My tour guide, Shailesh, grew up in Dharavi, the second largest slum in the world, made famous by “Slumdog Millionaire.” He led me through impossibly small alleys lined with tiny huts, each one holding three generations, all soap-makers, leather workers, and plastic recyclers.
Electrical wires jumbled along the exteriors and my guide told me they had “twenty four hours of power.” The heat and smell had teeth. The people wore open smiles, kids running beside us, not for money, but to look at a tall white bald dude. Toward the end, a thin man stood beaming and Shailesh introduced me to his father. I shook the man’s hand, telling him his son was very smart, never breaking eye contact.
We went around the corner and my guide showed me where he lived. I peaked past the thin drape that acted as the front door, saw three kids and a smiling woman in a house the size of a Macy’s dressing room. The tour ended when we went to a school room that doubled as the offices of Mystical Mumbai Tours. About ten students sat on the floor doing their lesson in Hindi, while I filled out a survey about the quality of the tour.
Great, I said, and wrote about the indelible insight my guide gave me. Sure, Shailesh’s constant coughing freaked me out, but his open spirit and the love he had for his roots batted away any concerns I had as we walked toward the car to go back to the hotel, a billion miles away from Dharavi.