Mithilesh Kumar, aka “Kamlesh,” sat squat, handling with ease the metal members urbz needed for the Homegrown Street model series. He’d been working almost continuously for more than a few hours, stopping only for a short lunch and some chai. Luckily, it was a pleasant day, and the balcony's shade offered him a relatively comfortable environment to work in. 

Kamlesh is a 29-year-old welder from Mau, a district in eastern Uttar Pradesh (U.P.), a state in northern India. He speaks Hindi and Bhojpuri at home. His wife, a homemaker, lives in UP with their two children. He visits them for four months in the year. Currently, he lives near Grant Road, having moved to Mumbai in 2018. His portfolio includes metal fabrication work for large commercial projects such as the Breach Candy Hospital and the Trident Hotel (Bandra-Kurla). 

While he didn’t touch upon why he’d moved to Mumbai, he spoke extensively about his history of welding work across India and how he got into the profession. 

He completed his schooling through 9th grade (in U.P.), where English was his favourite subject. After leaving school, one of his friends told him that he could learn to weld in Kerala. He was taught in Kerala by a “Raju Bhai”, who even inspired him with a love for the craft. By 2015, he boasted that he had worked in Gujarat, Goa, Maharashtra, Tamil Nadu, Chhattisgarh, and Odisha. After that, he moved to Bengaluru for a 2-year stint, which led to a conversation on our shared love for the city’s incredible food scene - Chitranna (lemon rice) and Khuska Kebab (grilled meat) were his favourites. He added that for welding, one must eat meat for the protein, as the work is intense. His workdays begin with food, some jogging, and then long hours of work. 

He is also an ardent cricket fanatic and a Royal Challengers Bangalore fan. He exclaimed that Virat Kohli was his favourite cricketer. Later, he confessed shyly that his love for cricket often interferes with work, in that he takes off to go and watch his favourite teams play. 

While not a Dharavi resident, his work brought him to Dharavi Koliwada. Before coming to Dharavi, he had a perception that it was filled with ‘mob activity’. But now, after having worked here, he doesn’t think that anymore. While working on a project in Dharavi Koliwada, he spoke about how he often left expensive welding equipment lying around during his breaks, and none of the equipment got stolen, not even a single screw. He found that his everyday living expenses reduced during his stint in Dharavi, noting that his fancy for sugar cane juice could be quenched with less money. 

I inquired further about what he hopes for his future. 

He sprang to say that he’d like to work in a business that would allow him to raise his family in a nice house. Unfortunately, welding is an unstable profession, and if he works for 20 days in a month, the other 10 days “ko hum ghoomne padega.” He admitted that his network is weak right now and that, to grow his network and improve his chances of opening his own store, he should move to Pune. He has already done some work there, including the construction of a Military camp in Pune. While unsure of which city he’d like to be in, he said that if it were Mumbai, he would like to stay in Bandra, as he loves spending his free time there. 

I began my internship with urbz in the second week of the New Year, and by the end of the third week, I was given my first solo mission. I left the urbz office a quarter past noon to submit measurements of a chair to Dutta Koli, a fisherman turned metal fabricator. The chair itself was for a study space in Koliwada. I’d been to his workshop before, albeit not alone, but I was sure I could find it. Alone this time. My [over]confidence soared, and I embarked with the fury of an empire. If “England knows Egypt; Egypt is what England knows” (Said 1978, 32), then Koliwada was what I must know. I didn’t allow myself any crutches, no phones, nothing. Why not? After all, I’ve been taught to think like an architect. Easy! The mystery of this ‘maze’ must surely dissolve when conceived simply as figure and ground. I’d remembered studying Koliwada’s survey drawings on my first day. It was possible to memorise a key - left, right, right, left, keep straight, and so on. Anyway, no need of all this overcomplicating. My ability to visualise space as orthographic drawing should make this a cakewalk. 

I crossed the main road into the gully that I knew would take me to the workshop. I heard a hiss and the following splatter of oil, pausing momentarily in caution. A square portal finished with a white marble veneer framed snacks being fried in large cauldrons. I took another step, and was engulfed by a thick cloud of grey fumes that smelled like they were “porchifying” (deep-frying) Vadas, and guessed that this was likely a Tamil-run shop. I squinted, and through the inky haze were the makings of thick, golden-brown rings of delight. Only the very next instant, I was exposed to another intoxicating, yet pungent smell, of very many onions and spices. My uninitiated nose retreated to ignorance and only identified this as some “Marathi” light-bite. “Pay no heed to these, I know the way,”  I thought to myself, remaining steadfast. I followed the meanderings of this gully for a while; my body’s compass urged me to follow my cartesian 10 o’clock. Left, right, keep left. Along the way, I’d see many people watching me - amused. I don’t think they were really bothered by how I looked or dressed; it was more the nature of my stride, I think. “This guy must be lost”, and there was always a softness that followed, making it only easier to ask for directions, and relieving me of the social burden of interrupting someone’s day. For whatever reason, I resisted these well-intentioned social cues and carried on. I came upon an open square, surrounded on all four sides by homes of many sizes, with brilliant colour and texture. A melange of metals, cement, and earth; of beams, walls, and wire. To the furthest-right corner of the square, a half-white, half-brown cat sat perched on a metal step ladder. He looked at me curiously, “Why is this foolish young man with a loosely-tucked checked shirt and charcoal pants wandering like so?” he must’ve thought, and so must’ve everybody else who saw me. But a cat’s interest is lost quickly, and he looked away to his right, probably toward one of those rodents that dart through the drains and pipes. 

