Authors: Shilpi Somaya Gowda
A
SHA PULLS THE DOOR OPEN BY ITS BRASS HANDLE AND FEELS A
rush of cool air greet her. Inside, her heels click against marble as she walks toward the elevator. Ensconced in the middle of the wall is a large plaque with the inscription:
THE TIMES OF INDIA, ESTABLISHED
1839
.
“Lift, madam?” The elevator operator wears a two-piece gray polyester suit.
“Yes, sixth floor, please.” Asha is no longer surprised when someone addresses her in English. Her cousins have explained that Indians can peg her immediately as a foreigner, with her Western-style clothing and shoulder-length hair. Even the fact that she makes eye contact with people is a giveaway. Despite this, she enjoys the novelty of walking down the streets among a crowd of people who look like her. Asha shares the elevator with two other passengers and the operator. They stand with only a few inches between them, and this space is permeated by the stale odor of sweat. This elevator, like most she’s found here, isn’t air-conditioned, with only a weakly circulating fan overhead to stir up the pungent air.
At the reception desk on the sixth floor, Asha asks for Mr. Neil Kothari, her main contact at the newspaper. She sits down in the reception area and picks up this morning’s
Times
when Mr. Kothari appears. He is a tall gangly man about her father’s age, with his necktie loosened and hair disheveled. She declines his offer of a cup of tea and follows him to his office. They walk through the
Times
’s office, a large open room with rows of desks lined with computers. The place is noisy with ringing phones, clattering printers, and myriad voices. She can feel the energy pulsing here, the biggest newsroom she’s ever seen, all filled with brown faces.
“I think I’m the last one with a typewriter still in my office,” says Mr. Kothari. “Of course, I don’t actually write much anymore, but I still like to have it.” Around the perimeter of the open room are several offices enclosed by glass walls. Mr. Kothari leads her into one, with a nameplate that says
ASSOCIATE EDITOR
on the wooden door. “Please have a seat,” he says, gesturing to the chairs. “Are you sure you won’t take some
chai
…tea?”
“No, thank you.” Asha crosses her legs and takes out her notebook.
“
Nai,
” he says, to someone over her shoulder. Asha turns to see that a short, dark-skinned man has appeared silently in the doorway. His toenails, thick and yellow, are splayed grotesquely across his thin worn sandals. He nods imperceptibly at Mr. Kothari and leaves as quietly as he came, never once glancing in Asha’s direction. “Very well, so you are here, all the way from America. Welcome to Mumbai! How are you finding it?” Mr. Kothari asks her.
“Good, thank you. I’m very excited to be here, to be collaborating with such a great newspaper on my project,” says Asha.
“And we too are excited to have such an accomplished young woman here. I’ll introduce you to Meena Devi, one of our best field reporters. Fearless, she is, sometimes to a fault. She will be an excellent mentor for you.” Mr. Kothari hits a button on his phone, and a
young woman appears promptly at his door. “Please get Meena here right away.” A few minutes later, another person appears in the doorway, but instead of waiting outside like the others, this woman breezes in and sits down.
“
Achha,
what is so important, Neil, that I had to come just this very minute? I’m working under deadline, you know?” She is a small woman, not much taller than five feet, but her presence electrifies the mild atmosphere of Mr. Kothari’s office.
“Meena, this is Asha Thakkar, the young lady from America who’s here—”
“Yes, of course!” Meena lurches out of her chair to pump Asha’s hand.
“You remember,” Mr. Kothari continues, “she’s doing a project on children growing up in the slums. We have set up a desk for her near your office. Your job is to take good care of her. Show her the real Mumbai. But make sure she’s safe,” he adds quickly.
“Come on, Asha.” Meena stands. “I have to finish this story and then we’ll go for lunch. To see the real Mumbai,” she says, glancing over her shoulder at Mr. Kothari as they leave.
Asha spends the next couple of hours reading through a stack of clipping files that have been gathered on her desk, along with a few basic office supplies and an outdated computer. As she flips through a folder containing the previous in-depth feature reports the
Times
has run, Meena intermittently taps away at the keyboard in her office nearby. Asha reads a story on the rise of the information services industry, and another on the operational efficiencies of the city-wide tiffin-carrier system. She is just beginning to believe Mumbai is the next great modern industrial capital of the world when she comes across a feature story on bride-burning.
She reads in disbelief about young brides who are doused with gasoline and burned alive when their dowries are deemed insufficient. She turns to another story, about a member of the Untouchable
caste who intentionally crippled his own children to foster sympathy and increase their begging earnings. The next feature is on the fantastic success of Lakshmi Mittal, the global steel-industry titan. The one after that is on the latest political scandal, detailing corruption and bribery charges against several government ministers. The last story in this folder is on the 2002 Gujarat riots between Hindus and Muslims, in which thousands of people were killed. After reading about neighbors who torched each other’s houses and stabbed each other in the streets, Asha closes the folder, and then her eyes. She wonders whether a sample of stories from the
New York Times
would inspire the same intensity of both shame and pride in her.
