Love, luck and destiny: the world according to a Mumbai matriarch

This is part three of Mama Asia, a long-form journalism series in which Sally Sara meets 12 inspirational Asian women.

Dharavi is the kind of place that almost reaches out and punches you in the face, shoves its fingers in your eyes and screams in your ears. It's one of the biggest slums in India and it can be utterly overwhelming.

If you imagine more than half a million people living in scrappy, cubbyhouse-sized buildings on a few square kilometres of swamp land, you start to get the idea.

But it's more than you imagine – in some ways, it's the liver of Mumbai. Much of the city's waste ends up here; it's sorted, processed, transformed and sold. Dharavi is a highly productive place. Its narrow alleys are crowded with makeshift factories as small as your living room.

Coloured plastic is ground up into pellets that look like plastic rice. It's raked and dried on rooftops. Bales of old videotapes are stacked in laneways, cooking oil is recycled, small streams of bright blue and purple dye run from textile factories. Used plastic cups, some still with lipstick marks on the rim, are piled up outside a dirt-floored workshop.

The smell of melted wax and ironed cotton spills from the doorway of a fabric workshop. Thin men use old wooden stamps as big as their hands to print the wax onto the cloth. They work on tables covered with moist sand so the fabric cools quickly. At night they sleep on the sand tables, their spare clothes hanging from nails on the wall. They can earn 10 times what a labourer would earn on the street. That's what draws thousands of workers every year. Word spreads from factories back to villages that jobs are on offer.

I first visited Dharavi in 2009. It was one of the most overwhelming places I'd ever experienced. I followed a guide down tiny lanes so dark and narrow it felt like walking inside a wardrobe that never ended. I had to crouch so I didn't hit my head, as local boys held competitions to try to touch my breasts and grab my watch.

The locals walked around puddles of goats' blood on the ground, leftover from a recent religious festival. Small children were squatting and poohing on piles of rubbish, goat skins were stretched on racks and freshly made pappadums were drying on curved baskets. Car horns screeched and homemade machinery spluttered. The guide took me up ladders and across sagging galvanised iron rooftops to see Dharavi in all its unforgettable chaos.

But one neighbourhood amongst this sprawl is different. Its alleys are carefully swept, the small houses are old and sturdy. Makeshift courtyards are filled with hundreds of clay pots. Dark smoke fills the laneways when the kilns are firing. People squint and cough as they walk through the haze.

This is the home of the Kumbhar Prajapatis, the potters. They have been living and making pots here for decades. Most are from Gujurat in north-western India - they came to Dharavi when it was just a swamp and the rest of the slum has evolved around them.

Amrit Ben sits on a small wooden stool in the corner of one of the alleyways. Her body is wiry and her eyes are quick, she has faded traditional tattoos dotted on her neck and arms. She receives greetings and dishes out advice as her neighbours walk by. Amrit has lived in this part of Dharavi for more than 50 years.

She was born in Gujarat in the late 1930s. She doesn't know exactly when, it was a life without calendars. Her village was deep in the countryside, where her father was a labourer and her mother took care of the house and children. Life started and stopped with little warning.

"We were 12 kids born to our parents - eight of them died. I was just born strong and I was born lucky. I just survived because I was strong. Even today I don't take any medicine. It’s just how it is," she says.

"It wasn't very easy for us. I would stay with my parents for eight days and then I would stay with my uncle and aunt for eight days because my parents couldn't look after all of us."

Gujarat was regarded as one of the wealthier regions in India and was the birthplace of Mahatma Gandhi. But village life was harsh. Even as a small girl, Amrit was expected to take on a large share of the domestic duties. She felt the losses as several of her siblings died, including her little sister.

"I was seven or eight years old when that happened. She was about two years old. There was nobody at home, I was playing with my little sister, she was in my lap. Suddenly her eyes closed and she stopped breathing, she actually passed away in my lap. I couldn't feel her pulse and I knew she was gone. I yelled and called for my uncle who lived nearby.

