Dharavi Dreams

Dharavi Dreams

Hi. My name is Abdul. Abdul Sheikh.
I work in a cyber café not very far from where I live.
But don’t bother about it. Not very important anyway- neither me nor my profession.

I live in Mumbai. In Dharavi; as it is rightly called, the largest slum area in the world. Or was it Asia? Anyway, there are more important things to be said than the size of the place where I live.
But mind you, my home, Dharavi, isn’t always what it sounds like. I have seen people rise up from the very gutters they were born in, to move on and become one of the biggest businessmen in the city. Some live in Lokhandwala, some in Bandra. And I have heard of people reaching Dubai, by way of underworld and some, the US by way of Upperworld. Upperworld? Just my way of saying they made it the good way. The normal way. How it’s supposed to be done. By putting in hours of toil, hardwork and a lot of influence, petty influence, ultimately helping them become drivers, or waiters there. I know one such person. Bugger became a waiter there. He’s earning well, much more than what he would have expected to earn here.

USA. I have a soft corner for that place. I have spoken to so many people there. Mind you, I am not fooling around with you, like that Motu Dhondu would do. He has tall claims about everything. Not me. I have evidence to back it up.

I used to work in a call centre for a year and half. That’s where I honed my English (I like the word honed). It was tiring. Night shifts. They were good quick money though. But I blew it up just as easily. The remaining money (thankfully I got better sense in time) I saved in the bank- for my future and stuff.

Maybe when I marry, it might help. Or before that. I’m thinking of opening a small Pav Bhaji stall some day. Pav Bhaji. It sells like crazy here. And I’ve always been good with food. With salt. With the masalas. It’s like my fingers know exactly how much salt to pick up. Some how the bhajis, vegetables I mean, I have an instinct with them. Which would go with what. The smell, the texture, the taste, everything matters you know. Man! It would be great if I could put up something like that. I don’t think I’ll sell non-veg. there. Ya, I know some thing what wouldn’t be expected from a Muslim guy. But you know it’s just too much maintenance. And too much competition. Too many Muslims in the business already. Maybe I would get into it someday. But not now. First Pav Bhaji. Then chaat, you know using mashed potatoes and stuff and then juices. Fruit juices. And then, if I have enough capital and more importantly, enough demand, then I’ll get into the non-veg. business.

Okay I’m drifting now. This is someone else’s story. Not mine.
Now, the houses in Dharavi are slums all right, but many of them are pakka houses, made up of bricks. Have leaked electricity and cable. Some have washing machines and fridges in their houses (believe it). The better houses are made up of bricks. Many of them are made of aluminium sheets. But mostly, the houses are continuous, with only a single wall separating one house from the other. We don’t have toilets (it’s a slum remember?). We have to walk down to the government set up- Sulabh Sauchalaya. Most don’t go there. To shit, we have to pay two bucks. Which turns out to be quite expensive when it’s an everyday expense. So most of us walk down to a little known area around Dharavi to go and relieve ourselves.

God! Man why do I keep drifting away!
Anyway as I was saying. I live in one of the two storey slum houses made of bricks. This is the story of my neighbour Chandra. Chandu, as we called him. We had known each other since we were kids. He was three years younger than me.
He was always a nice guy. But most of us were never nice to him. That’s how it is in areas like ours. You need to be quick witted, have a sharp tongue, a hard heart and an even harder fist. Or you’re a dead man.

No people are not out to kill you here! It’s quite subtle most of the times.
Like while playing Cricket you know. When someone’s a bad player. It’s a characteristic you don’t want to have in places like ours, any where in fact, in your early years. Good batsmen and bowlers are heroes here, in the early days I mean.

Chandu wasn’t good in any. He liked cycling. The only person who owned one. But never got to ride it.
The moment he was out with his cycle, someone would ask him for it. He would, as expected, say ‘no’. ‘Cause maybe he simply didn’t want to give it or maybe he never got to ride it. Whatever the reason. He would say ‘no’.
And someone would hold the seat of his bicycle, while he was still sitting on it. Someone would hold its handle. Not let him move; ‘cause he was the youngest in our group; and they would tilt the cycle. Laugh hysterically, insultingly, kick the front tyre.
They would tell him, don’t be a wimp; one round wouldn’t spoil your cycle. They would say they would keep the cycle tilted and not let him go until he gave them a round. One small round around the corner. They wouldn’t let him go till then. And that’s how he ended up giving his cycle to everyone.

