The Great Divide

6 A.M., and the cheerful sound of chirruping sparrows replaces the verminous squealing on the rooftops of Dharavi, a slum in Mumbai*. Daylight seeps through a small window in Vinod’s rickety 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.

6 A.M. and all is quite in a bungalow close to Juhu Beach. The placid stillness is occasionally interrupted by the hum of the air conditioning unit. Natasha stirs in her bed. The maid hadn’t pulled the curtains close enough last night. Sunlight beamed right into her eyes and it made her uncomfortable. The maid will have to be warned about it.

On one side is a family of 12 living in a 90-square-foot room—about half the size of an American car-parking space. On the other, a slim lady occupies a master double bed in a 240- square-foot room. Night-sounds suggest that in the former case, the occupants include a man with a painful cough, a colicky baby and an amorous couple. While in the latter case! Well, the bed room had to be sound proof.

Soon after 6 A.M, in the metre-wide street outside Vinod's hutment, an ugly morning ritual begins. “It's my turn! My husband needs to get to work!” a woman shouts, in jostling over a water tap. In Shiva Shakti Nagar there is a tap for every ten houses, or roughly 100 people. “Push off! My kids are late for school!” another woman lashes back.

Natasha rings for her bed tea and asks the gym room to be prepared for her workout. She also informs the maid that she would like a warm bath before breakfast. She wanted apricot juice to wash down the English breakfast.

In Dharavi, water is gushing into blue plastic tanks and aluminium tubs, washing sticky breakfast dishes clean. It flows down the street in a rippling sheet. Bisecting it is an open drain, which gushes torrentially, flushing away the detritus of the previous day. From the stink of this, it includes a lot of human excrement—which tiny naked children, squatting with their backsides jutting over the torrent, are busy adding to.

Natasha tests the temperature of the water in the bath tub. It is just right. But wait, what is this! Hadn’t she categorically asked the maid not to leave the black towel for her? With a black towel, you can never tell if your hair is breaking off and needs attention. She rings for the maid and the black towel is immediately replaced by a white one. She asks the maid to dispose of all towels in colors other than white. That should take care of the problem.

At 7 A.M. the early shift begins in Dharavi's 15,000 hutment factories. Typically, they consist of one or two jerry-built storeys, stuffed with boys and men sewing cotton, melting plastic, hammering iron and moulding clay. Some leave with their cartloads of vegetables and other trinkets to spend a day in the hot and humid streets of Mumbai. They are all trying to ensure that they have something to eat when the sun sets.

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 the society. When it is time, she calls for her Mercedes S Class and heads out. At a traffic signal, she notices a grubby young boy wiping wind shields. He dabs at her car and waits for some coins. The signal turns green and Natasha’s car moves on.

Vinod’s nephew, Chotu, heads out on the road with his only shirt slung over his frail body. 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 while wiping wind shields. 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 thin lady in the car and wonders what keeps her from eating!

This is probably represents how the two worlds usually meet.

The first important question to ask is which of these worlds is characteristic of India. India, of the past, always guaranteed the survival of the fittest. A majority of Indians have had little option but to be street smart to survive. Obviously, Dharavi portrays the majority.

The second important question to ask is, are we doing anything to help these people. How many have done atleast something to help them out? Be frank, be very frank. Let me put this question in a slightly different perspective. How many of us are not make it more and more difficult for these people? How many of us bother about how much we pay for basic commodities? Why do potatos cost 15 rupees a Kg here when in Varanasi, they are 2 rupees 50 paise per Kg? By our unwillingness to hassle, we are contributing to this turmoil. That we have disposable income does not mean that we make the lives of those who don’t, difficult.

“It is poverty to decide that a child must die so that you may live as you wish.”

* Parts of the description of Dharavi are taken from an article in Times.