The inn at Ursa Major

To avoid treading ankle deep in rubbish, we stepped across the sleepers of the railway track. We had already been confronted by many strong smells in Mumbai, but this combination of rotting garbage and excrement was the worst.

We had passed a number of entrances into the slum already, each time we had made an excuse not to use that one, to wait until the next one, our earlier enthusiasm replaced by a silent uneasiness. The uneven panels of corrugated iron and planks of wood that had been slapped together into hovels looked like a fence guarding the huge slabs of layered concrete that rose behind them. We finally chose a narrow alley between shacks. A group of barefoot children stood playing, inadvertently guarding its entrance. We walked the handful of metres from the track to the laneway. We paused at the threshold, betraying our apprehension. A young teenager, sitting in the ballast, wearing dusty jeans and a ‘Rebok’ jumper, asked us where we wanted to go. He was thin and his jumper was torn under the left arm. When we told him we wanted to see the Dharavi slum, he told us that Dharavi was where he lived and that he would take us there.

He started down the narrow alley and we followed him into the darkness. The sun was completely obscured and it felt as though we had entered a tunnel. Inquisitive people stood silently in the open doorways of their homes, watching the three young white men walk past. Over his shoulder, the boy said that his name was Nikhil and that he was a student. When we told him we were Australian, he began to chatter about cricket. He laughed as he told us how much better his country was than ours. He asked us our ages and when we all answered twenty he told us that he was twenty as well. Behind him, we exchanged glances. He was no older than fourteen.

He showed us the butchery where he worked sometimes. The collection of rusty and damaged knives on display would have looked at home in a bad horror film. He introduced us to his friend who worked there. Vikram was an orphan.

I asked Nikhil what he studied. “I am… at college. I study business. But next year I will change, I will do Bachelor of Arts.”

I found it hard to respond to Nikhil. The lazy, uncommitted arts student felt ashamed before the boy from the slums.

When he left us, in an open and navigable part of the slum, he asked for no money or recompense, he told us he was happy to help. As he walked away I told him to study hard. He turned and smiled.