As students,we used to travel by the train to reach our college. As the train left Sion station, a strange familiar nauseating, acrid smell used to waft in to our compartment from the open tracks between Sion and Matunga stations.We used to remove perfumed hankies from our pockets and hold them pressed against our noses during this part of our journey, but the smell overpowered our perfumes very easily and we would pray for the motorman to drive the train faster to end our olfactory misery. Dharavi,the popular slum flanked these unfortunate tracks.
If you peeked out of the window, hundreds of squatters would be seen on the tracks carrying out their morning act of purging their bowels, unmindful of the passing public staring in disbelief and sympathy. It was a ghastly sight for every citizen of this city.
There were the young squatters, hiding their faces in the morning newspaper and the old ones with their hydroceled balls resting on the ground, blissful in their sad state of want of medical attention. Some used to smoke during this act, but most of them used the black tobacco powder to facilitate their motion.Nicotine acts as a whip for the bowels.
The late evenings used to be even more shameful, when the ladies used to stand up with every passing train and resume their act, when the stares passed away. It was a sad state for them as they had to time their bowels according to the visibility on the tracks. This one act of probably, a couple of minutes, required privacy, which was denied to them by the corrupt government.
I once saw a blind old man being helped by his son to cross the tracks to carry out his morning act, I felt really sorry for him, but what could I do? At least, he did not feel ashamed of our probing stares at him and his plight.
The basic right to sanitation was being denied by the great government, the politicians used to promise before elections,only to conveniently forget later after their loss or victory.
Dharavi, the largest slum in Mumbai , was a big vote bank.
The buildings on the left side of the tracks were the lowest priced ones in Mumbai, I never saw an open window in those buildings.Still, people inhabited these unfortunate buildings.
After some time, you develop a tolerance and resistance to the bitter facts of life.
After few months,we also ignored the perfumed hankies in our pockets and moved on, enduring these five minutes of discomfort in our daily sojourn.
People spent their entire lives in this repulsive part of this city, their sad, often tragic life cycle of unplanned birth, marriage,old age and an early death would be in this smelly slum.
A few would move ahead in life, buying a self contained flat in remote suburbs of the big city.
Their shame would unfortunately stay forever though , hiding their faces in the newspaper, every morning !
If you peeked out of the window, hundreds of squatters would be seen on the tracks carrying out their morning act of purging their bowels, unmindful of the passing public staring in disbelief and sympathy. It was a ghastly sight for every citizen of this city.
There were the young squatters, hiding their faces in the morning newspaper and the old ones with their hydroceled balls resting on the ground, blissful in their sad state of want of medical attention. Some used to smoke during this act, but most of them used the black tobacco powder to facilitate their motion.Nicotine acts as a whip for the bowels.
The late evenings used to be even more shameful, when the ladies used to stand up with every passing train and resume their act, when the stares passed away. It was a sad state for them as they had to time their bowels according to the visibility on the tracks. This one act of probably, a couple of minutes, required privacy, which was denied to them by the corrupt government.
I once saw a blind old man being helped by his son to cross the tracks to carry out his morning act, I felt really sorry for him, but what could I do? At least, he did not feel ashamed of our probing stares at him and his plight.
The basic right to sanitation was being denied by the great government, the politicians used to promise before elections,only to conveniently forget later after their loss or victory.
Dharavi, the largest slum in Mumbai , was a big vote bank.
The buildings on the left side of the tracks were the lowest priced ones in Mumbai, I never saw an open window in those buildings.Still, people inhabited these unfortunate buildings.
After some time, you develop a tolerance and resistance to the bitter facts of life.
After few months,we also ignored the perfumed hankies in our pockets and moved on, enduring these five minutes of discomfort in our daily sojourn.
People spent their entire lives in this repulsive part of this city, their sad, often tragic life cycle of unplanned birth, marriage,old age and an early death would be in this smelly slum.
A few would move ahead in life, buying a self contained flat in remote suburbs of the big city.
Their shame would unfortunately stay forever though , hiding their faces in the newspaper, every morning !
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