making keychains

For the past couple of days, I have been shadowing Muna Apa, a social worker with the organization Apnalaya (meaning 'our house' in Marathi).  Apnalaya is really involved with the issue of ration cards, so I'm getting a good look at how this part of Mumbai's identification system works, in theory and in practice.  I basically follow Muna Apa around as she makes house visits in the slums and goes to the ration card office to help people with their applications.  She is really good about explaining the minutae of things to me.  She herself has lived in a Govandi slum-- Shanti Nagar-- for decades, and she has been working with Apnalaya for like 15 years.  So she has an insider's view of things.

These pictures are from one of the house visits we made... Muna Apa was there to help one of the children get admission to a school.  The grandmother of the household was assembling keychains.  It was a five or six step process of putting together a very cheap little plastic bug that makes a clicking noise when you squeeze it.   She had large burlap sacks full of plastic pieces to put together. 

For making 12 dozen keychains, she gets 1 rupee  (roughly 40 rupees = $1).  At first, I thought she meant to say one dozen.  So I asked again:  you get 1 rupee for making 12 of these things?  She clarified, 12 dozen.  One hundred forty-four.  She is able to make about Rs. 15 per day doing this work. 

We had to sit around and wait for about 15 minutes while one of the parents found some documentation Muna Apa had asked for, so in the meantime, I tried my hand at keychain assembly. I used a pair of pliers to fix black beads into eye sockets. As we were sitting around making keychains together, the grandmother gave me a really good interview about her thoughts on voting and politics!

 

route to class

Three times a week, I teach English to some members of the women's labor union that is helping me with my research.  The class meets in Dharavi, and I really have to go through a maze of alleys to get there.  The first time Indira took me to the meeting place, I told her, there is no way at all that I am going to remember how to get back here.  But now its no problem.  Here is my route:

1.  From the Dharavi T junction, go to this group of buildings:

2.  Enter this alley between two of the buildings (and say hello to any passing children):

3.  At the snack stall, make a left:

 

4.  Then down the alley and another left at the blue door:

 

5.  A right turn, then down this alley (being careful to step to the side if someone is approaching in the other direction, because there is only room for one person to get by):

 

6.  The last alley empties out into this street, called V.K. Wadi:

 

7.  Every once in a while I encounter something interesting on this street.  A couple of days ago, one of the men had saved a cockatiel (or some such bird) from a crow attack, and was playing with it.  He put it in my hands and took a picture:

 

8.  Arrive at the classroom, just a short way down V.K. Wadi:

 

visiting Dharavi slums

Yesterday I got my first real sense of life in the Dharavi slums.

I tagged along with Nitin, Indira (both NGO workers), and Bano Apa (labor union president) as they made their rounds to various union group leaders' houses.  They briefed them on the upcoming meeting and urged them to get their group members to attend. 

Today's area of focus was Rajiv Gandhi Nagar, an area of Dharavi with roughly 12,000 people.  In total, Dharavi has somewhere between 600,000 and a million residents, spread out over roughly 0.67 square miles.  By way of comparison, Manhattan has a population density of about 66,940 per square mile.

The entire area of Dharavi is full of shops and vendors.  Walking along a main road you see lines of small stores on either side.  Often, there are lanes between the stores, sometimes only about 3 to 4 feet wide.  Until now, these narrow gaps hadn't even registered as alleys or paths in my brain.  But if you walk into one of them, any one, you enter a vast and dense network of walkways and slumhouses.  The houses are basically rows of boxes made out of concrete and brick.  They are usually one room, which includes a kitchen space and a small drainage area. 

Among the ones I visited today, the smallest was about 45 or 50 square feet.  We all piled in, sat on the concrete floor and talked about union-related stuff for about 20 minutes.  Bano Apa asked the lady who lived there whether her husband was tall or short, because she wanted to figure out if the guy is able to stretch out and sleep.  This particular hut didn't have electricity, and since we went at night, there were two thin candles that lit the place.  In one corner, there was a stove, water containers, and a smattering of kitchen implements.  Her rent is 1,000 rupees a month, which is really an astronomical figure for a space like that; and also for someone with her income. 

The most spacious house we visited was also one room, but L-shaped, and I would guess about 100-120 square feet.  There was a small bed, a wardrobe, and a bit of other furniture.  Our host took out fancy glasses from a cabinet above the bed, told her son to go buy some bottled drinks from a nearby store, and served us, an indication that her finances were probably doing ok.  She also had the trappings of a more lower-middle class existence... a stereo, a mobile phone, bottles of nail polish, several clothes hanging up to dry, cabinets and mirrors.  (Visiting a one room house is such an invasion of privacy, in a way.  You know exactly what that person has and doesn't have.  You see their underwear drying on the clothes line above the kitchen counter).