“Almost done over here. Hungry?” Meena calls out from her office.
“T
HIS PLACE HAS THE BEST
PAU-BHAJI
IN ALL OF
M
UMBAI
,” M
EENA
says over the roar of the train. “If I’m anywhere within ten minutes of this spot, I have to go there, whether it’s mealtime or not.” Asha doesn’t know what
pau-bhaji
is, or whether she will like it, but Meena doesn’t seem concerned about this. Once they leave the noisy train, they can carry on a regular conversation again. “So, what did you think of the clippings you read?” Meena says.
“Good. I mean, the quality of writing and reporting is excellent, of course,” Asha says.
Meena laughs. “I meant the subject matter. What do you think of our fine country? It’s a five-star pile of contradictions, isn’t it? I selected those clippings for you because they show the extremes of India, the good and the bad. Some people like to demonize India for her weaknesses, others only glorify her strengths. The truth, as always, lies somewhere in between.”
Asha finds it hard to keep up with Meena as she maneuvers the sidewalk, darting through its assorted population: men who spit care
lessly on the ground, scrawny dogs without owners, children begging for change. And as hazardous as it is on the sidewalk, the roads seem infinitely worse: cars weave in and out of lanes and pay little attention to traffic signals, double-decker buses careen dangerously close to oblivious cows and goats. “There are one billion people living in India,” Meena says, “and nearly ninety percent of them live outside major cities, that means small towns and rural villages. Mumbai—even the real Mumbai, as Neil calls it—is only a tiny fraction of the country. But it is a powerful fraction. This place draws people like a magnet. It has the best and worst of everything India has to offer. Ah, here we are.” Meena walks up to a street stall. “
Doh pau-bhaji, sahib
.
Ek
extra mild.” She turns and smiles at Asha.
“This? This is where we’re having lunch?” Asha looks at the street vendor and then at Meena in disbelief. “I…I don’t think I should do this. I’m not supposed to eat street food…”
“Relax, Asha, you’ll be fine. Anything the heat doesn’t kill, the spices will. Come on, you’re in India now—you have to experience the real thing. Wait until you taste it!” Meena hands Asha a rectangular paper tray filled with a reddish brown stew topped with chopped raw onions and a lemon wedge and two glossy white buns on the side. They stand at the edge of the walkway as a line forms in front of the stall. Asha follows Meena’s method of tearing off a piece of the bun and dipping it in the stew. She takes her tentative first bite. It is tasty. And very, very spicy. She looks around frantically for something to drink and recalls her mother’s warnings about the dangers of unsanitized water.
“How is it? I told him to make yours mild.” Meena smiles. “Tourist version.”
“It’s…a little spicy. What’s in it?”
“Leftover vegetables mashed together with vegetables. It was devised as a quick meal for millworkers. Now it’s one of the most common street foods in Mumbai, and no two places make it the
same. And no place in Mumbai”—Meena licks her fingers—“makes it like this place.” After they eat, Meena says, “Come on, let’s walk a little. I want to show you something.” Asha follows, unsure after their lunch if she should really trust Meena. After only a block or two, they find themselves at the edge of an enormous settlement.
“Well, here we are. This is Dharavi,” Meena says, dramatically extending her arm. “The largest slum in Mumbai, the largest in India and perhaps all of Asia. A dubious distinction, but there you have it.”
Asha looks around, slowly. Homes—if you can call them that—half the size of her bedroom, crammed up against one another. People spilling forth from each of the doorways—an old toothless man, a weary-looking woman with stringy hair, small children barely clothed. And in all the spaces in between, filth—rotting food, human waste, piles of trash taller than her. The stench is overwhelming. She covers her nose, trying to be discreet. And then Asha sees something she can scarcely believe: right there on the sidewalk is a makeshift Hindu temple. A statue of a goddess in a pink sari draped with a small floral garland leans against a scrawny tree trunk. The goddess has a peaceful smile on her painted face, and there are flower petals and rice grains strewn at her feet. It looks so out of place, this little alcove of divinity amid all the squalor, yet no one else seems to think so. A five-star pile of contradictions, indeed.
“Over a million people live here,” Meena says, “in just two square kilometers. Men, women, children, livestock. Factories producing everything from textiles to pencils to jewelry. A lot of what’s ‘Made in India,’ according to those tags you see, is made right here in Dharavi.”
“Where are the factories?” Asha looks again at the small huts and outdoor fires, trying to envision a factory floor full of machinery.
