nagar there is a tap for every ten houses, or roughly 100 people.
Natasha rings for her bed tea. She tells the maid that she would like a warm bath and apricot juice to wash down the English breakfast. Then she lays back and enjoys the sugarless herbal tea served in white china with bright blue patterns.
In Dharavi, water is flowing down the street in a rippling sheet like a mini flood. Bisecting it is an open drain, which gushes torrentially. The water in the drain is black like plastic sludge. From the stink of this, it includes a lot of human excrement—which tiny naked butts are busy adding to. The scene is reminiscent of a filthy conveyor belt transporting coal.
Natasha has been running on her Swiss treadmill. The bandana on her head is soaking wet with sweat. Content with her workout, she puffs her way to the bathroom. What a session! She tests the temperature of the water in the bathtub. Ah! It is just right. But wait, what is this! A black towel. With a black towel, you can never tell if your hair is breaking off and needs attention. She rings for the maid and a white one immediately replaces the black towel. While she relaxes in her bath, she thinks, let me ask the maid to dispose of all the non-white towels. That should solve the problem.
It is not almost 7 A.M. and the early shift begins in Dharavi's 15,000 hutment factories. These factories are like beehives and men working there like worker bees. Typically, the factories consist of one or two storeys, stuffed with young boys and old men melting plastic, hammering iron and moulding clay. There are others who head out with scantily filled carts to spend a day in the hot and humid streets of Mumbai.
Natasha has nothing much to do till 11 in the morning when she meets Nikki. It is nearly spring. Any delay in replenishing their wardrobe with the spring collections will leave them vulnerable to fashion jabs from their friends. When it is time, she calls for her chauffeur driven, red Mercedes S Class and heads out. At a traffic signal, she notices a frail young boy wiping windshields. The cloth in his hand is so dirty, that Natasha wonders if it does any cleaning at all. She doesn’t realize that that piece of cloth is the boy’s only shirt. He dabs at her car with it and gestures for some coins. The signal turns green and the car moves on leaving the boy disappointed.
Vinod’s nephew, Chotu, heads out on the road with his only shirt slung over his frail shoulders. He has a couple of hours before his uncle will need him at his vegetable stall. He decides to make some money wiping cars on the busy cross section. He tries hard not to damage his only shirt. He hasn’t had much luck and decides to try one last time. However, the signal turns green as soon as he finishes. He notices the stick thin lady in the car and wonders what keeps her from eating!
This citation of extreme cases may be a little difficult to swallow. My only defense: Both these categories are growing in number with time. This raises many questions.
First: Which of these mornings is characteristic of India?
Second: Are we doing anything to alleviate the plight of the poor? It is easy to get away with this question. So, let me twist it a little. How many of us ensure that we do not add to the plate of woes that is already overflowing?
To sum it all up, I leave you with a quote: “It is poverty to decide that a child must die so that you may live as you wish.”
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