On the other hand, like everyone else in that area, she didn't have running water-- everyone has to buy it in large containers-- and also has to travel kind of far to use the bathroom.  All of the people in her particular block of houses either have to walk a bit and then cross a busy road to get to the public latrines or go in the creek behind their hutment colony. 

But people can bathe in their homes.  All of the houses have drains that empty out into the network of alleys.  There is maybe 3 to 4 feet of space between lines of houses, and the drains empty into open gutters in this narrow space.  The walkways are built over the sewage.  To walk in this area, I would place my feet carefully from cement, to concrete tile to an occasional stone-paved section.  Sometimes you put your foot on one side of the gutter, sometimes the other, depending on what looks the least crumbled.  Navigating through these passages felt like kind of a ridiculous dance; meanwhile, the children who lived there would race past us confidently, and almost all of them had bare feet.  Children around these areas are often sick.  I haven't met anyone yet who hasn't had to deal with a very sick child in the family at one time or another.

 

ration card office visit

Yesterday was a full day of research.  I sat in on a meeting with a ration card officer in Dharavi, and also (thanks to Aazamina's friends Dev, Mansi and Niki) interviewed two women who live in a slum on the other side of town.  But this entry is about the ration card office visit and the things I have learned from it.

In the early afternoon I accompanied Nitin, Indira (both staff of LEARN India) and Bano Apa to the Dharavi ration card office.   Bano Apa is the president of the Mahila Kamgar Sangathna--women workers union-- and she is also a vendor who makes and sells bhajiye (fried snacks) on the street.  Nithin and Banu Apa talked to the ration card officer in charge of the Dharavi branch.  Actually, Nitin did almost all the talking, and Bano Apa, who in meetings is so forceful and articulate, was kind of shy and silent.  I remember she had said at an earlier meeting that she finds these authority figures a bit intimidating, and difficult to speak to as equals.  In fact, at that time, she had been telling the group that the Sangathna was their one way to make their voice heard in front of people they would normally be afraid to approach.

Here's a picture of Bano Apa I took before we went into the ration card office.  She is wearing her LEARN Mahila Kamgar Sangathan ID

Before I describe the meeting, I should point out that by law, the ration card was not intended to be anything but a way to get subsidized essential goods from the national Public Distribution System (kind of like the U.S. social security card).   And it is still not a necessary proof of identity by law.  But in practice its hard to get anything done without it (at least in Mumbai... not sure yet about other places in India).  As far as most people are concerned, their basic right to exist in a particular area or residence stems from their possession of this document.  From what people have told me so far, in Mumbai, its harder to get one if you're not Marathi-speaking and poor migrants from North India are the least likely to be issued ration cards.  And really, for anyone, no matter what their language or origin, the only sure way to get one is to pay a very hefty bribe... well out of the capabilities of most poor people.

Anyway, Nitin and this officer basically had a 5-10 minute conversation about the fact that two years after the women had submitted their initial applications for ration cards, they still have not gotten them.  Over this time, they have been asked to submit various documents-- such as other proofs of identity, and affidavits that their name does not appear on another ration card elsewhere.  Now, the ration card officer is asking for a no-objection letter from their landlords.

The women in this group all pay rent to a ghar-malik, meaning landlord, which means the dwelling is registered under that person's name in official records.  It is also common that if the housing isn't on the landlord's private land, then he is probably paying bribes to government officials to continue to occupy that space.  The important point is that there is no way any ghar malik will ever write a letter to anyone stating that he does not object to the tenancy of someone on his property and that he vouches for their reliability in that residence.  For one thing, it may create legal issues for him, if the tenant then uses the letter to make a claim on the property.  For another, the informal nature of a lot of slum housing means that its kind of a contradiction of terms to put that sort of thing in writing... bottom line is that no landlord will accept that risk when his business is an under-the-table affair.  

And this seems to be common information.  So much so that the three people who went to this meeting were unanimous in telling me that the only reason the ration card officer asked for a no-objection letter is because he knows there is no way any landlord will issue one.

Nitin asked the officer to show him the government circular that requires a no-objection letter, knowing that one does not exist.  The ration card officer said that it wasn't the letter in particular he wanted, but he needed somebody to take responsibility for the tenants that were seeking ration cards  (this part, I didn't really understand fully and will ask Nitin or Indira about it next time I see them).  So Nithin said that the LEARN Mahila Kamgar Sangathna, an organization with an address and several people to contact, will assume that responsibility, and the officer seemed ok with this.  The group's next task is to write a letter for each woman's application to that effect.

Maybe, after that is done, ration cards will be issued.

