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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The Snake in the Tree

The location of Ganesh Mandir, inside Dharavi is marked in red.

    Located practically in the heart of Dharavi, the neighbourhood of Ganesh Mandir is easy to miss. As one walks along Dharavi Cross road; a narrow crooked street that connects the two ends of Dharavi, a large, paved open space, a welcoming sight in the otherwise space-starved settlement, greets you on one side. The sixty-nine houses that comprise Ganesh Mandir are mostly hidden from view, behind the large shed-like building, which now houses a primary school and a covered community hall, as well as the temple which gives the locality its name.

Extent of the neighbourhood, within the fabric of the settlement.

     Mandir is home to one of the oldest Tamil communities to settle in Dharavi. The residents all belong to the Adi-Dravidar caste. The first Adi-Dravidars came to Mumbai at least a century ago, escaping from poverty and famine in Thirunelveli district in Southern Tamil Nadu. A number of them ended up in the numerous tanneries that had mushroomed in the swampy outskirts of the city, which now comprise Dharavi. Historically associated with leatherwork, most of the community is now engaged in white-collar jobs, or work in the railways and the port trust.

    I had been interviewing the residents of Ganesh Mandir for the last few days, the neighbourhood being the case study for my undergraduate thesis. In the interviews I often asked residents to describe their lives in Ganesh Mandir. In return, I heard many stories – stories of their home, their family history, history of the community as well as anecdotes and legends shared by the community.

Through the stories, it was possible to see that the Adi-Dravidars are deeply connected to the place they live in, while simultaneously maintaining their cultural identity –that is, their language, cuisine, customs and beliefs. I was also interested in the history of the temple that gave the neighbourhood its name, and was surprised to find some interesting stories about the temple, that revealed how it acts as the spiritual and social anchor of the community.

Robin’s Story

Robin, on the left, standing in the courtyard of Ganesh Mandir. The temple itself is housed inside the large shed-like structure on the right. On the left is the local primary school, run by the Adi Dravidar trust. 

 July 2014

“You can sit down right here, no problem!” Robin told me, as he and his friends settled down in a corner of the temple. The boys seemed delighted that someone was taking an interest in their temple and neighbourhood, and they crowded around, eager to find out what it was we had come for.

    I had met Robin earlier on the street outside the temple, as we waited for the Adi-Dravidar Sangam office to open. They told me that it was unlikely that the office would open soon, but they were more than happy to answer my questions patiently, and agreed to show us around the area. Robin and his friends belong to the new generation of Dharavi’s residents – smart, ambitious and proud of their neighbourhood. The temple recently celebrated its hundredth year, Robin told me excitedly, as he located it for me on Google maps on his smart phone. As we sat talking about the temple, Robin narrated a story that his grandmother used to tell him when he was a child. She had told him of a time much before he was born – when there were no houses inside the mandir complex, and the mandir itself was only an idol installed under a tree.

   

 Robin’s grandmother told him that one day, the Government decided that they would demolish the temple along with all the houses that had been built nearby. A squad of policemen arrived one evening and barricaded the area around the temple. They warned the residents that their houses would be demolished the next day and left, leaving two constables behind to guard the temple. In the middle of the night, the temple bell began to ring unexpectedly.

    Robin’s grandmother, who was a young woman, newly married at that time, had been unable to sleep. She was sitting and praying, when she heard the bells start to ring. It seemed to snap her out of a trance, and she quickly rushed towards the temple. She was one of the first to get there; in front of the temple, the two police officers stood looking stricken, paralyzed. There was no one under the branch from which the bell rang. It was ringing itself. The whole neighbourhood was stirring, and a small crowd was gathering around. One of the policemen suddenly realized the danger he was in, and suddenly started to run. The second took one last, terrified look at the bell, and bolted in the opposite direction. No one standing there bothered to stop them.

    The bell stopped as suddenly as it had started, and from inside a snake emerged, in front of the astonished crowds. It slithered up the tree, into the branches, quickly disappearing from view. Some people shouted excitedly. An old man turned to her, “Did you see it? The snake! There was a snake! Did you see?”

    No one slept in Dharavi that night. No policemen came the next day, or the day after that. Later a constable at the local police station informed them that the demolition had been stopped. Some NGOs had gone to court and had managed to obtain a stay order. However, the residents of the huts and chawls around Ganesh Mandir knew what had really saved them. To them, what had happened was nothing less than a miracle. The people here believe that the snake still lives in the tree, acting as a guardian spirit that protects the temple and the community. 

    “The snake still lives there, and protects us.” Robin told me, pointing to the tree. A few wizened branches are visible behind the main shrine. “It has kept us safe and protected our homes all these years” As we walked out of Ganesh Mandir, through the thronging streets, the story lingered in my mind. I realized that the temple held much more meaning than just ‘place of worship’. It is a symbol of their community, proof of their long history in the area and an affirmation of the right to occupy that land as a migrant community. Everything about Ganesh Mandir, not only its culture, but also its physical characteristics – its settlement pattern and built form, exhibit unique features, combining the traditional rural settlement typologies, with the building methods and materials common to Dharavi.

Some houses inside Ganesh Mandir

     Over the course of doing this research, I realized that places were much more than simply a sum of its physical parts, but also a product of history and memories. Places are invariably inhabited by the stories of the people who live there. The fabric of Ganesh Mandir, supports a particular way of life, and has associations and meanings for its people. The settlement form and nature of its spaces allow for a vibrant social life and preserves community links, and as such, serves as a repository of memory. As the research progressed, I had begun to understand the value in keeping these networks and identities alive, and began to wonder if this idea – of cultural identity and its relationship to a place, can realistically become part of our debates on urbanism.