Sonia Faleiro

Oh my God. I’ve resisted talking about my childhood all my life.

I was born in a very rich family. My father, SC Arputham, was a freedom fighter in the Kolar Gold Fields, where I was born and grew up. I’m the second child, and second son. For a father who was very illiterate, I don’t think he had ever been to school, he did well. My father’s father lived in Salem, where he worked as a village magistrate, during the time of the British. I called people like him Half Heads, because officials had to shave the front portion of their heads. Half takla, I would laugh. One day he gave a judgement against some dacoits, a major punishment. I don’t know the exact story, but the dacoits performed a jail break, escaped and killed my grandfather. So my grandmother took my father, who must have been 2 years old, his sister who is two years older than him, and left Salem immediately for the Kolar Gold Fields. She walked from Salem overnight with her two kids. My mother had great entrepreneurial spirit. And she was charming. As soon as she migrated, she set up a small stall near the entrance of the mines, selling fruit and other foodstuffs. So all the miners would stop by, and my grandmother and father would be selling things to them, some for less than a naya paisa. The Britishers would catch my father and for fun would take him up and down the mines. The animals. At the age of seven or eight they picked him to work in the mines. Slowly, he moved up in life. He became a foreman, and then a political leader with a direct connection to (then Chief Minister) K. Kamraj. Then my father became the Panchayat President. He would enter a room, and everyone would stand up. Those were the heady days of Independence. Politics were all he thought of, and because of that he gained two addiction—alcohol and power.

I must have been about eight when I began questioning my family. The fact that my father preached one thing, and did another. I saw my father’s dealings with less powerful people. Now I can articulate this. As a result, I grew up to question all power and politics. I remember listening to BR Ambedkar and thinking, ‘this guy is fooling everyone!’ but of course I couldn’t say that aloud. Also, I went to school, an English medium, with two, what was called, Tea Boys. They were actually two grown men, one walking on each side, one carrying my bag and the other carrying my day’s water and tea. School was only 10 minutes away, but these Tea Boys were a status symbol. I never understood this before, but finally I can intellectualize this.

I remember at the age of five, going in a car, to the village. We were treated like the Prime Minister’s children. At the time Panchayat President was a big thing.

At school, when I made a mistake I got nervous, because my teacher would make me stand on the stool with my hands up. The moment my hands went up, my pants went down, because I never wore a belt. We were rich, but I refused. I didn’t like how it felt, and to date don’t wear a belt. My teacher was naughty to keep punishing me despite this! Sometime she would tie my pants with a ribbon.

Also, I was a church mouse for the first 10 years of my life. I would spend all day in church, returning only for dinner. I’m religious now too, but I’m not a horrible practitioner of religion.

Very much so. Every family, in my whole khaandaan, sent a son or daughter to be a nun or a priest. I was in church all day, but still I was fun loving. I had to hold the plate under the chin when the priest gave the Sacrament. When it was a pretty girl, I would tickle her chin. No reason, just fun. And of course, we stole a lot! A lot! We stole the Sacrament, the wine. We would think, ‘bloody padre is drinking wine, why not us?’ We were all over the church. But I was very holy, morning I would pray, evening I would pray.

I did, for a short period. But I ran away. I couldn’t bear rituals. And you had to suffer in the seminary, not like now where everyone is puffing on a cigarette.

I tasted poverty, so I had no choice. I left school in the 7^th standard. For a year I fooled everybody. Instead of going to school I went to the Headmaster’s house to perform chores, wash his clothes and dishes. So he gave me a promotion mark. Sorry to use the word, but I would say Algebra Gand Ghabra. I knew nothing of any subject.

In the 7^th grade I came home one day to find nothing to eat. That harassed my mind for a week. Since then I can be awake for 15 days and be without food for eight days. Because of that I survived in Bombay on one pav and one dal a day for over a day. For that too I walked from Mankhurd to Mahim every day. I get a craze for the old times sometimes, drive down, and sit in my car. Just to keep myself in touch with those days.

Poverty came upon us slowly. My father lost everything. According to the story, he was hijacked by some political persons for a month. He was an alcoholic. So they took him somewhere. As a freedom fighter, he had lands, factories, lots. They made him sign away everything, and then let him go. We were wiped out. Everything I had enjoyed, the land next to my house where I played, all gone. That day when I returned from school there was nothing to eat, my mother was crying, moneylenders were knocking on the door. I was so frustrated. There were so many changes, mental and otherwise when this happened.

