A Home of Her Own

After spending the day attempting to complete medical registration forms for the 200 people coming to get free medical and eye care in the rehabilitated slum complex (which would have been a tad easier if I spoke even a word of Hindi!) I was invited into the home of one of the leaders of the women's group. Now, being that my Hindi is non-existent and that these women spoke so fast, I didn't catch this lady's name. But I know it started with an M and her surname started with a K. So to me, she was Mrs MK.

Mrs MK is a strong, proud generous grandmother. She's shorter than me. (Am loving that at 5 foot 4 I am taller than most people here.) Mrs MK took us down a long, dark corridor that smelt like India. It smelt like curry and rubbish and incense. We came to an elevator that looked like the ones used in hotels to transfer food and linen to different floors. After four of us squeezed in we closed the wire door and headed up to the sixth floor. I didn't breathe the entire time as I was too scared that the slightest movement would send us plummeting to the ground. 'You ride in this all the time??' 'Would you prefer to walk the six floors?' Good point. Death ride adventure it is.

Mrs MK's door is painted a bright orangey red. Her door has beautiful crafts adorning it. Like everyone in these 'housing commission' style apartments she is proud of her new home and looks after it superbly. I stepped through the door into the living room/bedroom/dining room/baby's nursery and TV room. No, I didn't walk uber quickly throughout the apartment. I literally stepped into one tiny room that served all purposes for the family of six living inside. It was about 3m x 5m. There was a couch. There was a TV. There were beautiful wall hangings covering the walls. There were images of Hindu Gods. There were pot plants. There was a parrot (yes, after four minutes of me being confused by squeeling coming from inside the wall they were delighted to pull the cage out from behind the couch and giggle at me.)

Mrs MK took us on a tour around her home. It was beautiful. Everything had a place and she took great pride in all of her possessions. It was small. We stepped from the living room/bedroom etc etc into the kitchen. One entire wall was covered in racks that contained her saucepans, plates and cups – all in coordinating tin silver. Jamie Oliver would have been impressed with the selection of utensils. Half of them looked like they should be used for some medical procedure but I guess that is the magic of Indian cooking. The room was about 1.5m x 3m. There was a camping stove on top of the bench as there is no gas in the building. From the kitchen we walked across to the laundry/bathroom/closet/storage area. The laundry was a tub in the corner. There was a medicine cabinet and mirror. And a tiny basin.The family kept their few possessions in this room too. It was essentially a glorified hallway closet. There was also a squat toilet through a door. It was so small I thought that if I wedged my hips through the doorway there was a chance I could get stuck in there forever. I passed on the opportunity to use the bathroom and sat cross legged back on the couch.

Mrs MK was keen to tell us all about her life in the complex. Her family had been there for 10 years and had been happy when her former slum home had been demolished and redeveloped into this block of flats. There were 60 families living in Mrs MK's block and there were a total of 5 buildings in the complex. I looked around this tiny space where families lived on top of each other and felt disheartened by the 'solution' that the government had found to the problem of slums in the city. 'Isn't this just moving the problem upwards? Isn't this just putting a prettier (!!) surrounding on the same problems?' Good questions Brett Louise. Very judgemental, rash conclusions though I found out.

Through a translator, Mrs MK told me that her life was 100 times better now that her family lived in this apartment. I choked on the mango juice I was drinking. 100 times better? Mrs MK's entire family of six (including a newborn baby) sleep on the floor of a room that is smaller than my bedroom and this is 100 times better? Mrs MK then explained that now they have access to running water. They have power. They have clean toilets as opposed to lining up for hours to share common toilets. They also have privacy. That have independence. My original hasty conclusions were quashed when I saw how genuinely happy Mrs MK was. She was happy that she had a healthy young grandchild who would now grow up in a safer environment. She was happy that as a building in the complex they have a society set up to ensure all residents are cared for and supported. They have small shops and businesses they run in the complex to earn an income. They also now have a legal home that they own – as opposed to living everyday waiting for the government or land owners to reclaim land.

After cuddling Mrs MK's granddaughter and doting on her daughter's beautiful saree I left to return to the clinic. I walked out of her beautiful home having learned two things.

1. Slum life must be hell.
   
2. Although my initial conclusion that apartment complex was just moving the same problems into a new shaped building were partly true, when coupled with welfare activities and resident empowerment, these actions were literally changing the lives of the families living there. They were free from slum life.

They had a home of their own.

Floor plan for proposed new flats. Shows how tiny these homes are. The one in the plan is far bigger than Mrs MK's.