I wouldn’t call him a wimp or a chutiya as people here would- now that I’m older. He had integrity that boy. Real balls. He wasn’t meant to be in Dharavi. He used to go to college. Was quite an average student. He would have probably done a B.Com or maybe an MBA or something. He was meant for those kind of things.

This is a story of when he was older. About a year back. When I was in a call centre, speaking to Americans, and when he was in college- 12th standard I think…


There were a group of four boys from the other mohalla- the next society. Useless idiots. They played Cricket all day, were damn good at it. Won money by way of bets in petty street Cricket matches; worked short terms with small canteens here and there, never lasted long. They went to school. Never did well. They repeated many years before they finally cleared their first major milestone, the tenth standard board exams. They never went to college after that. They had scored around 40 or 50 percent or something. All of them around the same score. Don’t know. Don’t care.

They were out any way. Nineteen years of age. Their parents, most of them labourers at the leather tanning factory there. I almost forgot to tell you’ll. One of Dharavi’s virtues- it is quite famous for its leather tanning industry. Provides employment to a vast majority people. And also gives Dharavi its characteristic smell, that of the leather, along with sewage bad breath and sweat.

These boys I was saying, their parents had given up on them. Let them loose. They didn’t have enough money anyway to keep them tied in.
I think I’ve seen one thing among people, their children. Too much money, or too little pocket money is what spoils the kids. I believe the middle class living with a balanced economy is good. But who knows. No one really knows at the end of the day.

So these boys, they were hustling and bustling, playing Cricket, winning money, losing too sometimes, doing odd jobs here and there. But they always met up in the evenings around seven p.m. at some less known corner of Dharavi, there were many such places, to share a cigarette and to talk about probably Bipasha’s bust or the latest porn flick they had seen.

As I heard later, by way of Jhaatu’s confession to the Police, a detailed statement; man, bugger seemed to have an elephant’s memory, that I learnt about how the whole thing had conspired. It was in one of these evening meets that day, which had drifted away to a more serious talk. It’s a little hard remembering all their names, but I think I remember most of them- there was Abbas, Raghu, Jhaatu (Hindi for pubic hair, that’s what Jhaat meant. He got the name because his surname was Jhat) and the other guy, I don’t remember his name.

Raghu was the eldest of the lot. Was tough, streetsmart, knew how life was in the dirty by-lanes of Bombay. Then, that time I mean, he worked in a Country liquor bar. He was one of the guys making the liquor. He never drank there of course, because he knew what shit went into making the liquor.
Abbas was quieter of the lot. More focussed. Don’t remember what he did exactly, but I think he worked in as a clerk or an attender something in some big coaching class tutoring students for their twelth standard university examinations.
The other guy worked in a canteen. He worked as a waiter there, in that small canteen owned by a Muslim, selling infected chicken. But the people who went to eat there were infected anyway so…I don’t know how the body works, but I’m guessing it shouldn’t make much difference to them. They were just as screwed with hygiene. So I guess it really didn’t matter.
Jhaatu had just started working with his father in the leather factory. He had figured it was the easiest thing he could do.


Now, the idea, their Great Idea, which landed everyone associated with it into deep trouble later, came over a discussion regarding USA I think. How everyone would get benefits there. How there were no poor firangs, and how everyone there dressed well, spoke good English and lived well.
They have stuff in other countries man, like America and all. The government takes care of all of them.
What about us? Our country?
Nothing! Fucking chuts.

“Dude I’m telling you, we need to get some serious money. I don’t think I can live my entire life this way.” Jhaatu told the others, but looking in Raghu’s direction. He was the unofficial boss with them. Amongst them, he always seemed to know what had to be done.
They were all quiet in agreement. No one spoke, because no one had nothing to speak. Until Raghu spoke up.

“I have a plan in mind. It’s a little crazy, and you need to have real balls to do it. But it’s real good money. Real good.”

“Go on.” Abbas said.

It was over this stupid line of conversation, over a shared, cheap, duplicate Marlboro cigarette, that they evolved the plan of looting the Bihari mithaiwala of his money that he earned by selling the mouth-watering kaju barfis and rasgullas. Dubeyji. The owner of a small time sweet-store, but probably the best selling sweet-store in Dharavi.

They however had not spoken the exact words. Simply because they didn’t speak English. This was the closest translation I could do, while preserving the meaning and the tone, of what they spoke, or what I heard from Jhaatu’s confession to the Police later on. However, the ‘fucking chuts’ part. They had used the words. That’s what Jhaatu had said.


