Playing Dress-ups

Another day, another slum community. And that doesn't imply that I'm over it at all. I am loving it crazy in fact. I am loving meeting beautiful, welcoming people who are keen to share their lives with their odd, loud Australian visitor with a famous cricketer's name. Yes, of course I was named after Brett Lee. Went to visit a different rehabilitated complex today. Similar buildings with the same India smell. Today I was there to take part in the community meeting where they would discuss what welfare requirements could be addressed in the next year. The women's group leads this meeting of the community. Serious investment in the women's empowerment by the organisation I'm working with has led to some serious kick-ass girl power in the poorest parts of Mumbai. Before the meeting, we thought we would drop in on a girl my age. Again, my Hindi failed me and I couldn't pronouce her name. Her name is Indi.. something something. Indi it is. Plus, seeing as she pronouced my name as 'Borat' I don't think she'd mind.

Indi was asleep when we knocked on her door. She was sleeping on the table top in the main living room/bedroom. The apartment was identical to Mrs MK's. But Indi's room that she shared with her family, also doubled as the room she taught sewing classes in. These sewing machines were to die for. One side of the room was lined up with old school singer sewing machines. Drool-worthy. Indi spends her days teaching girls and women how to sew so that they can generate their own incomes as tailors or by making handicrafts. Amongst the sewing machines and a shrine to Ganesh (complete with blinking fairy lights), there was also a hairdressing chair and posters adorning the walls of hip, 1980s hairstyles that American women would have worn. Think Julia Roberts in Pretty Women. Without Hindi I played my usual game of pointing, smiling and laughing.

Indi went to the kitchen and brought back water and peanuts for her guests. Am still a tad uncomfortable with these lovely people with next to nothing want to give you things when you visit them. However, as I have been having withdrawls from my beloved peanut butter, I busied myself de-shelling peanuts at a Guiness Book pace. When I awoke from my peanut frenzy, there was a swarm of young ladies in the room all giggling, plotting and clapping with excitement. Before I knew it I was being motioned towards the hairdressing chair.

So here I am. Surrounded my smiling, excited women. In a chair unable to move. With beautiful Indi above me with a pair of scissors. Was all too excited to play dressups until the scissors came out. If you've seen me in a swimming cap you'd understand why I was worried about the prospect of an extreme haircut. Luckily, in India, long luscious hair is supreme. So I escaped the scissors and instead relaxed for my face massage, make up and hairstyling. Turns out purple lipstick is so in right now. I had my hair braided 'traditional Indian style' although I find it hard to believe that the blue and silver sequined stars that Indi pinned into my hair with sewing pins are overly traditional.

So while loving up my new crazy Indian makeup and hair I didn't see the scissors coming. And I know have a new short fringe bit that keeps flipping onto my face to remind me of the 'traditional Indian hairstyle'. But even that couldn't take away my enjoyment of the hour or so that I played dressups with Indi. There were bridal necklaces, dupattas and noserings to try on. I feel like Indi and I are sisters. Not only does she share my love of peanuts, but once you share a nosering with someone you might as well be blood related.

Such a fun, crazy and unexpected morning.

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.