The Real Slum

October 19

Udaipur, Rajasthan

Today I asked Apoorv, my research assistant, to take me and Ben (my research partner) to a slum. I needed to get more of the poor perspective for my research, and I was curious about how they lived. Shambu, our rickshaw driver, brought us into a poor neighborhood that did not display the squalor I expected from the residence of Udaipur's poorest denizens. It had less commercial presence and less traffic than most of the city– we saw only one other rickshaw- but there were roads, motorbikes, and the people were dressed in typical clothing. It was not made up of shanties, but concrete homes with hard roofs and space for families to sleep and cook and eat. People here owned property and had jobs. Ben and I were surprised that Apoorv called this a “slum”, but we made no assumptions.

After we climbed out of the rickshaw, I asked Apoorv and Shambu a few questions. Neither of them typically comes into areas like this. But Apoorv said that he is comfortable walking through the neighborhood because “they are all human beings”. He does not know anyone from places like this, however. Shambu said that rickshaw drivers rarely come here, and pointed out the one rickshaw. Then he took me by surprise by saying “Sometimes Muslims are crazy”. He said he wonders what they're thinking sometimes. Later when I mentioned Shambu's comments to Ben, he pointed out that statements like that can sound different when spoken by someone who is not fluent. Apparently Shambu uses the word “crazy” a lot. There was definitely something behind that comment, however.

At first Apoorv had a hard time getting someone to talk to us. One man agreed at first, and then suddenly sped off on a motorbike. Apoorv commented, “It's hard to make them understand”. Eventually we found a Muslim father who was willing to answer my questions, I interviewed him briefly, and we left.

* * *

October 20 – Today Ben, Apoorv, Shambu and I drove through town to get an interview with a member of the BJP, India's second-largest political party. One hundred meters from the politician's office Ben pointed out a telltale group of structures: the real slum. This was what we were looking for yesterday. I was sitting in a rickshaw between two men, and I had to bend forward completely to even see out of the vehicle. With this view and only a passing glance I could tell that what we saw yesterday did not compare with this. Apoorv, a 23-year-old intelligent college student and member of the Indian air force, insisted it was a dangerous place, where he might be chased out with knives and swords if he entered.

* * *

October 21 - When we drove by the slum again this morning and told Apoorv we wanted to go there, he responded, “I will never take you there.” Ten minutes later we were parked and searching for our first interviewee.

The 800 residents of the Shivaji Najar Slum Area live in lean-tos and makeshift buildings. Their roofs and walls are made of a patchwork of cloth rags, burlap sacks, plastic sheeting, old tapestries, rusting steel plates and occasional pieces of fiberglass roofing material. Structures consist of these materials tied to wooden or bamboo stakes in the ground. Some people have taken advantage of concrete walls that run the length of the slum, which offer one sturdy side to a homebuilder.

A sewer drain runs through the length of the area, and carries the filth of the city by the densely packed homes. The four-foot wide canal is covered by concrete blocks in many places, and this system of blocks serves as the one clear pathway through the slum. Some portions have not been covered, however, and here a passerby must navigate the twelve-inch strip between the drop-off and the homes and concrete walls that line the sewage drain. The smell is so bad that after a few minutes Apoorv asks if we may leave. Apoorv grew up in Udaipur, where drains similar to this line every major road.

Apoorv quickly runs into someone he knows (how ironic is that?), who is working here for a local NGO. For my first interview we sit down next to the school building where Apoorv's friend works. It has four concrete walls, and a roof of fiberglass. The interior is furnished slightly better than most homes, with a light, two small tables, a couple of plastic deck chairs, a few instructional books, pads of paper and pens.

While in the slum I conducted two interviews.

During the first interview, the customary crowd gathers to look on. A boy of perhaps three stands a few feet away, watching. He has a raw, dirty cut below his lower lip. Several flies gather on the red spot, and occasionally he uses a delicate fingertip to shoo the insects. While I am taking notes Ben points out a pair of toddlers wearing only shirts who are peeing on the corner of a small structure, possibly their home. Their thin bodies make them seem like taller, older children, but I don't think they're more than two.

Kanti Bhai, 66-year old Hindu

Kanti Bhai is a friendly man who was very willing to speak with me. He has very dark hair and a short gray beard, which give the impression that his hair has been dyed. He's wearing traditional pants (which means the flowy ones, not pajamas). He has two sons and one daughter, and lives with his father.

Kanti told me that 250 Hindu families and 20 Muslims families live in the community [which reflects exactly the ratio in Rajasthan]. He calls himself a “regular laborer,” who collects used clothing and sells it in a market on Sundays. He and all of his neighbors wash and dye the clothes before bringing them to one of several markets. He said that in a month he earns about 3000 rupees and saves 500. All the men in the slum do the same work. None of them have fixed jobs. He said that two or three people are educated. I asked if the people are not educated because they have no access to schools. He said that in the past people didn't want to study, but some parents are now sending their kids to schools outside the slum.

The people here buy and cook their food on a daily basis, and they do get to eat every day. There are about fifty beggars in the community, who range from middle aged to seventies. Ben asked if they use the money they make to help the community, and Kanti said the use it themselves [I can't imagine it's much, and they're prob not selling clothes].