“Homes on this level, factories upstairs. Most everything is done by hand, or with primitive tools,” Meena says. “Remember what I
said about the extremes of India? Well, here you find it all: the good and the bad, living side by side. On the one hand,” she says as they walk alongside the settlement, “poverty, filth, crime—some of the worst aspects of human behavior. On the other hand, you’ll see the most amazing resourcefulness here. People make things out of literally nothing. You and I will earn more in one year than they will in their entire lives, and yet they find ways to survive. They’ve formed a whole society here: gang lords, moneylenders certainly, but also healers, teachers, holy men. So you see, Asha, there are two Indias. There is the world you’ll see at your father’s home, with spacious flats, servants, and outrageous weddings. And then, there is this India. It is a good place to begin your study.”
“I
S
V
IJAY COMING TO THE TEMPLE
?” J
ASU CALLS FROM THE BALCONY
where he’s shining his shoes.
Kavita waits a moment before answering. The small balls of dough sizzle as she drops them carefully into the cast-iron pot. When the crackling oil settles back down to a safe level, she turns her head to the doorway and says, “I don’t know. He didn’t say.”
“So, we don’t need to wait for him.” Jasu’s comment could just as easily refer to the past three months as to today’s outing. After the incident with the police, they tried talking to Vijay. He insisted the police were only after him because he refused to pay bribes from his messenger business. Since then, he has withdrawn, spending most of his time out with Pulin and others.
Kavita pulls the last of the fried dough balls out of the pot and slips them onto the paper-lined tray with the others. She wipes her hands on the dishcloth tucked into her sari. “I can put these in syrup after we come back. I’ll go change.” She decided to make
gulab jamun
for Diwali, even though it’s a great deal of trouble for just the three
of them. Both she and Jasu were feeling particularly sentimental about Diwali this year—they would have liked to go back to Dahanu for a visit, but Jasu couldn’t get leave from the factory. She thought this little touch of home might help them, and she can also take some to Bhaya’s luncheon this afternoon. She hurries to the bedroom to change her sari. They’ll try to make it to the temple before the crowds descend. It is the busiest day of the year at Mahalaxmi Temple, and unlike Sahib and Memsahib, who gave her and Bhaya a rare day off, they do not have a driver to drop them near the entrance.
“K
AVITA
BEN
,
YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE GONE TO SO MUCH TROUBLE
!” Bhaya says when she opens the door and sees her holding the large bowl of
gulab jamun
. “But, of course, we will be happy to enjoy the fruits of your hard work. Come in, please.” Bhaya smiles and ushers them into the apartment. Kavita is surprised at how small the space feels, these two rooms that are almost identical to their old
chawl
apartment. It is filled with their old neighbors and Bhaya’s family. Everyone greets them warmly.
“Jasu
bhai,
you’ve put on a little in the tummy, heh? What is your wife feeding you over there in fancy Sion?” Bhaya’s husband chuckles.
“What a lovely sari,” one of the neighbors says to Kavita, admiring its deep burgundy sheen.
“Thank you.” Kavita looks away, uncomfortable with the attention. Fortunately, they are soon all sitting with full plates of food on their laps. They talk of the weather (poor), the quality of the tomatoes this year (good), the price of bread (high). They speak of their children and grandchildren, their achievements in school and their adventures on the cricket fields. Inevitably, the discussion turns to the latest Hindi films.
“Have you seen
Dhoom,
Jasu
bhai
? You must see it.”
“Excellent film,” another neighbor says, nodding.
“
Hahn,
we saw it last week,” Bhaya’s husband says. “It is excellent. First-rate. Not that standard Bollywood nonsense. It’s about this gang of criminals who ride motorcycles, see? Not the scooters you see everywhere, but real fast motorcycles. They ride all over Mumbai, robbing places and creating mischief, see? Only the police can’t catch them because they drive away so quickly. Every time!” He slaps both his hands on his thighs and rocks backward.
“Abhishek Bachchan is so smart and handsome,
nai
?” Bhaya says to her sister.
“
Hahn,
but I prefer John Abraham, so naughty!” They break into girlish laughter that belies their combined century of life.
“Speaking of gangs,” Bhaya’s husband says, “have you heard Chandi Bajan’s criminals have come together again?
Hahn!
He has a whole crew working for him in Mumbai, see? Selling drugs. Very big drug trade. Heroin, they say.” He raises an eyebrow and nods wisely, one of the few in the room who can read the newspaper.
Kavita takes a bite of the vegetable
biryani
and glances at Jasu to see his reaction, but sees a blank expression on his face. She decides to venture into the discussion.
“Where are they operating? The gang? What part of Mumbai?” She tries to sound only casually interested.