"When my mother came in, she was in a state of shock. She started beating her chest really hard. She didn't expect it. My sister was very pretty, very fair. We were superstitious, we were always told not to look very nice, because if someone looks at you and thinks ill of you, that could happen. So we were really worried about her and that's what we think happened - because she was really, really pretty.

"My mother felt very bad but there was very little she could do about it. Who would she complain to and what would she say? She just got on with it and got used to it. Back then, there were no medicines. There was no-one we could take anyone to. There were no doctors."

It was a childhood where longevity wasn't guaranteed, so life was sped up to give some sense of certainty. Amrit was engaged when she was only two months old. It was local tradition, so that families could arrange a marriage before either of the parents died. There was also a shortage of girls, as there still is in India today. Some parents killed or neglected their daughters because they were unable to afford dowry payments to the family of a prospective husband.

Amrit grew up knowing she was engaged. Her future mother-in-law would send sweets and small gifts.

"Back in those days, to show you are engaged, you had a nose stud sent to you by your in-laws. So I was eight years old when that was sent to me."

Amrit wasn't allowed to see her fiancé until her wedding day. She remembers excitement and happiness as relatives gathered and women cooked for the event. It was a chance to dress up, there was no sense of sadness.

"I was clad in all red, I had a backless top. It is a tradition. They tie it with just one strong knot at the back. I had a flowing red skirt and a green scarf.

"I was 12 when I first saw his face. We were little kids. We were playing.

"I didn't think anything. I had completely surrendered - this was the man I was going to marry. My parents had picked the boy and it had to be for the best."

A traditional game was played after the children were married, to predict who would rule the house during their marriage. The boy had to compete against his sister - who represented the bride - in a game of retrieving shells from a container full of water. Amrit’s sister-in-law won on her behalf.

"I won. And I still control the house."

Amrit laughs as she retells the story. There's no doubt she does control the house - she is the matriarch of her extended family. They live in a small brick house with a concrete lane and a wall in front of them. Women in bright saris and sandals walk past, carrying groceries and buckets of water. Amrit knows them all.

She sits on a mat on the floor as we talk. Her son squats in the corner, making pots on a pottery wheel. Some of the wet clay splatters on the wall as he works.  Amrit is sinewy, bright and relaxed. Her fingers fan out gracefully as she pinches the folds of fabric of her sari until it sits in place.

Amrit arrived in Dharavi with her husband's family when she was 15. It was the first time she'd left Gujarat. Her life as a married woman had begun.

"This house where we are now, this is the house I was brought [to] that day. It's about 70 years old, it's been handed down. I had never been in a big city before but I didn't feel lost.

"When I moved here, it was open space, it was marshy land. It wasn't a very safe place to be so not many cabs came here. A lot of drugs, a lot of alcohol, so people would worry about coming down here.

"I was very scared because there was no electricity. We couldn't play outside. We would lock our doors and stay inside."

She and her husband carried baskets full of pots and caught the train into Mumbai each day. They walked the streets of upmarket neighbourhoods like Colaba, selling their wares and dodging corrupt police. The young couple spent much of the day together. Sometimes they sat outside restaurants hoping to entice some customers. It was good money and Amrit quickly adapted to her new life.

"He was a very nice, balanced man. He didn't get angry on a lot of things. The key to success for a good marriage is looking after your husband very well. I was very respectful towards my husband, towards my in-laws. If they were sat here on a chair, I would sit on the floor."

But there was very little contact from her family back in Gujarat. There was no phone service and the mail travelled slower than it would take to walk all the way from Mumbai back to the village. Amrit couldn't read, so her husband would read for her.

"It would take six to seven months for letters to reach. We would just sit together and read them. When somebody would volunteer to write for me, I could also send something back."

