Revisiting Dharavi!

Two years ago, I had first arrived in Dharavi, Mumbai’s famous slum, looking for a story – and I had to find a good one, if I was ever going to start research for my thesis. Luckily, like the rest of Mumbai, Dharavi is chockfull of interesting stories, and in the little bylanes around Chamda Bazaar, in the heart of Dharavi, I discovered the story of a small Tamil community – the people of Ganesh Mandir. As an architecture student, I studied various aspects of the settlement – morphology, character of the houses and nature of spaces. But much more than the settlement’s physicality, it was its people I found fascinating – people with a rich, if conflicted history, who narrated stories about their daily lives and memories, and all of these I recorded in the form of narratives in my thesis.

Now, this thesis had long since been accepted and I had graduated from Architecture school, and as is typical of any recently graduated architect, I didn’t give my thesis any more attention. However, about a month ago, quite impulsively I decided to pay Dharavi a visit. I had often wondered how Ganesh Mandir and its people were doing. What were the folks I had interviewed up to now? How were they leading their lives – what remained the same and what had changed? Now as a responsible researcher, you might say, I should’ve probably gone a lot sooner then I did – but then an undergraduate thesis barely necessitates all that – it is enough that you spend six years of your life to earn a single degree, than for you to go on post-thesis field visits. Unless of course you suddenly realize that you’re free and in the city, and you might as well. I'm glad to say that a decision taken so arbitrarily, in the end proved to be immensely fruitful. 

24th April, 2016

It is a hot and humid afternoon. To call it humid is an understatement, because in Mumbai, the air is literally wet, and you can’t walk an inch without getting completely drenched. I miss my stop at Mahim and have to take a return train from Dadar. These things happen, and besides the evening was mine and I had plenty of time to kill.

As I climb up the steel staircase of the crossing over the tracks, onto the bridge that leads into Dharavi, the tops of the tallest structures become visible – ramshackle and profuse as ever. I descend into Dharavi, and see more familiar sights. The same butcher shop, the same cheap cinema and ‘video game’ parlour. I had walked this route daily over a two-month period in the summer of 2014. Adding to the chaos and visual noise was a new hulking structure – an incomplete sky bridge of sorts, extending over the road, with no access and ending abruptly on both ends. It seemed to have been abandoned mid-construction, soon to become a part of the scenery in this insane and chaotic place.

Past the busy intersection (which is always a busy battle between the endless stream of vehicles on the road and the pedestrians of Dharavi), Dharavi Main Road looks in good shape – recently paved, fairly tidy, and not as crowded as usual. However, Dharavi Cross, that branches off the Main Road and leads to Ganesh Mandir, is familiar – muddy, unpaved and with refuse along the street, trampled down by hundreds of pedestrians. All of these bring back old memories and sensations. As I catch of sight of Ganesh Mandir, I get a curious feeling of familiarity and expectation – like some kind of homecoming.

Dharavi Cross road, where Ganesh Mandir is located - in the heart of Dharavi

Ganesh Mandir looks the same as before, though the courtyard in front is strewn with construction materials. As always, work has been going on, but I only get an inkling of how much as I turn into the gully, and suddenly notice that all the single story houses that I had documented in my thesis had now been converted to two story apartments, with metal sheet roofing and tiled front entrances! The homes looked well built, and the insides of the houses well lit and scrupulously clean. I remembered the dingy interiors of the old houses – tiny rooms with mangalore tiles on the roof, and think that the residents are decidedly better off now. How quickly things change!

A view of the houses within Ganesh Mandir

It’s impossible to walk around unnoticed in Ganesh Mandir, and pretty soon wary eyes looked out from windows and doorways to see what I was up to. All of a sudden, an old woman chatting on a front porch recognizes me, “Why, you’re the fellow who came and drew all our houses, aren’t you? Have you finished your work?” I tell her I have, and am glad to know that people still remember me. But it was the kids who’d recognized me first, which was surprising. Soon they crowd around me, and among them is tiny Sam – “Remember me uncle? I was doing homework with Sibi, and then I took you to show my house!” I’m amazed at his memory.

Older temporary structures have been rebuilt in many cases.

   I suppose a stranger coming around to make drawings of your house must be an unusual experience, especially here in Dharavi. I still remember some old ladies wondering what it was I found so interesting. “It’s just a house after all,” old Balammal had quipped, as I measured and drew her loft. I can’t see her around today, but there are a few others whose houses I’ve drawn, so I showed them the thesis and the drawings that I had made of their houses. Many, like Kalavathy, still can’t figure out what I’d done, but are fascinated by the final product – the boys spend a long time examining every photograph and identifying places around them that had changed. “Some of the houses in this book don’t exist anymore!” I tell Reuben. He replies, quite perceptively, “But it is good that you recorded all this – as a memory. I don’t even think Ganesh Mandir will exist in a few years!” 

The neighbourhood boys inspecting my thesis in detail!

The changes have not just been physical. A number of old tenants have vacated and new families have moved in. “Is he a Hindi speaking fellow or a Tamilian?” asks one aunty suspiciously as I show her neighbours my book. She refuses to come near until she is sure that I can understand Tamil. I realize soon, however, that I've caused a bit of a commotion. People have spread the word to their neighbours, and soon a group of women have gathered around, all trying to find their house inside the book. I can’t quite describe how I feel, but I'm glad that I took the decision to come here.

"I don't understand it, but it's very nice!" says Malathi.

As the sun begins to set, the book has finally passed through many hands, and I decide to get on with the goodbyes. “I still don’t understand why you went to the trouble of drawing all this,” says Sowmya, Malathi’s daughter who’d just finished school. “College submission” I reply simply, though inside I know it was much more than that. “Well, whatever it was, thank you. I love my home, you know!” and a fetching grin lights up her face. Just for that, I muse as I make way back towards the railway bridge – just that had made my two years writing an undergraduate thesis worthwhile.

Some of my drawings of the houses in Ganesh Mandir.

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