Of course. I blamed him a lot. I blamed him, I blamed myself, and I blamed even my mother. She would distribute our wealth to her brothers and sisters, so my father would beat her. She wasted a lot.

Because I had been of a respectable family, a rich family, but was no longer so, the other respectable families rejected me. Bad boy, runaway boy, they would say. So I lived on the veranda of my cousin’s house, and then later rented my own place. I learnt carpentry, and remember crying and weeping, it was hard to live and work and earn on my own. To live on my small earnings. I tried to kill myself with poison. It was either Phenyl or Tincture for Rs 10 a small bottle. But I had such an empty stomach that I vomited it entirely. I woke up the next morning, lying on the grass next to a stadium. That was the first and last time I attempted suicide.

Shortly after, my parents and siblings, seven altogether followed me to Bangalore. They lived with me but none of them worked. So I supported them all at age 16. I had three jobs every day, and every evening I would buy food for my family and carry it in both arms. I really struggled a lot. I thought, ‘I’m such a Godly person, why am I going through this?’ Finally, I left all that and at 19 came to Bombay.

It wasn’t a choice. I met someone who was from Bombay. He looked rich, he was well respected and well educated. Where was he from? Bombay. Looking at him, I was very sure that in Bombay I could work, eat and live. So I left my family behind. My family struggled on their own because I had been the sole bread earner. For four years in Bombay, I didn’t send them a penny; they suffered a lot but then managed.

Now they’re all doing well. My brother has a baby factory. Every year he has one. I can’t deal. Even as a child, I would hate when I mother got pregnant. She gave birth to my three sisters after me, and after every birth I would stand on the road to the hospital and throw rocks at the relatives who visited her, to discourage them. They would visit her quietly and hiding! I would think, ‘damn my mother!’ ‘Why does she need to have more children?’ ‘What are my parents doing in their old age?’ One day I smuggled my younger sister, who is now married, to Bangalore. She was one year old! Then I didn’t know what to do. I would buy puffed rice, then some hotel chai, dip the rice in it and feed her. My family traced me after three days!

The nakedness. For the first three years that I was in Bombay, I would walk with my hands pulling down my shirt. Because the back of my pants didn’t exist. There were two big holes. Even now sometimes, unconsciously, I walk pulling down my shirt. What was underwear? I didn’t know as an adult—even though I wore underwear as a child—because there wasn’t money. I would say, ‘I have two sets of eyes. On my face, and on my behind.’

I think that’s what kept me going. I would take my problems and laugh aloud at them. I would laugh at my poverty, at my father, at not having a proper pair of pants despite being a grown man.

That was my first act of activism in 1967, when the Janata colony was to be shifted to what is now Cheetah Camp in Trombay, to make place for the Bhabha Atomic Research Centre. I had done some social work; things which are taken for granted now. Like cleaning garbage, telling people ‘if the Government won’t widen the road, do it yourself,’ and ‘if they don’t give you water, find a source for yourself.’ I would write three letters of complaint to the necessary Government organisation. The fourth letter would say, ‘now I’m going to do this myself!’ I got recognition quickly, and people gathered around me. They saw I was selfless, incorruptible. I did it from my heart.

When the slum dwellers were to be evicted, I began to go deeper into the matter. I studied the history of the colony of slum dwellers. I found out how new migrants were shunted into Janata colony. At the time there were only two slums in Bombay; pavement dwellers were picked up from the entire city and dumped here. There were 70,000-80,000 people in Janata colony, and I learnt they had been twice displaced. This would have been their third displacement, after they had lived in central Mumbai, in places like Fort. At the time, the Bombay city limit was Aurora Theatre in Matunga. I studied more. Why people migrated here, how they reached the slum, how they were moved out. I learnt to articulate these problems. I was the first person to pull up then Chief Minister Moraji Desai who wanted to empty the Churchgate Road of slum dwellers and convert that area into a Mini Paris. They wanted to make a beauty! We didn’t let them.

We barricaded roads, organized mass demonstrations, secured stay orders and fought the eviction order all the way up to the Supreme Court. In the end, we lost Janata Colony, but learnt many lessons. This became a 24-hours job.

