Poor little rich Dharavi

There are no beggars in Dharavi …
“Why you people keep coming here? These gora (white) people gawk at us like we are some dirty zoo animals” Savitri remarks, her tone concealing a palpable irritation. She squats behind a pile of broken glass bottles and worn corks and with bare hands, keeps sorting the broken glass from the caps. Her yellow saree with bold orange print seems a blatant contrast to the dull surroundings of the poorly lit room with blackened cement walls. Acrid smell of metallic rust, a dark green coloured grinding machine, an old exhaust fan coated in grime and nimble, scruffy fingers.
“There are no beggars in Dharavi. We work hard , earn a decent living. We offer cheap labour to these big people in big hotels and offices. Why do they despise us?” She wonders aloud.
The realization clanks on my head like a loud, resounding bell. The neatly folded laundry in my hotel, the impeccable delivery of tiffin to office, the leather purses and classy belts, my freshly dyed Indigo dupatta , the garbage I mindlessly dumped in the dustbin…
On my insistence, she agrees to take me to her house. We make way through the narrow streets strewn with garbage and scrap waste from the industrial units operating from tiny hutments covered with tin, tarpauline and cement sheets. Savitri holds the lower end of her saree with one hand, picking it up to cross the muck streams and uses the free end of the garment to shield her face from the sun. Huge trucks block the tapering lanes. Labourers clad in shorts and colourful vests unload wares. The potbellied owners supervise contentedly, sipping a cup of the famous “cutting chai”, a local version of milk tea. My nose remains in a state of utter confusion as it copes with the miscellaneous blend of smells varying every kilometre.
The temporary shacks give way to asphalt roads and low lying cement houses stacked close together. Cemented alleys and congested labyrinth pathways defy sun like rainforest fauna. Finally, we enter one of these dwarf sized houses and the cooler greets us with a fresh water-infused puff of air as LCD TV blares on, playing some funky Bollywood music. A young girl wearing a grey coloured school uniform runs into Savitri’s arms, jumping like a little bunny. Her hair, braided into neat pigtails dances in her enthusiasm.“Maaaa First prize!!”
Savitri’s face breaks into a resonating smile, the pride in her eyes surpasses the gleam of white ceramic tiles on the floor. I will never forget that.