A Day in the Slums

I'm sitting in the French cafe after another day of interviews. I thought I would share what life has been like since we have started our internships full time. Below is an account of a single day. As with prior posts, I apologize for any writing mistakes.

Today I went to Kashwadi, revisiting Archana, the stout and sassy Health Mutual Fund representative, and Uttam Gophane, a cartoonish looking man with formidable hair trailing along the curve of his ears. When my interpreter, Supriya, and I arrived there were no loan officers, but after a bit of prodding, the branch manager Manesh decided he would take us to 2 or 3 people before another loan officer could take over. His offer was generous; usually the the men at the branch offices do not do the loan officers’ ‘work’ i.e. talk to the clients sans pretext.

Our fist interviews were of a women and a couple. The former was a shop owner getting a loan for her daughter’s education. As we went through the questions, a young child popped his head up over the shop’s gate and asked for “chewkun,” a very disarming attempt at the saying chewing gum. She stopped for a moment to sell it to him and then, taking advantage of the pause, turned her attention to some men requesting bidis and cigarettes. 

Next we wandered 10 meters over to a women and man at their ironing business. The loan was to fund their daughter’s education in engineering. They said the loan amount was low, but that they had been told over time they would get a greater amount, granted they paid on time and were responsible. The women, no more than 4’11, said she always had the money ready 6 days in advance. The smell and taste of hot metal and smoke came up from a metal iron filled to the brim with scarlet coals.

After finishing, we headed back to the branch office since we had no idea where Manesh was. A few more people were at the branch when we arrived, including Archana. She was surprised I remembered her name, glancing up and smiling once the accented syllables flew off my lips. After waiting for a quarter hour, another loan officer stood up to take us to do four more interviews so I would have six by lunch time. We headed to the home of the woman who cleans PSW’s office. She had swollen cheekbones and a faded dark green tattoo on her right wrist with the names of herself, her sons, and her husband. The man in question, or her mister so to speak, was in the background talking to himself, clearly drunk. She said the interview had to be quick because she was preparing lunch.

The next house we went to belonged to a Hindu woman. A Muslim friend of her's joined us for the interview. The latter's son popped in soon after we started. To my immense amusement and surprised, he started speaking to me in English with a crisp American accent. He told me he was eight and attended an English medium school. He wants to be an engineer. I met his brother over the course of the interview too. He was twelve, but still deciding what to do. Yussef, the younger brother, informed me that he was not going to be an engineer. Their sister, ten, is to be a doctor.

Finally, we ended up at Meena’s house. Guarded by a two-month-year-old puppy named Rosie, we stepped inside and were told to keep out shoes on. Odd I thought. I told her I did not want to get her gleaming floor dirty and took them off anyway. The inside of the house was a pleasant shock. Not only were there tasteful tiles on the floor and a pet parrot, but there was also a fridge and granite counter. I told Meena her house was beautiful. She said there were two more floors. I asked how many people shared the space. Six, she responded: her three children, her husband, her mother-in-law and herself. 

We settled down to interview.  Over the next hour, she offered bits of information about why their house was in so much of a better condition than those surrounding it. Her husband worked in the Philippines as an accountant to make money to get his sister married and to support his family. He returned in 1997. Five years ago, they finished paying off a loan they took from a bank loan for 3 lakh, eating only one meal a day. The inflation in India at the time made the interest rise more quickly than expected. Supriya offered some details about why I was in India and the reason for the survey. Toward the end of the interview she asked if we had lunch.

When we told her we have tiffins, she said we should just eat one chapati and then eat our lunch at 3:00 pm. Thinking it was harmless, I said yes. Lo and behold a complete thali course that followed including fresh chapatis, papad, dal, eggplant sabji, rice, custard, lemon pickle, veggies. And she kept filling my dal bowl when I wasn’t looking. I tried to tell her, “Maaza pot burla,” but she would have nothing of it. When I said "tora tora" to the rice, she unapologetically placed a cup of it in my daal. I kept looking at the daughter, who looked stick thin, wondering how she was able to say no to her mother. Her large green eyes, hidden behind glasses, offered no insight. The son walked in during the meal. He had fine features and wore his hair unconventionally long. The scene was highly reminiscent of family life back home. 

When the father arrived, he seemed content that his wife was feeding us. He had enough English to small talk. During our exchange, he said the house was small, but I could tell he was proud of the life he had provided for his family. I wanted to talk and share, but Meena said I needed to eat while the food was hot. This meant that I did not get to talk much, or offer the geography lesson on where I grew up that I asked Supriya, a Geography Major, to take her book out for. The father’s sister soon arrived with her husband which meant that the place was getting crowded. We said a quick goodbye and Meena guided up to the main avenue. I told Supriya to tell her Meena that her kindness was very big and that I would always remember it. 

After lunch we headed back to the office and waited until a loan officer was free. One offered to walk us to where we could collect the interviews and said she would ask the families there to help me. I agreed. We passed a mosque and temple on the way, each no more than 50 meters apart. The following four interviews were conducted quite swiftly, all were women. Their children pulling at them eagerly as we went through the questions. None of the children were above five years of age. They all seemed content screaming and running barefoot, returning to their mothers to rest for a moment before jumping back into the excitement of squealing and wandering aimlessly. 

We walked to the main street to get a rickshaw. After 10 minutes, one stopped and even though the driver looked scarcely sixteen, we took it. It was the first time in four months that I have had to direct a rickshaw to FC road, one of Pune’s most frequented arteries. 

And now I'm drinking an Americano, delightful not just because it was only 60 cents. It's also packed with the boost I need to make sense of the interviews I have collected across six slum areas. I have a busy weekend ahead.