“Everywhere. Right here even, in our own neighborhood. You know that boy Vijay and Chetan used to play with at school? Patel…uh, Pulin Patel? They live over there on M.G. Road, two blocks over? I hear he’s mixed up with that gang. The police have been watching him.” Bhaya’s husband shakes his head and puts a large bite of rice in his mouth.
Kavita has a raw feeling in her chest, as if a horrible truth is scratching at her from the inside to get out. She tries to focus on eating, but the food has no taste. The conversation turns to the latest government scandal, then meanders back again to films. Eventually,
the women congregate near the kitchen and laud Bhaya’s food, while the men stay behind in the main room.
“Kavita, when will you look for a wife for Vijay? He’s almost twenty, no?” Bhaya says.
“
Hahn,
I know.” Kavita is relieved to turn to the more mundane issues concerning her son. “I think it is time too, but he doesn’t seem too interested—‘too young, too young, Mummy’ he says.” She shakes her head and smiles for what feels like the first time since arriving.
“Don’t wait too long,
ben
. It’s getting harder now, with so many boys and not enough girls.” Bhaya lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Some families are even having to pay money to bring brides from abroad, Bangladesh and such.”
Kavita’s fleeting smile melts away as the raw feeling in her chest returns. So many boys.
Not enough girls
. The raw feeling escapes her body and surrounds her. She smells the earthy monsoon air, though it is November. She feels the deep rumble of thunder, though the sky outside is clear. She closes her eyes, knowing that next she will hear the high-pitched cry echoing inside her ears. When she opens her eyes again, Bhaya and her sister are laughing, teasing their husbands for poking around in the kitchen for sweets.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur. Kavita doesn’t even taste the rich sweetness of the
gulab jamun
someone serves her, the dessert she spent all morning preparing. She feels as if she is standing outside on the balcony, watching her friends through the window. She is desperate to leave and run back to their home. Yet deep inside the same raw place, she knows there is nowhere she can run that will make the feeling better. Not even Jasu can do anything to make it go away. When the group begins to break up, Jasu and Kavita say good-bye to their friends. They walk in near silence for a few blocks. “Jasu? Do you think it’s true what the police were saying? Do you think Vijay is wrapped up in that Chandi Bajan gang?” Kavita says.
He takes too long to respond, and when he does, it is an unsatisfactory answer. “We’ve done our best, Kavi. Now it’s in God’s hands.”
A
T HOME
, K
AVITA GOES THROUGH THE MOTIONS OF LIGHTING
the
diyas
and placing them along the windowsills. As a child, she loved Diwali simply for the sweets and firecrackers. Only later, as an adult, did she come to understand the true meaning of the occasion, the commemoration of the battle of Lord Rama, a celebration of the triumph of good over evil. She steps out onto the balcony and sees the thousands of tiny lights that shine in the windows of people’s homes across Mumbai. She thinks about what Jasu said about God’s hands and wonders if they are holding Vijay tonight.
What else should I have done for him? How could I have kept him from this fate?
In the distance she sees the first bright snap of light just before the crack of the fireworks. She watches for a while, so deep in her thoughts they are barely interrupted by the startling booms and bangs that splatter across the night sky. She doesn’t register the sound of the front door opening and closing until she hears water running in the kitchen. She turns to see Vijay hunched over the sink. “Vijay?” She walks toward him, then stops and gasps when she sees the blood dripping down his shoulder. She rushes to him. “
Arre!
What happened,
beta
?”
“It’s okay, Ma. It’s not a deep cut,” he says.
She insists he remove his shirt and sit at the table while she fills a bowl with warm water and gets some bandages. “
Beta,
what have they done to you? I knew it was just a matter of time before something like this happened. They’re no good, these boys you go with—Pulin and the others. They’re dangerous, Vijay. Just look what they’ve done to you!” She presses a cloth firmly against his shoulder until the
bleeding abates, then begins cleaning it with water. “Please,
beta,
I’m begging you. Don’t get mixed up with them.”
“Ma, they’re not the ones who hurt me,” Vijay says with a defiant shake of his head. “They helped me. My brothers look out for me, defend me.” Kavita flinches at the mention of Vijay’s siblings, real or imagined. She bites on her lower lip to fight the tears that want to come. The phone rings.
Someone calling to wish us Happy Diwali?
“We take care of each other, Ma. Who else can you trust, heh? The police? Nobody helps anybody but themselves, Ma.”
The phone stops ringing, and the fireworks outside continue cracking. Jasu comes into the living room. “Kavita…,” he says quietly.
Jasu never uses her full name. She looks up.
He does not appear fazed by the sight of his son, shirtless and bloody. He looks directly at her. “It’s your mother.”