They had thought of themselves to be smart. They had seen enough of the cops and robbers movies for that. So they knew the first thing they had to do was to know his every move. More importantly, how his money moved.
They observed Dubeyji for a month, from a distance. One outside his store. Writing down the time he closed the shop and left for home. The other would be at a certain distance from the store, in the path of his road home, looking out for anything else he usually did before he reached home.

They realized that he closed his store at around 8.00 p.m. but a couple of salesmen slept inside the store. They were the ones who opened the store in the morning and started cooking the sweets in huge pans of oil. A sickening sight early in the morning. These guys had the keys and all to the store.

The boys, the foursome, worked in shifts everyday, early morning and late evening, to know what was happening inside Dubeyji’s store and outside of it too.
But there was something peculiar Raghu observed when Dubeyji would leave for home. He never seemed to be carrying any money with him. He would carry a cloth bag everyday, neatly folded, which contained god knows what inside it. Some days he didn’t carry anything.
That concerned Raghu. Surely, he wouldn’t keep the money in the shop with those two workers sleeping in there. He earned too much in a day for that. He had to be carrying the money out sometime.

So Raghu decided to keep a watch on his shop the entire day. He sat there from the time the shop opened. Waiting. Getting bored. He didn’t know what would happen, but he knew this was the only way. And he couldn’t let others do this. He knew they were too amateur for this. There would be mistakes.
After a day long wait, he finally saw Dubeyji, moving out of his shop at four p.m. how the hell did these guys miss this? How could they be so foolish? It was Jhaatu’s shift in the afternoons. The fool!

Dubeyji moved out of his shop with the same cloth bag. Rolled neatly, tucked under his armpit. But it looked bigger now. Like it contained something. It definitely contained something. He could make out the typical rectangular shape that bags acquired when they had bundles of notes in them.
He followed him. Cautiously. There were enough ways to become invisible in Dharavi. There were so many people, and so many things- no one would notice. So Raghu followed him, right up to a small outlet of Dena bank where he saw Dubeyji enter.

Smart Bastard!
Dubeyji obviously knew, living in Dharavi for so long, that Dharavi was never a safe place after sunset, especially if you are carrying bundles of five hundred and hundred rupee notes.
So he would deposit the money he earned that day, all the money he earned till four p.m. in the bank everyday. The remaining cash, earned after four, he left it in the shop. He counted them though, before closing the store. The two workers knew he counted the cash. Plus the cash would never be enough for both of them. And it was certainly not worth risking a steady job for a few hundred-rupee notes.
The evening collections would be added to his account the next day, when he would visit the bank again in the afternoon.

Raghu learnt this over a course of another week. And he couldn’t wait to tell others this news over their next shared cigarette.

The others, when they heard this, were both thrilled and completely impressed by Raghu. Or that’s what Jhaatu said in his confession later on.

So they decided. They started planning. They knew every movement of his now. And knew precisely, where and when he carried his money. They made the plan. And according to the plan, they would require cell phones. Not a problem. Small sack. No problem. Good heavy sticks. Not very easy to acquire, but possible. Kitchen knife. Easy.

They decided to rob him on Wednesday. Why Wednesday? Because it was a week day. The crowd would be less at four p.m. just before the peak hour began.

On Wednesday morning of December 2006, they readied themselves.
They had everything they needed. Cell phones borrowed from various people they knew, for a day only, two good heavy wooden sticks, and a good sharpened kitchen knife.


Dubeyji moved out of the shop at precisely 4 p.m. with the rolled bag of cash under his armpit. After he had walked some distance, Raghu came from behind him, slowly. It was still broad daylight. There were still many people around. He had to be careful. Be confident. He had to play on Dubeyji’s fear.
Raghu came closer, his knife concealed inside his T-shirt.

He approached him until he touched him from the back. Dubeyji was shorter than he was and to their luck, a timid man. He turned his head around to see who it was. He was startled by the feel of the sharp edge of the knife against his back, the pointed edge, almost ready to penetrate his back.

“Dubeyji, please move where I am telling you to move or else you’re a dead man. And quiet! Not a word from you, don’t you dare turn around. Just keep walking and everything will be alright.”

Raghu took him inside a lane where the other three boys were waiting. With the sticks and the sack.
Dubeyji was so surprised by this sudden change in daily routine that he was unable to speak, think or act. He simply did what he was told to. Because he had no clue what else to do.
To Raghu’s bad luck however, Dubeyji had seen his face from the side, the first time he had turned around. Raghu did not have that in mind. He had gotten a good look at Raghu’s side profile then.