I ask Amrit if she ever wanted her husband to read the letters again and again. She shakes her head and laughs at my suggestion of sentimentality. The more I listen, the more I get a sense of her resilience. She's a very smart woman but she doesn't seem to waste her thoughts on nostalgia.

Living in Dharavi for more than 60 years is an achievement in itself. It's not just the poverty, but sudden events that can change everything. There's not much justice here, or protection.

The morning before I first arrived at Amrit's place, I walked along a busy alley next to a putrid, grey river. I talked with women sorting plastic from rubbish and then there was a thud outside. A man fell from a roof as he tried to stack heavy bales of cloth.  He looked dazed as other workers picked him up. I could see blood leaking from his nose and ears. There was no care taken to protect his neck and spine; he was carried on the shoulders of a strong man with a grey beard, and others ran behind them. They put the bleeding man in a taxi, because they knew an ambulance would never arrive here.

In the minutes that followed, other workers shook their heads and then slowly returned to work. Accidents are common: threadbare ropes snap, roofs collapse and homemade ladders buckle. It's the harsh lottery of Dharavi.

When Amrit arrived in Dharavi, the situation was even worse. Health care was poor and children died as a result of simple illnesses, such as diahorrea. Very few women went through motherhood without losing a child.

I'm careful when I ask Amrit about her children. I don't want to upset her. But in her matter of fact way she recites their names and whether they survived. She gave birth to six children and three died in infancy, including her daughter Jeevti at seven months and son Arvind at 12 months.

She describes the deaths as destiny and doesn't speak with much emotion. But all that changes when she speaks of losing her youngest son, Praveen, who died of fever when he was two years old.

"I still think of him. This son of mine was special because he brought a lot of luck to the family. Some kids are just born special and he was one of them.  Even today, when I face hardships I think of him and I shed a tear. He is very dear to me.

"I was deeply disturbed when he passed away. I couldn't eat food, I would feel dizzy, I was very unwell. I was sent away for a good five or six months, back home, while the other kids were here.

"Today when I think of it, it gives me a lot of pain. Even now when there is a wedding in the area, I think I wish I could have seen my son married and seen his kids playing around."

Amrit shows me a picture of Praveen, which sits on a small red shelf on the wall. She holds the frame tightly to her chest. She tells me life for the family would have been a lot better if her youngest son had survived. That's how she sees the world, with a mixture of superstition and acceptance.

The following morning, the alleyways of the Kumbhars' neighbourhood are crowded. Women carry pots, men carry tables. An engagement party is being held in one of the courtyards and red fabric has been stretched above to give some shade. Amrit's granddaughters are busily setting up a drinks stall, pouring water into plastic cups.

I can see a pile of women's sandals outside a room off the courtyard. I hear singing and chanting.

Amrit leads me by the hand, urging me to come inside. The room is full of women, blessing the bride to be. One small boy is reluctantly part of the crush. He followed his mother in and is now stuck in a female scrum. The bride is in the corner, where clay pots are stacked on shelves. She looks sombre and nervous. Amrit says that's as it should be, according to superstition, because if the bride is smiling too much, someone will become jealous and wish her harm.

Dozens of people fill the courtyard. Young men offer trays of sweets and plates of dahl and rice.

Amrit sits on a concrete step talking with her friends; she looks contented. Some of the younger women collect the used plates and wash the dishes. All the neighbours have chipped in for the party, there's a feeling of joy and community.

It reminds me of growing up in country South Australia, where gatherings took place without formality, and people worked together until the last plate was put away and the tea towels were hanging on the line.

"We are a very tightly knit community. When I first moved to the area, all these families were here. Now their kids have grown - and they've had kids as well, so they have built these bigger houses.

"Here, we all work together, we all know we live together and we keep it clean. I feel good, I feel proud that we as a community can be this way."

But developers have different plans for Dharavi. This jumbled swamp is now regarded as prime real estate because land in Mumbai is in such short supply. A tower block has already been built in the middle of the slum and there are more to come.

