In our list of fiction relevant to Dharavi’s universally appealing history, we cherish Amitav Ghosh’s ‘The Hungry Tide’ (Ravi Dayal, 2004). It is a thrilling account of power and space that unfolds in the dense mangrove forests of the Sunderbans in Bengal. It drags into its intense narrative flow, all of the Indian state’s contrary feelings towards its own people, its neighbors and its continued fidelity to arcane categories, especially those which describe nature and forests and those who live directly off it.

The novel opens itself to allegorical interpretations to historical moments in completely different parts of the sub-continent.

We draw from it a powerful lesson for Dharavi. (And not just because of the obvious mangrove connection; Dharavi too grew in the marshy lands of the mangroves that surrounded the city even more richly in the past).

There is a moment when a schoolmaster revolutionary first encounters the community of recent settlers in the mangrove forests and is completely disarmed by their ability to re-organize their lives.

‘What had I expected? A mere jumble, perhaps, untidy heaps of people, piled high upon each other? …But what I saw was quite different from the picture in my mind’s eye. Paths had been laid…little plots of land had been enclosed with fences; fishing nets had been hung up to dry. There were men and women sitting outside their huts, repairing their nets and stringing their crab lines with bits of bait and bone.
Such industry! Such diligence! Yet it was only a few weeks since they had come’.
(Page 171)

The protagonist goes on to document his thrill at seeing ‘the birth of something new’ – the creation of a world not by a single visionary but one that was dreamt up by ‘the very people who were trying to make it real’, not ‘by those with learning and power but by those without’ (ibid).

At the simplest level – this response echoes the typical responses of many who encounter habitats like Dharavi for the first time. Take a look at the numerous reports and accounts of journalists and travelers. Surprise and shock at the organized level of activities is in sharp contrast to the perspectives of authorities and uninformed public opinion that usually reaches their ears first.

The organized prejudice manifests itself in kinds of violence too, as depicted in the novel. Maybe not a massacre – but something close – a complete destruction of the intricacies of economics and resources that are enmeshed in the neighbourhood – as intricately as the mangroves connect to the lives of the settlers in the Sunderbans. Besides, the category ‘refugee’ morphs into similar condensed prejudices such as ‘illegal’, ‘criminals’, ‘encroachers’ or simply ‘slum dwellers’.

But there is more.

The full impact of the nuances of the story became more evident to us when we came across Ghosh’s essay ‘Wild Fictions: Narratives of Nature and the Politics of Forests’. (Outlook Essays, January 2009). It is a powerful critique of the idea of nature and the environment as a-priori in our understanding of human history.

He points out how the presence of the ‘environmental unconscious’ within the lives of those who are perceived to be living directly off the environment – has to constantly contend with the articulated notion of ‘Nature’ as if it lies above human life.

Ghosh’s essay uses parables, history and razor sharp arguments to reveal how the ‘environment…is peopled, inhabited and continually enriched by history’. For us the argument made it abundantly clear that any understanding of habitats needs to factor in how intimately connected are the omniscient categories of ‘Nature’ and its counter-point ‘Urban Civilization’. Accepting the fact that both feed off each other makes it clear why the story of the settlers of the Sunderbans resonates so much with the lives of those living in a place like Dharavi – and several others like it.

‘The Hungry Tide’ can be seen as a larger commentary on administrative categories and such mythic constructions that make and break habitats. It shows how nationalism and its accompanying discourses of legitimacy and illegitimacy translates into questions of development that then play vicious games in the name of the environment and its unarticulated and equally constructed anti-thesis – urban spaces.

The preservation of the forests as an end in itself goes hand in hand with the demarcation of the city. And the rules of demarcation must be always respected – both ways. A city as the epitome of civilization must not show signs of wilderness at all – and if it does – then it must be civic-minded and always under-control.

And equally important: – wilderness must never show signs of industry. That’s why the emphasis in the protagonist’s response (such industry!) is so memorable.

The fascinating account that Suresh Sharma describes in ‘Tribal Identity and the Modern World’ (Sage, 1994) comes to mind. He points out how the Agaria tribes of the forests in Central India, were adept at smelting iron and had a rich legacy of crafts involving iron work. They responded with enthusiasm to the coming of the (rich-in-iron-symbolism) railways but were confronted with an administrative gaze that could not see them as anything more than savage forest-dwellers. Instead of harnessing their enthusiasm, their presence in the forests (where they used to shallow-mine iron in an ecologically sound way) was criminalized. And the forests themselves were either mined and destroyed or zoned out as a Nature Preserve.

The need to neatly demarcate pristine forests and civilizational spaces go hand in hand. The boundaries must never be breached.

This compulsion for categorization and zoning runs very deep. A village in a city is eventually considered to be anachronistic and must either be gentrified or lose its identity as a village. In Mumbai – almost all the biggest slums have a nucleus that once was a recognizable village. Including Dharavi. It is easy for a village – which should not exist in the city in the first place according to the laws of demarcation– to slowly be downgraded into a slum, especially when rural refugees start crowding the city and need to be housed.

In addition, a place like Dharavi, which is almost all about industry, is illegal for another reason. It violates another zoning taboo – where residences and work places must never over-lap. A taboo that makes no sense in Dharavi at all in which the main built-form is the tool-house itself – a multi-use space that defies categorization and zoning. And yet – the laws continue to be in place citing all kinds of disputable and excessive reasoning, at every level.

We read The Hungry Tide as a parable about habitats such as Dharavi, encased in a powerful vision about power and space in which ideas like the environment, nature, urbanism, development and economics are fiercely contested.

Of course it is about lots more – including being a treasure trove of knowledge about the environment, dolphins and the magical-ecology of the Sunderbans – besides being a thoroughly enjoyable read!