One reason its taken so long so far is that government offices are (purposely?) very sluggish.  Two years ago, to begin this ration card process for the Sangathna women, Nithin met with a state-level minister, who issued an order to Mantralaya (the name for Maharashtra's administrative headquarters) to get the process going.  That order took a couple of months in coming.  Then, the transfer of instructions from officials at Mantralaya to the Dharavi ration card office branch took another 4 months.  Now, things are getting more and more pressing for the women who are hoping for ration cards, because it is one of their only chances of not becoming homeless once the next phase of Dharavi's re-development starts (expected to happen within the year) and their current homes are torn down.  Without ration cards, they don't have a chance of being included in the government's relocation schemes.  

The causes of this situation are so varied:  the system of bribes and corruption, the government's drive to beautify and develop Mumbai and the money brought in by big development companies, migration and overcrowding in the city, native Maharashtran identity politics.  The effect, though, is a really pronounced situation of third-class citizenship for internal migrants especially... Indian citizens who are guaranteed rights of movement and livelihood by the constitution, but face a hostile local environment.  A lot of the identity and residence issues they face are similar to those of illegal immigrants in the U.S. and Europe (and often more severe), except that they are perfectly legal.

volunteering with down to earth

Today was something of a day of contrasts.

I met some friends of Aazamina's who run an NGO called Down to Earth.  They provide education for children in slums.  I took a bus from the CST station to the last bus stop in a posh area of Mumbai called Cuff Parade.  The bus drove by beautiful apartment residences and hotels, and stopped at a bus depot, right next to the slum where Down to Earth runs its classes. It may be a bit misleading to call this place a slum though.  The definition of a slum is quite contested and varies depending on who you talk to and what their interests are.  But I think most people would call this place (named Ambedkar-nagar) a slum.  But the housing in it isn't temporary or disgusting.  Most of the houses are two stories (with a small room on each floor and a simple ladder connecting the upstairs and downstairs), have cement walls and corrugated metal roofs and electricity (though it is not metered).  Its an extremely crowded place, with really narrow alleys and walkways between the structures.  And it is certainly very shabby, with a lot of crumbling cement and trash. 

But at the same time, its quite vibrant.  There are stores, people working and talking everywhere, chickens running around, food being sold.  The Indian census defines a slum as a cluster of 50 or 60 households that are dilapidated and unconnected, and the BMC declares areas slums based on different housing conditions.  But those are just technical definitions.  I guess my point is that there are really bad slums, and better off slums, and this was probably a better off one.

So I met 3 NGO workers-- Dev, Maansi and Niki, all in their 20's or early 30's and all really friendly.  As Maansi was taking me through the alleys to the NGOs headquarters, 3 or 4 people stopped her to say hello or ask a question.  Several of the kids also said hi to her.  The headquarters were in one of the cement structures.  And everything was quite clean, as I assume the houses of the people who live in this area are as well.  There were gaps in the places where the walls met the ceiling, and once two cats involved in a chase came through one corner of the room and streaked out another.  I guess things must get a bit wet inside during the rainy season.

I met two of the pupils... about 9-11 year old boys.  When I came in, they were working on sudoku puzzles with Dev.  They had pretty decent English skills, and for the most part, understood me just fine when I said simple English sentences.  Dev wanted me to help them practice their English, so I had a "Where are you from?  How many siblings do you have?" type of conversation with them.   They were really sweet boys.  Dev, Maansi and Niki told me about Down To Earth and the kind of work they do, and I think I am going to help them with teaching a couple of times a week.  And Dev offered to arrange interviews for me with the students' parents (they are mostly migrants from all different places in India) and to have one of the NGO staff accompany me.  So that will be incredibly helpful.  I'm really excited to be involved with this group.

To give me some practice, Dev called in an 18 year old guy named Nasir.  I asked him my set of questions, and he answered like he thought his parents would.  It was cool, and Dev had some great suggestions for fine-tuning my questions a bit.  I mentioned earlier that the place didn't seem like a terrible slum to me.  When I asked Nasir whether there was something he or his parents wished they could have, he told me nothing... they were doing pretty well.   Dev wasn't sure if his parents would have said the same thing, but at least this 18 year old felt pretty good about his life.

So after my introduction to Down to Earth, I stopped by Makduda Aunty's house because her family lives right in Cuff Parade.   Their flat is just gorgeous, and it was really nice to see her and get her advice on living in Mumbai.  It was particularly good to hang out with someone who I've known for a long time... helped mitigate some of the culture shock I've been feeling.  These two places were close to each other but also worlds apart (I would say a lot more so than the lives and dwellings of rich and poor people in the West).  Not just worlds apart in terms of aesthetics and facilities, but also outlook.  I guess its not surprising that I get totally different opinions on Bombay's slum issues from family and family friends here then I do from the NGO workers and the actual slum dwellers that I've met so far.  Many people on the upper-middle and upper class end don't really seem to identify with their plight.  Instead they seem to be thought of as people who are ruining Mumbai.  I've heard that opinion several times over now.

I do think both sides of the issue make legitmate points.  I'll write about those some other time.