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.   

Mumbai Encounters #3

Walking in the city

How often do you walk in the city? Have you noticed, during your walks - the way in which you move as you make your way? In Indian cities especially, to go for a walk down a busy street is like moving in an endless obstacle course. I noticed that I keep moving in patterns. Hop up onto the pavement, avoid the telephone pole, slide down the kerb, gallop across the street - even as vehicles are whizzing by, weave around the parked cars and bikes, stalls and street vendors.

I am walking through Bandra, perhaps the best known of Mumbai's western suburbs - home to a good cross-section of the city's elite - Bollywood stars, cricketers and businessmen. I walk into bustling Pali market and then along the roads over the hill. Vistas of the hills or the sea, are completely hidden by massive towering structures – fancy fancy apartments, stealing the views for themselves. Bandra is a curious place, because while there is a lot of posh (and it is visible) - it is also a great place to witness crushing  poverty, first hand. Typical of Mumbai - there's a lot of disparity, and it is very visible.

Everywhere I see contrasts – right next to a luxury apartment, fancy enough to have a car elevator, there is a chawl with no drainage or water supply. Pungent greenish sewage collects in a little pool by the roadside. Well, the numerous drivers, maids and nannies in service of the rich and famous have to live somewhere too, don’t they?

Khar Danda:

One great place to witness this disparity - where the transition from sickeningly rich to scruffy working class is rather abrupt - is beautiful Carter Road, a perfect microcosm of the city if there ever was one. As you walk from the South end along the promenade - you will pass the glass towers of the folks who seem to have exclusive sea-view rights, then the spiffy eat-outs at the khao gully junction - and then all of a sudden, all around you are fishermen's houses and the sharp whiff of drying fish that permeates the air. This is Khar Danda, an old fishing village that existed long before any of the glass towers were built, which, together with Chuim village nearby, are the vestiges of an old and laid-back Bandra.

Khar Danda is saffron today. Balasaheb’s face glowers down at me from numerous hoardings. A couple of cars loaded with party flags line the street. Of course, all these are just barely registering in my brain, because Khar Danda explodes in my face – in a frenzy of colour and movement.

 One has to be careful where one walks – to get distracted can be dangerous. More than once, I bumped into someone while studying a store-sign. 

As the last rays of twilight peek out over the rooftops, I lose myself to the place. It’s the most crowded place I’ve been in all day, reminding me of the trains during rush hour – except that everything is constantly moving. I make my way along the main road, resisting the urge to plunge into one of the side gullies and get lost in the labyrinth.

When you reach the end of the settlement along this road, a part of the coast becomes visible – but it isn’t really accessible. A large wall with a gate bar the way, and past the gate I can see rows of warehouses along the coast. But as I stand there, trying to figure out a way past the gate, I begin to sense some sinister vibes. Two men standing by a corner are now watching me suspiciously. I quickly walk back the way I came and ask an old uncle sitting outside a Mandir if there is a way to get to the shore. “Why do you want to go there? There is nothing to see near the shore!” the old man exclaims, alarmed. “Listen, just turn left over here – don’t go towards the coast, nothing to see!”

I decide it would be better to pay heed, but I can’t help but feel a bit cheated by this strange city. How is it that for a city with such a vast coastline, so much of it is hardly accessible, or even visible? How did Mumbai manage to close itself to the sea? Of course it had forgotten its rivers – as I had seen with the Mithi earlier that day. Perhaps the river is forgotten because it is invisible, but then, so are many parts of the coast. I realize then, how important it is for a part of the city to be visible and accessible if it has to become meaningful to the city’s residents. If it is central to their lives and to their imagination of the city, then there is no question of forgetting about the coast, river, nor anything else.

Barred by the coast, I turn and walk cautiously down the narrow side street that the uncle had pointed to. “If you want to get to the main road, then keep turning left – don’t turn into any gullies on the right,” someone warns me as I make my way in. I do as they say, and thank goodness too!

The streets are in places only a couple of feet across – not really streets, just gaps between the houses. Inside there are shops of all kinds – pharmacies, sweet shops, an appliance store. Old Koli grandmothers sit on their doorsteps chatting, TVs are on, women wash vessels on the street – I slip over the wet stone in places. 

Where am I going? I have no clue. The streets double back on themselves, branching out indefinitely, without any sign of dead-ends – It’s helped me lose all sense of direction, and I feel I could keep walking forever. But one thing that truly fascinates me is how close I feel to these people's lives, simply by walking past their homes - their day to day activities are out in the open - their movements and paths entwined with mine - their joys and sorrows, and the mundane of everyday existence, all on display. It's touching, human and fills me with a strange kind of joy. I think for a second about the rich - the poor people cooped up in their million dollar homes - barely even aware of who their neighbours are, always fearful of the home getting robbed - a life far removed from this. Such are the idiosyncrasies of human existence.

Pondering this, I turned left for the umpteenth time - and suddenly found myself back on the main road - full of people, bicycles, trucks carrying fish, and some very fat cats. Standing out here, one could never guess the extent of the settlement stretching out along the coast. The Sun has completely set by now, and I my legs are also giving out. I decide that it's enough walking for one day - a long walk it might've been, but it's given me plenty to think about!