Participation of the people involved became key. And I decided early on that we would not align with any political party. This attitude was the basis of the formation of the Bombay Slum Dwellers Federation (1969), which was expanded into the National Slum Dwellers Federation in 1974. Now when I look back at how things were then I can see the change. Things happen automatically now in slums, people take charge. For me personally, I can walk into any slum in the world and talk to them, nobody will tell me to get out, or tell me that I’m talking nonsense. The capacity of such organisations have enormous appeal for people. They take greater control over their lives. Of course, in this group of people there are some who are motivated by self interest or are in the builder’s mafia; people who manipulate and fool, but the majority think for the community.

Somehow our planners, bureaucrats, and political visionaries lost their vision. It happened in the name of progress. So our fight is as basic as the creation of a toilet. Recently we completed construction of 250 toilet blocks in the city. We can’t afford individual toilets in 5 square metre houses, but we can do this. But there’s nothing common about a toilet. It’s where people interact and communicate. So it becomes a communication centre where social messages are circulated. I constantly hear about the booming stock market, India shining and the global economy. But what about the 80 per cent who don’t have clean drinking water? India is doing nothing for its poor and homeless. If you can’t provide a toilet to the 60 per cent of Mumbai’s population, which lives in slum, what economic growth are we talking about. Nevertheless, these toilets are a milestone and were created because of the people.

It’s hard for me to say, but I’ve been achieving steadily for the past 40 years. Today I can stop the city from functioning in an hour’s time. Make one call and it’s done.

My slum dwellers. They just have to walk onto the streets. Come out of their houses, don’t even walk, and just stand there. I can call the slum dwellers in the airport. Stand on the runway. Shut the airport. My strike strategy is not heavily planned. It’s simple and no cost, I have to say, ‘come on, come on, move onto the streets’ and can be organised in ten minutes. In the last 15 years however, I’ve moved towards a Gandhian non agitation. If I keep quiet, don’t talk, who’s the sufferer? The Government. They get uneasy; they know if I’m keeping quiet I’m planning something very seriously.

I’m working on rehabilitating the slum dwellers that will be displaced by the new runaway for the Bombay airport. We may be poor but we must be consulted. I’ve told the Government, ‘keep the land that you require for the runway operational area. The rest of the land, give to me and I will rehabilitate the slum dwellers, of which there are 300 families, on that land itself.’ I’ll build apartments. You can’t build a single storey house in Bombay. That’s not good economics and I don’t trust it. So you get everyone’s interests fulfilled. My strategy is everyone must win. The city must win, progress must win, the slum dwellers must win, and I will win.

The Government doesn’t consult those it seeks to rehabilitate. You want to move me out of my house, but you won’t ask me where or how?

Now they say they want to change Dharavi into Shanghai? Why don’t you change Dharavi into Bombay? Don’t sell out the city. The Government wants to work top down, but I insist it must be done bottom up. This is what I told UN Secretary General Kofi Annan. My target is to clean all the slum dwellers off the street, give them houses. That is my life’s dream, to clean Mumbai of slums. My first success was giving 25,000 slum dwellers homes in one go in Mankhurd. People who have lived on the street for decades, born there, given birth there, moved into their first home. The poorest of the poor need access to water, sanitation, electricity, and a roof above their head.

My strategy is simple. People should not ask anything for free. Fight, but not street fighting. Do your homework. Work hard, unite yourself. And do this with women’s leadership, not male leadership. When the males take the lead, their decisions are individual. When the women participate, the decision is collective and everyone must participate. You cannot be a silent spectator. You sleep and expect someone to build your house? Non sense. When people come to me and ask for a house, I ask what they’ve done to make it happen. They’ve done nothing? Then get lost. Everything has to be paid for, and to pay, you must work.

And once they get a house they’d better not think, ‘oh I can sell this house and create four jhopdas.’ Not a chance. I’ll shoot them.

I’m very clear and transparent. The mechanism is people’s participation in decision making and in implementation. People are the power and they must decide, not the politicians and the police. It’s the same strategy for everyone. No one can dispute that. And I bring the police to the people not vice versa. That’s what I tell politicians now. Go back to the people, because if you don’t you’ve had it. You’ll be out. We don’t need the Government. Look at me. Today I’m running a parallel government.

