For any Indian, Mumbai is the city of dreams. It’s a place where people from all walks of life arrive with hope in their hearts and a twinkle in their eyes. However, the truth is that there are two Mumbais: one where dreams come true amid the glitz, glamour and red carpets, and the other in the massive slums covered by the quintessential blue plastic. We’ve heard enough stories from these slums, mostly of people who managed to cross over to the other side and made it big, but then there are the stories of those who stay, the ones we don’t hear about.
This reality did not dawn upon me in my sheltered cocoon until I was exposed to the realities of slum living. As a volunteer with one of the leading community outreach organisations in India, I was part of the group that ran food distribution drives in the slum areas. Here, interactions with people led me to all kinds of experiences – some were wholesome, some threatening and some that tore my heart.
Among the many stories I heard and witnessed, there’s one in particular that has stayed with me. This incident goes back to March 2015 when we were distributing food to children in the Marine Lines area. This area is located right next to a crowded and busy local train station. As we handed out food to some young boys, we asked them to form a line to ensure an efficient and organized distribution process. We have a sweet little custom we follow in every food drive we conduct. Before we start the distribution, we interact with the kids, ask them questions about their lives and school, and then start the distribution.
During this particular drive, while some of the volunteers were interacting with the kids, some of us went to fetch more food from the van. As I returned from the van carrying food packets in my hands, a fellow volunteer asked me if I had noticed something peculiar about these children. I was confused about what she was trying to say. As we approached the children, she said, “Just take a closer look at them.”
It was then that we realised that despite their appearance, they weren’t all boys. When we asked them their names, they responded with names like Rajeshwari and Suneeta. They all had short hair, almost identical, and were dressed in what seemed like boys’ clothing. If you didn’t look very closely, you wouldn’t be able to tell that they were girls. We were taken aback, as it wasn’t just one of them looking like a tomboy; all of them had a distinctive boyish appearance.
I asked one of the volunteers, “Why do these little girls look like boys?” She approached a woman sitting near a hut where we were serving food. We enquired about why these little girls were dressed like boys, and her response was something none of us were prepared for.
She told us how these girls were born in this slum, and have always lived together as a group. Their parents have always cared for them and loved them deeply. However, they mostly work as labourers and their work timings can be ridiculous, leaving really early in the morning and returning late. In their absence, one day, one of the little girls was sexually assaulted. The perpetrator took her away, and she was never seen again. To prevent such incidents, their parents started disguising these girls as boys, concealing their true identity for safety reasons.
How had we not considered how rough their lives on the street could be? We couldn’t know this and not do something about it.
We collectively brainstormed ways to prevent such tragedies from recurring in the future. Our aim was to help these girls feel comfortable and secure in their own identities, without the need to disguise themselves as boys to avoid threats on the streets.
This experience was a wake-up call during my initial months of volunteering. I realised that while we provided food to these children, we left with valuable insights into their lives, perspectives, emotions and the daily challenges they faced. Living on the streets exposed them to dangers we couldn’t fully comprehend because of our sheltered lives. After learning about these girls, we decided to take action to protect them and empower them to live without the fear of abduction or sexual assault.
We began to arrange for judo and karate lessons to teach them self-defence. We educated them about the buddy system, ensuring they were always with a companion. One of our volunteers even guided them to the local police station, as they were unaware of how close it was and we encouraged them to report any incidents promptly. We continued visiting this area for several weeks to check on their progress. One day, we visited the slum and were welcomed with the sweetest smiles we had ever seen.
I was teary-eyed to see two of the girls had grown their hair and were wearing dresses. One of them approached me and said, “Didi, we want to look like you,” referring to the volunteers.
That moment felt surreal.
I deeply wished that no child would ever have to live in such fear and that no girl would have to hide her identity for any reason. I hoped that these young girls would develop their own identities, free from the need to pretend to be someone else. Seeing them play together, dressed in cute little dresses, their hair flying in the breeze, is an image I will always hold close to my heart. While it might seem ordinary to most, to me it represents a childhood lived beyond the tragedies of society.
Excerpted with permission from ‘Why Do All These Slum Girls Dress Like Boys?’ by Saloni Kapoor in Letters From Hindustan: Stories of Hope From Around The Country, Kopal Khanna, Juggernaut.