Once inside the small by-lane, everything happened quickly, smoothly. In one refined movement. They were like professionals on the job, or so I heard. Maybe it was beginner’s luck I guess.
Jhaatu covered Dubeyji’s face with a small sack, while Abbas gave him a heavy blow on the top of his head.
Dubeyji had, in the next instant, plunked to the ground.

It had been easier than they had thought. Man! They couldn’t believe it. They had this cash they needed. And they go! Free!

As I have learnt from knowing this incident in close detail, that the action of committing a crime successfully is only the first step. Getting away from it is the real deal.
But these guys, they were getting away weren’t they? Not really.

This was where Chandu came into the scene.

He was there that day. In the crowd. Walking behind Dubeyji, or maybe on his side, wherever. But he could see Dubeyji. And his eyes had seen something others hadn’t.
Maybe he saw the unnaturally sharp shape of Raghu’s T-shirt jutting out and poking Dubeyji in the back. Even their body language might have helped. Raghu’s angry face, Dubeyji’s petrified expression, him leading Dubeyji into the secluded by-lane. All that would have told him that something was wrong. He was an intelligent boy. Haven’t I mentioned that before?

He had followed them. The idiot. He didn’t know these boys were never intending to kill anybody. Though the boys themselves didn’t know that few minutes later they would actually be killing someone.

He could have run away. Why hadn’t he? Didn’t he know that was easier? More intelligent thing to do? Maybe he did know that. He wasn’t as innocent as we thought him to be.
But he had integrity. That boy Chandu. And courage and conscience he had on his side too. And when you have courage, integrity and conscience on one side, and logical reasoning on the other, you don’t compare. It is always an individual decision. Whether to run or stay. That is what makes us individuals. That’s what makes us different. These open-ended, debatable matters, for which no concrete appropriate mode of action could be defined.
Both are right in their own ways. Some people save themselves. Some people save others.

Chandu wanted to save others.
He followed them into the by-lane and saw the entire thing. The refined pro-like fluid single smooth motion with which they stole Dubeyji’s money without killing him.

Their smiles. They were proudly smiling at their victory…when. When Abbas saw Chandu seeing them.

The fool! Chandu! Idiot! Why couldn’t he run and call the police?
Courage with logic- superb solution. But the idiot. The man of conscience that he was, he stayed there, probably thinking of ways he could help the man himself. Or maybe he was just plain shocked by what he saw. We can never say for sure what was going on in Chandu’s mind that moment.

Chandu hadn’t noticed Abbas approach him…until it was too late that is. Abbas held him by the collar and landed a heavy hand square on his ears.
Chandu’s head started singing. Abbas dragged him to the other three.

“What about this guy? Motherfucker saw it all.”

Jhaatu was there. Trembling in fear. They were doomed he thought.

Raghu was angry. Tensed too. But more angry. And you don’t want to see his face when he is angry. It’s scary. At least that’s what Jhaatu told us later on. I don’t know what the other guy was doing. The guy who’s name I can’t remember. Jhaatu didn’t mention him.
“We kill him.” Raghu said.

Now I don’t understand how small time criminals, would think of killing. The scene didn’t quite fit in my mind. I mean killing a man is a big thing. But that’s what Jhaatu also must’ve thought at that moment. Because of which later he confessed. And mentioned every detail of their plan, of the incident. The others were a bit stubborn, but they were easily broken by the police lockup and their lathis. Maybe in the thick of the moment, one thing leads to another. To cover up one thing, you do something bigger and the chain goes on and on until you realise all hell broken loose on you. And by the time you realise the reality and…what’s the word…the magnitude, yea the magnitude of the entire situation, it’s too late.
I guess that was what happened. Things went bad. Real bad. For everyone.

Raghu moved towards Chandu with the knife in hand. Chandu yelled in fear. He was petrified. Who wouldn’t be? Tell me who wouldn’t be? If your life is at four people’s disposal, and all you can ever bring them is more trouble and the easiest way to get you out of their way is by killing you…and when you know all of that. That is what drives you mad. The knowledge of impending death. You know you’re going to die man. And your death, it’s this close. This close. And you can’t do a fucking thing about it. Tell me who wouldn’t be petrified? Who wouldn’t be?

Then the other guy stopped Raghu.
“You want to kill a person for cash?”

“Not for cash. To save my fucking dick. We go to jail if we let this guy go. You understand?”