In Bombay alone I have the support of two lakh families that I’m working with. I have as much power as the politicians I work with. But I don’t undermine them. My only problem is that they don’t understand their power. They’re politicians only because of us. We have to look at them with a pinch of salt. They’re not all good or all bad though according to me politics is absolutely bad. I say, ‘we don’t need politicians for anything. Nothing.’ But they have achieved a certain level and we must respect them. They make the polity decisions, and we must implement these decisions. Politicians are dangerous, but you cannot ignore them.

I can create 10 MP’s. Why should I become one? I can finish 10 MLA’s.

Look at Bombay. It’s one of the beautiful cities of the world. It’s the only city where the poor and rich can live together. In about 1970, if you went to Kalbadevi, people would pull you into their house and make them comfortable. There was great love. But slowly politicians and animal behaviour changed the city. And why did migration start? Some of the Biharis who came to Bombay would walk around the Maharashtrian neighbourhood collecting the previously day’s bakri (bread), which had been discarded. Maharashtrians would have new bakri everyday never saving anything. The Biharis would collect these scraps and carry them home to Bihar in a gunny bag. In Bihar, villagers would ask, ‘where did you get some much food?’ They would say, ‘Bombay’! So tem more people from Bihar would come to Bombay and so on.

It’s a wonderful place. I cam here and got food, water, clothes, everything. This is a place where you can get a job, and get everything.

Then 1976, onwards there was a feeling growing of Middle Class against Lower Class. Rich started hating the poor. Name calling. Abuse. Some people even went to the court to clear the slum dwellers from the city, there was such a big class divide. The love had died. There was hate between the settlements—slum dwellers were seen as thieves, pickpockets and as filthy.

Then after 2000 it changed. And I’d like to think it had something to do with the award. People realised the possibility, they saw that things could change. I can say with some pride that I’m the only person in the world who has won the award and has done so despite not being a graduate, I’ve not written a book, I’ve not crafted a theory, nothing. I was so shocked with the award. I literally cried for two days. I asked, why do I deserve this? But I’m still on the ground; I’m humble. I keep my cool. So the award helped recognise the mettle of the urban poor. As a result of the award I got to visit the world. Last month I was in Washington and I went to meet the Housing Secretary. For a minute I had a twinkle in my eye. Where have I reached? He told me he had $67 million for US housing per annum. I said to him, you don’t have any shame not even keeping aside $1 million for housing in the Third World? I told him straight. He said, let’s talk about it.

We’ve built 35,000 slum houses in South Africa based on the Bombay model of people’s participation and women’s leadership. It’s a basic model and can be adapted anywhere to change the social equation and bring about change.

I can’t have fun. If I’m not working I must be sick because there’s no other reason for me to not work. If I take a holiday I will get sick. That’s not to say that I boast about being hard working. My work is fun. Talking to you, talking to someone one else, what is it if not fun? You can’t survive by enjoying life all the time. I’m an animal. Animals don’t relax do they? Maybe I’m like a dog or a tiger! For me Sunday is a working day. So is Ramzan and Diwali and my birthday, on which I work over 20 hours. I awaken at 6 a.m. and go to bed at 1 a.m. I can’t eat dinner before 1 a.m. I’ve been doing this for the last forty years. I have no regrets about the way I’ve lived my life.

My family comprises of my wife Rita, and my two daughters Glorita and Sujatha Elizabeth both of whom are married and settled in Bangalore. I hated little children but I got two lovely girls. Luck for me. I have one grandson as well. My wife is one billion times unhappy with me. I’m never at home; family life is not for me. When we married in 1974, I told my wife, I’m already married, this is my second marriage. It was 9 am, minutes after the church marriage. She couldn’t believe it. She said, ‘what?’ I said, ‘my first marriage is to my job. You’re my second.’ She cried for three hours. It was an arranged marriage. Not only it is an arranged marriage, it’s a horrible marriage. After one month of being shown someone, you marry them? I pity her for the suffering she goes through. It was my only mistake. We’ve never once had lunch with her in 40 years.

It doesn’t come naturally. She was jealous when I won the Magsaysay award. She thought at least before he was with me, now he’s with everyone. What woman would like it if her husband spent all his time elsewhere?

Vox, Critical Conversations. Buffalo Books, Rs 250.
Photos 1 and 2: Akshay Mahajan

Photo 3: Raghu Rai