Kanti said the slum has one functional water spout, which goes dry sometimes and occasionally causes fights between neighbors.

The land the slum sits on is owned by the government, making their unpaid residence there illegal. The government never used to give the people any trouble, but now they're saying they want to clear the place out. They apparently would give the people land someplace else, but the slum-dwellers themselves are not into this idea. They would like it more if the government forced them to move but gave them homes to live in, but this too would be intolerable if the spot were far outside the city (Kanti mentioned the number 25km. Not sure if this is one that comes from the gov't or if it's the limit they'd be okay with.)

Kanti says that Hindus and Muslims are happy together. The Muslims do all live in one area of the slum. No one in the slum has seen any government benefits, regardless of religion. Kanti mentioned the partial cover of the drain as the one helpful contribution by the government. “Municipalities people” only come to talk to them, then leave without doing anything. They all vote, but are unwilling to reveal who they vote for because leaders might hear about their preferences and stop supporting them.

Ajaz Khan, 30-year old Muslim

After the interview with Kanti, Ajaz led us from the school building down the sewer path to his home. One the way we passed a wall made of rusted metal sheet and saw on the other side huge white plastic bags full of trash. His home is a more permanent structure than most around it. The nine by eleven foot house has four white-painted sturdy walls and a roof of wooden slats and other materials. The exterior walls are lumpy and look similar to concrete. I felt the top of one of the walls and broke off a small piece of the material in my fingers. It was a mixture of clayish mud, stones, and splinters of wood and other organic matter. He built the house himself over the course of a year. When he led us into his low front door, the first thing I noticed was the television in the corner. I could not believe that here in the middle of a squalid slum this man had a TV. I next noticed the fan that hung at about my shoulder height. He explained that they have illegal access to electricity. He warned me not to step near the naked light bulb at the back end of the room, because the wires connecting it and the fan were exposed and hot.

Also in his one-room home are a cooking set with bread dough ready, a pile of clothes, a tiny mirror, a clock that is either 10 minutes fast or broken, and several calendars.

Ajaz has four sons and three daughters, all very young (at 30!).

Dignity On Two Arms

November 5, 2009

Delhi, India

This morning we left Agra, home of the Taj Mahal, and road the train to Delhi, arriving in the early afternoon. We spent a few free hours in the city before we took another (overnight) train to Anandpur Sahib, Punjab. That night we got to the train station about three hours early, at the insistence of the bus driver. Some of us used this time to go out onto the Delhi streets again. Palmer, Sarah, Ben and I made it only to the curb before our attention was captivated.

* * *

We stood at a food stand just outside the train station. Palmer inadvertently bought an odd collection of vegetables presented on a hamburger bun. He had tried to ask the vendor how much the dish cost, and the man responded by slapping it into his hand with a smattering of ketchup. We stood together as he gingerly bit into his newest culinary adventure. I looked behind me for a moment and saw a legless man walking upright on his hands toward the stand where Palmer bought his mystery meal. The man held stacks of papers under his hands to keep from touching the filthy street. He was wearing a grayish plaid shirt and a bag over his shoulder that appeared to be empty. I had seen cripples in several places before, carting themselves around on small wooden wheeled platforms and begging alms. This man seemed different.

He looked up at me and asked where I was from. “America,” I responded. I noticed immediately that he had a clean-shaven, intelligent, kind face. This was no beggar.

“Oh, America. Great, great place,” he said. All of a sudden I was stricken, and I could not yet tell what it was about this man that affected me. He made one more comment about America being either the biggest or best country on earth – perhaps a reference to its economic might – and I was unable to continue the conversation, so I turned around and he continued on his way. As I faced my friends, I saw that in this short interaction the legless man had captured their attention as well. In that moment I could tell they all had thoughts and questions running through their minds. We soon found ourselves in a tight circle talking quickly, trying to sort out what we had just seen and why it had so arrested us, oblivious to the throngs stepping around us as they entered and exited the train station.

“Did you see that guy?”

“Yeah.”

“He's amazing.”

“Yeah what is it about him?”

“He looks so different from most people like him here.”

“Looking at him makes me realize that any of us could be in his position.”

“Should we go bring him to a bench and talk to him or something?”

“Should I give him my burger?

“He has such dignity.”

“It would mean so much to get down to his level and have a conversation with him.”

“What should we do?”

Finally I saw that we just needed to grab this chance while we had it. An important experience was clearly waiting for us. I left the circle in a hurry and followed the man as he made his way toward the station. I got alongside him, and before I could finish the words “hello sir” he had turned, looked up at me with a big smile and motioned to the side where we would have space to pause and talk. As soon as the four of us crouched around him, a bigger crowd began to form around us (standing). Right away a man who had previously been trying to sell us something began to exchange angry words in Hindi with our new friend. With a firmness impressive for his position, Kamil called him off. When the angry man quieted down, we began asking questions.

The name the legless man gave us sounded like Kamil Khan, which cannot be right because he is Hindu and 'Khan' is the most widespread Muslim surname in India. Still, I will call him Kamil.