Glassy high-rises have also risen from the mud only a few hundred metres away. The national stock exchange and flashy corporate headquarters are just across the creek from the slum. The two extremes of Mumbai sit side by side in the mangroves.

Amrit has seen the proposals for Dharavi but she's not convinced families will receive the apartments they have been promised if they allow the bulldozers in on their houses.

"I married into this house, I have lived in this house and I am going to die here. They have been trying to move us for a long time but I have always said no, because this is so central to us. I wouldn't give up living in this place for anything."

"It is obvious what is happening. The rich are getting richer and the poor are getting poorer. But we put it down to luck - I just think you have to be lucky. It doesn't matter to me. I am happy where I am. It is all destiny and it is written for you. If you are meant to get rich, you will get rich, otherwise, you will just struggle away. I think it is very important to be hard working, no matter what you do. You just have to be hard working. That is the only way to prosper.

"That represents good values and that is what I have been brought up with. No matter what the situation, if there is no way out, there is no point thinking if it could have been better."

Amrit's husband died of respiratory failure 22 years ago, leaving her as the sole breadwinner for her family. Now her son is the provider. Her grandchildren are all in school and most speak English - there is not much chance they will spend their lives carrying pottery to sell. Her teenage grandson is in the middle of exams; he climbs a ladder to a small loft above the kitchen, where he studies and has hopes of life beyond Dharavi.

After so many years of heavy physical work, Amrit's days are now her own. Her raspy voice and cheeky laughter are part of the daily sounds of the alleyways near her house.

"I am very social.  I wake up about six o'clock, someone in the house will heat water for me, I take my bath and I pray to God. At about nine o'clock, I sit outside the house and talk with the other ladies. I only come back for lunch. I don't always cook, my daughter-in-law does that.

"In the afternoon, I don't sleep, I am very active, I spend that time with the other ladies. At about six in the evening, I go just near the main road, with two other ladies and we take God's name for about half an hour. We chant a mantra. We chant to Lord Krishna 108 times everyday. We have a beaded necklace that has 108 beads, if you count them.

"I come home and eat with the family. I don't really enjoy watching television but my grandkids do so I have to sit down with them, because we all sleep in this room. There are times they are watching a movie so we have to stay up until twelve or one but that is very rare. We normally go to bed, all of us, around 10pm. And that's my day.

"I pray to God that I only live while I am independent and my hands and feet work. The day I become dependent on someone, I would rather die."

In pictures: Dharavi and India

Sally Sara's photos capture the faces and places of India. View gallery

Amrit has outlived her brothers and sisters, her parents, her husband and three of her children. This small brick house with lime walls and the pottery wheel in the corner is home and this is where she feels she belongs.

"Of course I am happy. You have seen how many children and grandchildren I have. It is just a big happy family. I might shout at them, I might get angry at them but deep down I have a lot of love for my kids and grandkids.

"As a mother and grandmother, all I can do is show them the right path. I bless them and I wish well for them but beyond that, they have to choose the right way. Whatever happens to them, it's all written, it's destiny.

"In this room, seven people sleep. I sleep right in the centre with my grandson on my right and my grand-daughters on my left. What more could I want?

"I am here. I have God with me. It is a big community, it is impossible to be lonely. We are always together."

Sally Sara is an award-winning ABC journalist who has reported from more than 30 countries, including Afghanistan, Iraq, Sierra Leone and Zimbabwe.

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This story is the third of 11 articles in Sally Sara's Mama Asia series.

• In January, Sally met Latifa Nabizada, Afghanistan's first woman military helicopter pilot.
• Last month we met pioneering Thai monk Bhikkhuni Dhammananda.
• Next month meet Liu Ngan Fung, a domestic violence campaigner who herself survived decades of abuse.

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Credits

• Reporting, photography: Sally Sara
• Design, photo post-production: Ben Spraggon
• Development: Andrew Kesper
• Executive producer: Matthew Liddy