“And you think we’ll be free as birds if we kill him eh?” Abbas intervened.

“We kill him. We dump him. No one would know. No one should know who did it and who died.”

“In that case,” the other guy said, “burn him. No one would be able to recognize his body. No fingerprints. None of that shit.”

Everyone went quiet. That was bloody perfect. No fingerprints. No face. None of that shit. Raghu almost smiled at the suggestion.
God knows what Chandu felt that time. When these bastards had just decided to kill him. Poor fellow! We’ve played together you know- Cricket and stuff. Man!

Abbas dragged him, his mouth tied with cloth, lest he started yelling again. Man! I can’t imagine the fear, the pain! God!
They dragged him, the bastards, to another secluded area, not very far from the by-lane.
One of those pockets you find in the thick of civilisation where no one went, except roomless couples for sex and dopers to trade ganja or whatever shit they were hooked on to.

They took him there. And kicked him in the stomach. They forced him to the ground. Abbas took out his lighter. Never had he thought that he would be using it for something like this, he told the police later on. Never. But it had to be done. It just had to be done.

“Jhaatu, run and get some kerosene quickly. Or any oil. Whatever you can get your hands on. But quick!” Raghu said.

“Where? From where?”

“From the fucking ration store you fool! Now run!”

Jhaatu returned after ten minutes, which seemed like an eternity to all of them waiting. Even Chandu.
Chandu’s muffled screams…man they were painful to hear. That’s what Jhaatu said.

They poured kerosene over him. Abbas burnt him.
Without a second thought.
Man! The ruthless bastards saw him burn; from a distance though, lest someone saw them, until he lay motionless.

They waited and saw him for another two minutes. He didn’t move.
“Is that it?” Jhaatu asked

“Ya that’s it. Go home now. Everyone.” Raghu told everyone.
They turned and walked back. Each to his own home. The whole fiasco had ended around 7 p.m. at least that’s what Raghu and his gang thought.

Then something happened. Something unbelievable. And I’m sure, if this wasn’t a true story, and if I wasn’t there, I wouldn’t have believed it myself.

He crawled. Yes Chandu woke up. Crawled. He fucking crawled man! All the way home. About two and half kilometres. Through the lane which lead to the area from where we stayed. Thank god he knew the route.
He crawled two and half kilometres before I saw him.
I was aghast. Mortified. First of all, I didn’t know who this guy was. I didn’t recognize Chandu. I just knew this guy was in need of serious help. I ran inside and called the ambulance.
By this time, a huge crowd had gathered. Chandu was the centre of attention. I saw his parents coming running out of their house. They hadn’t seen Chandu since afternoon. And they had asked me about him too. It then occurred to me. No! this couldn’t be Chandu! Or was he?
I was helpless then. Till the ambulance came.
Chandu. He was in a…in a mess man. His body. Burnt. Black. With peels of skin coming out. The white flesh. The bright red blood. His contracted fingers. His stiff movements. The low groans. He was in pain. In so much pain. I still remember that. Vividly. In every detail.

The ambulance came in another ten minutes. We had given him water till then. We didn’t know what else to do. Whether to touch him or no. Whether to take him inside the house, or let him stay outside, in the coolness. Nobody knew. It’s not everyday that we see a burnt man at our doorstep.
We took him to the hospital in the ambulance. The doctors told us there was very little chance of him surviving. He had suffered more than 80 per cent burns.

The police arrived shortly after we reached the hospital. The doctor had explained to us that it was necessary. That, that case of his was a police case. The police came and went to meet Chandu. We protested. Come on. The man was burnt. And all these guys cared about was the statement. But the police, would they listen to us? They barged in. but were surprisingly nice to Chandu. They were humans after all.
They asked him what happened. And he named three of the four bastards. He had heard them call out to each other probably. That’s how he knew their names. He remembered only three names out of the four. I still remember that scene. When he told them the names. The police diligently took the names down.

Chandu died about an hour after the police left the hospital. I don’t want to talk about his parents. God, I still have a tear in my eye when I talk about him, about them.
I should’ve been better with him as kids. I should’ve have treated him better. He deserved it you know. Just that no one understood him.

It didn’t take long for the police to fish out the bastards. Plus, Dubeyji also helped in recognising Raghu.

They were screwed.

And that was it.
I wouldn’t call it a happy ending at all. But crime was punished. The bastards were punished, as they deserved it.
But the price- what a price to pay! What a price to pay!