Its stinking, excrement-lined communal latrines are full of rats, which make you think less about the smell and more about protecting your backside. Mounds of filthy garbage lie on every corner, from which rag-pickers still manage to find something useful. And at times you have to suck in your breath to squeeze through its narrow, claustrophobic alleys. But for the starving residents of Dharavi, this is home.
Amidst the modern skyscrapers and neon-lit shopping complexes of Mumbai, Dharavi sits like a cancerous lump in the heart of the city. And the city refuses to recognize it. So it has outlawed it.
All the houses in Dharavi are 'illegal constructions', liable to be demolished at any time. But when the residents are struggling simply to survive, they don't care. So they live in illegal houses and use illegal electricity, drink illegal water and watch illegal cable TV. They work in Dharavi's numerous illegal factories and illegal shops, and even travel illegally – without ticket – on the local trains which pass directly through the colony.
The city may have chosen to ignore the ugly growth of Dharavi, but a cancer cannot be stopped simply by being declared illegal. It still kills with its slow poison.
I commute daily from Dharavi to Jimmy's Bar and Restaurant. The only good thing about working in Jimmy's establishment is that I don't have to come to work till at least midday. But this is more than offset by the late nights spent serving drunken louts from all over the city and listening to their pathetic tales. The one conclusion I have reached is that whisky is a great leveller. You might be a hot-shot advertising executive or a lowly foundry worker, but if you cannot hold your drink, you are just a drunkard.
After my traumatic experience with Shantaram, I thought I would never be able to tolerate a drunk. But Jimmy's was the only establishment that offered me a job. I console myself with the thought that the smell of whisky is less pungent than the stench from the communal latrine near my shack, and that listening to a drunkard is less painful than listening to the heartrending stories of rape, molestation, illness and death that emanate daily from the huts of Dharavi. So I have now learnt to fake an interest and say 'Ummmm' and 'Yes' and 'Really?' and 'Wow!' to the tales of cheating wives and miserly bosses that are aired every night at Jimmy's Bar and Restaurant, while simultaneously encouraging customers to order another plate of Chicken Fry and another bowl of salted cashew nuts to go with their drinks. And every day I wait for a letter to arrive from the W3B people, to tell me if I have been selected to participate in the show. But the postman delivers nothing.
A sense of defeat has begun to cloud my mind. I feel that the specific purpose for which I came to Mumbai is beyond me. That I am swimming against the tide. That powerful currents are at work which I cannot overcome. But then I hear my beloved Nita's cries and Neelima Kumari's sobs and my willpower returns. I have to get on to that show. And till that happens, I will continue to listen to the stories of the drunkards in this city. Some good. Some bad. Some funny.
Some sad. And one downright bizarre.
* * *
It is past midnight, but the lone customer at the bar refuses to budge. He has come by chauffeur-driven Mercedes, which is parked outside. He has been drinking steadily since ten pm and is now on his fifth peg. His uniformed driver is snoring in the car. Perhaps he knows that his employer will not come out in a hurry. The man is in his early thirties and is dressed in a smart dark suit with a silk tie and shiny leather shoes.
'My dear brother, my dear brother,' he keeps repeating every two minutes, in between sips of Black Label whisky and bites from the plate of shammi kebabs.
The manager snaps his fingers at me. 'Thomas, go and sit with him and ask him about his brother. Can't you see the poor fellow is distraught?'
'But . . . Manager Sahib, it is past midnight. We should tell him to leave or I'll miss the twelve-thirty local.'
'Don't you dare argue with me or I'll break your jaw,' he snarls at me. 'Now go, engage the customer in conversation. Get him to order the Scottish single malt which came in yesterday. He has come in a Mercedes.'
I glare at the manager like a schoolboy at a bully. Reluctantly, I return to the bar and slide closer to the customer.
'Oh, my dear brother, I hope you will forgive me,' he moans, and nibbles at the shammi kebab.
He is behaving like an ass, but at least he is in the lucid phase, with a couple of pegs in his system and words bubbling out of his mouth.
'What happened to your brother, Sir?' I ask.
The man raises his head to peer at me with half-closed eyes. 'Why do you ask? You will only increase the pain,' he says.
'Tell me about your brother, Sir. Perhaps it will lessen your pain.' 'No. Nothing can lessen the pain. Not even your whisky.' 'Fine, Sir. If you do not want to talk about your brother, I will not ask. But what about you?'
'Don't you know who I am?'
'No, Sir.'
'I am Prakash Rao. Managing Director of Surya Industries. The biggest manufacturer of buttons in India.'
'Buttons?'
'Yes. You know, buttons on shirts, pants, coats, skirts, blouses. We make them. We make all kinds of buttons from all kinds of materials. We use mostly polyester resins, but we have also made buttons of cloth, plastic, leather and even camel bone, horn-shell and wood. Haven't you seen our ad in the newspapers? "For the widest range of buttons – from fastening garments to pulling drawers – come to Surya. Buttons R Us." I am quite sure that the shirt you are wearing has buttons manufactured by my company.'
'And your brother, what is his name?'
'My brother? Arvind Rao. Oh, my poor brother. Oh, Arvind,' he starts moaning again.
'What happened to Arvind? What did he do?'
'He used to be the owner of Surya Industries. Till I replaced him.'
'Why did you replace him? Here, let me pour you a peg from this single malt which we got direct from Scotland.'
'Thank you. It smells good. I remember going to Mauritius for my honeymoon, to Port Louis, and there I had my first taste of single malt whisky.'
'You were mentioning replacing your brother.'
'Ah yes. My brother was a very good man. But he had to be replaced as MD of Surya Industries because he went mad.'
'Mad? How? Here's a fresh bowl of cashew nuts.'
'It is a long story.'
I use one of Rosie's lines. 'The night is young. The bottle is full. So why don't you begin?' 'Are you my friend?' he says, looking at me with glassy eyes. 'Of course I am your friend,' I reply with a toothy grin.
'Then I will tell you my story, friend. I am drunk, you know. And a drunken man always speaks the truth. Right, friend?'
'Right.'
'So, friend, my brother, my dear, dear brother Arvind, was a great businessman. He built Surya Industries from scratch. We used to sell beads in the Laadbazaar market of old Hyderabad. You know, the one near Charminar. It was he who painstakingly built up the business empire which I have inherited.'
'But you must have helped your brother in his business.'
'Hardly. I was a failure. Couldn't even complete my matriculation. It was my brother's greatness that he took me under his wing and employed me in the sales division of his company. I did my best and, as time went by, my brother's confidence in my abilities increased. Eventually he made me Head of International Sales and sent me to New York, where our international office is located.'
'New York? Wow! That must have been great!'
'Yes, New York is a great place. But I had a tough job, going out every day, meeting the dealers and distributors, processing the orders, ensuring timely delivery. I was busy from morning till night.'
'OK.
So what happened next? Just hold on for a minute while I bring you another plate of shammi kebabs.'
'Thank you, friend. It was in New York that I met Julie.'
'Julie? Who is she?'
'Her real name was Erzulie De Ronceray, but everyone called her Julie. She was dark and sultry with thick curly hair and pouting lips and a slim waist. She worked as a cleaner in the apartment block where I rented my office. She was an illegal immigrant from Haiti. Have you heard of Haiti?'