* * *

Kamil is from Calcutta, where his brother and sister and their families now live. He has no family of his own. He lost his legs in an accident on a train track in Bombay 27 years back, exactly half his life ago. His current voyage was supposed to bring him to Delhi and then the Taj Mahal, but while he was sleeping in the Delhi train station his bag and wristwatch were stolen. He was returning to the station today to look for the bag. He explained that he did not care nearly as much about the clothes and money in the bag as he did about the watch, which was a gift given to him by his older brother. His plans now are to get together 600 rupees and then have a small wooden cart built so that he can move more freely. When that's finished he will try to make his way to Agra. He has no idea how the money will come, but he asserted his trust in God. As I write this and think about Kamil, I am tempted to feel sorry for him. However, I remember that the ultimate lessons I took from my interaction with him do not allow this sort of nonconstructive thinking.

Our conversation continued for a short while, as we four Americans took turns offering questions. We talked mostly about Kamil and his life, but also about our names, where we were from, and what we were doing in India. With every statement, Kamil smiled at us. During most of the conversation, my friends and I simply sat in awe of this man, soaking up his sense of grace and sincerity, the likes of which I have seen in few people. As our conversation went on, the crowd of spectators standing by gradually also crouched to Kamil's level and shared our interest.

Another classmate came by to remind us that we needed to meet the group to go to our departure platform. As soon as we said goodbye to Kamil I turned to Ben and said, “Alright, can we give him money now?”

“Yeah,” he responded immediately, “how much?”

Between the four of us we gave him 1500 rupees (about $32.50), an amount we thought would more than get him started on his next journey, but would also be easy for him to manage (to put this in perspective, in India one can easily eat a meal for under one US dollar). We handed our money to Ben and walked away as he waited for a private moment to give Kamil our gift. After a minute, I realized I really wanted to see Kamil's face when he received the money, so I turned around.

When I spotted where Ben was crouched next to Kamil again, I noticed two other men standing near them. One was a security guard, the other a young civilian with a bag over his shoulder. The security guard was trying to intervene in the conversation and shoo Kamil away, as if the meek little man were a nuisance. Ben told the uniformed officer that everything was okay, but he did not immediately leave them alone. I put a hand on each man's chest, gave a slight nudge, and told them to move along.

When I knelt down next to Kamil again, he had the bills tucked precariously in his breast pocket, and Ben was telling him that we hoped this would help him build his cart and get to Agra. Before we turned to leave for good, I patted his pocket, told him to take care of the money, and asked him to keep on smiling.

As we walked away, Ben told me that the second man had been hanging around out of friendly curiosity. In my frustrated defense of Kamil, I had seen no difference between him and the security guard. Ben also told me that Kamil didn't thank him for the money, he just smiled in his characteristic genuine manner.

A few minutes later, Palmer still felt like he needed to do more for Kamil, even though he had contributed to our pool of money. He realized he had a pair of gloves that might be useful to the man who walked on his hands. He pulled the gloves out of his luggage and waded through the crowd in search of Kamil. After a minute Palmer found him. On receiving the gift, Kamil asked him seriously, “you have no need?”

“I have no need,” Palmer assured him. When he talks about that incident, Palmer laughs off Kamil's question and shakes his head at the notion that he could have had any real need for those gloves.

* * *

I've thought about Kamil a lot since that night. He gave me a new perspective on human suffering and poverty.

Some people argue that we are products of our experience. According to this view our environment consists of external factors that shape our lives. In such a world an impoverished standard of living inevitably leads to an impoverished spirit. Kamil's very character disputes this claim. Not only did this man lose his legs – and with them his mobility, his independence, his career, and his hope of having a family – but he then had to live as a legless man in India, of all places. Cripples and beggars occupy most major roads in this nation of 1.1 billion people. Those more fortunate walk by them every day, giving them no heed, much less aid. Unlike Kamil, by remaining in the streets and begging, these “untouchables” attempt to exploit their material disadvantage for meager monetary gains and in the process sacrifice their dignity. And how can I, an American, of all things, blame them?

However, as understandable as a beggar's downtrodden mindset may be, Kamil sets a more inspired example. Kamil has spent the last 27 years looking up at people who have so much more materially than he has, if nothing more than the ability to walk, skip, and run. For 27 years he has walked through crowds of towering bipeds, most of which offer him no recognition, not to mention respect or esteem. And these people were once his peers. Yet he smiles freely. He has not allowed his physical condition to hinder his happiness.

Every day, Kamil proves by his example that we all have the opportunity to express joy. Every one of us has some measure of control over his or her demeanor, attitude, and outlook. If it is important enough to us and we are willing to take the responsibility, we have the power to live joyfully. When Kamil walks along the streets of India with only a newspaper between his hands and the squalid concrete – beaming – what excuse have we, who have so much?

Meeting Kamil has helped to guide my interactions with other poor and disadvantaged people. I now know that instead of ignoring them, I can look them in the eye and let the acknowledgement make this radical claim: they have access to a sense of grace, happiness, and dignity that cannot be contained within and therefore cannot be limited by their material condition.

You can empower a person simply by looking him or her in the eye and smiling.