Chapter 1

The heat in the Dharavi galliyan is like an oppressive weight that slows you down and saps you of strength. We grew up without air conditioning, playing in the streets of the crowded slum but even my little brother and I were not prepared for days like this.

My mother stood dutifully behind the rusted counter of our family stall. Everyone calls her Seetha Aunty. My mother is a very lively, outspoken woman with a commanding presence. She can be stern, but at times turn on the charm if that is what it takes to make a sale.

I must admit, my mother is also very big breasted and is known for her large ass. I would not say it is legendary or the biggest in the world, but most men would identify her as the “Big breasted Woman that works at the Anul milk stall.”

There are many women who work in stalls selling hand shaken milk, and all of them are expected to show a little skin, and shake what they have. My mom gives a little extra because of her size.

I have overheard men heaping praise on her chest. My father takes pride in it, even though he doesn’t tolerate men talking like that around him (or her).

Amul is a brand of cow milk, so our landlord thought to confuse tourists that our goat milk is from this famous chain of stores. I have since come to learn that English speakers may think Anul means anal or from the anus, much to our chagrin.

I assure you that we do have our own goats, and they are freshly milked each day. Tharki is quite old and says he does not speak English very well, but I think that is a lie. It may be our landlord’s joke that he added the phrase “Freshly Squeezed” in English to the sign to indicate freshness of the milk.

Our family stall was passed down from her father to my father. It began as a simple shake stall, but over time my parents expanded to selling pet supplies after my father failed when opening a dog obedience school.

The hosiery stall that sold lingerie, adult novelties, and knock off designer bags closed down a few years ago when the owner retired. They sold their stock to my parents. Our landlord painted a new sign for the business “Sarama Prasanna Hosiery & Amul Dairy” that he said would catch many eyes.

It certainly did, because it is far more provocative than my mother would have wanted. Our landlord sells custom prints and erotic arts in the next stall and Tharki Uncle painted our stall sign in the likeness of an inappropriately dressed Betty Boop.

When my mother immediately complained he said, “What do you want for free?” and laughed it off by saying we would see much more business. The society of Mumbai has become more conservative though and some find it offensive.

My father did not paint over what Tharki painted, because he did not wish to offend our landlord.

You will find other stalls like it selling naughty sex toys and pornography. There is a milk stall run by a midwife that will make your drink with the squeezings from her own breasts and that of her lactating daughters.

Most of them do not come out and advertise it. You must know through word of mouth and ask discreetly, or they will turn you away. The maze of streets in Dharavi are lined with vendors selling everything and anything. If you want it, you can find it in Dharavi.

Today was a day we would be entering a new line of trade. I just did not know it yet. As far as I knew, it was a fine sunny day, and my younger brother and I were trying to avoid work and our studies.

We are known for leather and pottery but you can find cardamom dealers, fish peddlers, bootleg DVDs, cigarettes and vape pens, and knock off designer goods on every street.

The aroma of Indian cooking is so pungent and distinct that you would know it anywhere, but it is actually a combination of dozens of cultures and cooking styles combined coming from the stew pots and kitchens of the nearby apartments and stalls.

Most of us lived above our stall, and we would likely grow old and die above our stall before we ever made it out of Dharavi.

My mother’s red saree was so thin and sweat-soaked that it clung to her skin. She wore a modified Kota Doria half-saree that was popular in the streets of Mumbai due to it being so breezy.

Silk is only used strategically to give the illusion of it being an expensive garment. Sheer and opaque paneling in the garment gives the impression that the female form is nude underneath and most women wear it with an undergarment to protect their modesty.

Most milk maids that work in the stalls, do not. Even though it is scandalous now, it was common even after British colonial rule for milk maids and wet nurses to work without a top at all.

The British taught modesty and shame to such women. Now, glimpses of breasts shaking and bouncing while shaking a milk refreshment by hand are only available in back alley stalls like ours.

Seetha fanned herself and scratched her bottom as she waited for a tourist, tradesman or neighbor to wander down the alley so she could hawk our wares.

If she doesn’t make a sale, we go hungry.

“Bol, kya haal hai mere aashiq?” Our stall neighbor and landlord asked. He used the same line every day, a rhythmic challenge delivered with a grin. It was a line straight out of some old Bollywood corny romance film.

“Ghanta!” My mother shouted angrily.

I laughed because every day the dirty old man that sold erotic art next to our stall greeted my mother the same way. He is a family friend and landlord, so it is tolerated by my father. Tharki usually waits to greet my mother this way when my father is away on errands (like today).

Each time she pounded her fists on the table and scolded him. I thought she would miss it if he ever stopped admiring her. I considered Tharki an uncle and he had been selling erotic art and custom prints next to our family stall since before I was born. In the old days, there were brothels and stalls like his all over the place, but even places like Kamathipura had cracked down on those businesses.