I took the gully to my near-left, and entered increasingly unfamiliar territory. Even my ego began to relinquish its control over my mind. I felt faintly the urge to use the map on my phone. Once again, I made a confused turn into a gully with wires drooping to knee-height like the roots of a banyan tree. At the end of this gully, a portal of blinding white light struck me. My eyes adjusted themselves, and identified traces of a few metal frames and members, and I heard also the faint buzz of machinic movements. Surely, this must be it. And as I got closer, the whining and whirring of metalwork and motors grew formidably. Aha, I’ve done it. As usual. I stepped through this imaginary doorway with my chest out. Phthew, I was spat out onto the Dharavi main road like a stuck-in-your-mouth fly. 

I had yearned to know Koliwada’s spatial lingo, but even a fool knows that knowing a language takes time and necessitates a surrendering to its will. I was an intruder in its midst. I shook my head from side to side, acting out my frustration. I had somewhere to be and lunch to get back in time for. I turned back with renewed vigour, only increasing my pace. I walked past the cat this time; he looked at me with the same curiosity, but this time there was also disdain and an “I told you so” embedded in those protruding, oversized spheroids. Suddenly, the entire place became yellow, with light bouncing, dancing even, across each of the brightly painted walls, perhaps produced with such an effect in mind. It’s beautiful and surreal to see. The brilliant shade of amber even colours the insides of your eyes, if there is such a place. And there is an amber-filter one is left with, long after they leave the yellow place. This is a kind of thing that is only reminiscent of Goa or some other faraway place that lies along the Mediterranean Sea (such are the recollections of my urban-elite mind). Anyway, I recognised this place, I’d crossed this on the way to the welders’ workshop last time. How can one forget a place like this? 

Soon, the practicality of remembrance was set in stone. I circled back in annoyance at least a handful of times to set my way out from there. My arrogance had been blown to bits. I remembered only 30 minutes before I’d said, “Don’t worry, I can go myself.” 

I found myself in one of the many dimly-lit gullies feeding into a square courtyard, cooled by the water running along the open drains. I stood silently, my face likely conveying a pathetic defeat. A woman holding her baby paced near her home, waiting for me to ask for help. “Welder kidhar hai?” I said in a humiliation-worthy pronunciation of Hindi. There was also an attempt to overlay my recent exposure to Marathi pronunciations, but the ‘W’ failed to even leave my lips. She understood nonetheless, and gestured “Udhar” to what looked like a dead-end in the darkness. I walked to the end to see a small opening to its right with gusts of hot air spilling into this intersection from an exhaust fan. I hopped away, which began a tip-toeing frenzy that saw me skate across the rocking drain covers. The momentary jig filled me with a childish thrill. And soon, I started to give in to the swaying and swinging of my body. Which of the many rights or lefts to take, my knees would momentarily brace and pivot, my hips would shear impulsively because my nose remembered these smells, my eyes the objects and light-patterns, and my ears the sounds. The ego-ridden part of me was laid to rest in an euphoria-inducing sleep, and I surrendered to the rhythms of things, the qualities of the place, and its textures also. It felt like the initiation I had been waiting for, even when really I had moved only a hair’s breadth away from when I had arrived on my first day. 

I will spare the reader the - I finally found the workshop, etc., no one was there, etc., no one told me, etc., they’d probably gone for lunch, etc. - and say that I began a half hour earlier with the intention of experiencing the place through “divine eyes,” with total knowledge. Through that ignorance, my god-given gifts were rendered useless. And yet, in all that vulnerability, getting lost in Koliwada was forgiving on my body; I was not forced to walk kilometre after kilometre to recover from wrong turns. I was only ever a few turns away from where I wanted to be. There is a comfort in knowing that. 

Rahul completed his MPhil in Anthropology from Churchill College, University of Cambridge. He has co-authored an upcoming book with urbz co-founder Matias Echanove, titled ‘The Homegrown City: Reclaiming the Metropolis for its Users’, which is about how cities develop and evolve through the actions of those who use it.

How did your interest in anthropology lead to a focus on urban spaces?

Anthropology continues to stimulate curiosity about all aspects of human life and provides ways of understanding that avoid being trapped in categories. Anthropologist Anthony Leeds specifically questioned the classification of habitat as rural and urban in simplistic ways and I have found much merit in such questioning. Over the last three decades I have worked in so-called tribal villages, rural contexts and neighbourhoods such as Dharavi in Mumbai, which defy classification. I have seen more points of connections between all of them rather than differences.

Tell us a bit about urbz. What are its goals?

Urbz was founded in 2008 in Dharavi, Mumbai, by Matias Echanove, Geeta Mehta and me. It is a collective that focuses on practice and engagement. Dharavi in Mumbai is a unique neighbourhood that tells stories about India, encompassing themes of caste, enterprise, collective ownership, state responsibility, and much more. It inspires all of urbz projects, including participatory planning, design, architecture, anthropology, urban policy and much more. Today, urbz has offices in Mumbai, Geneva, Paris and Bogota.

Congratulations on the upcoming book. Could you tell us about the inspiration and the idea behind it?

Thank you! The book, co-authored by Matias Echanove, covers 16 years of our activities in urbz. The book is energised more by our practice and conviction rather than scholarship and rhetoric. It believes that dominant urban policy and practice are shaped by a vision that overlooks the vast majority of urban life that falls outside planning strategies. A substantial part of the world’s urban population lives off local, collective capital, based on internal resources. These experiences offer a glimpse of possibilities that exist beyond the dominant economic logic, which may seem invincible, but may not actually be so.   

What do you find interesting about urban development in general, and how does it differ in India from what you see abroad?

Urban development is interconnected organically with all kinds of human experiences. I don’t see it in isolation. More than ever before, our world is faced with issues that make us confront the fundamentals of living, including the production and consumption of quality food or the materiality of the construction of homes. These take us away from the realm of the purely urban space. Today, what we refer to as urban development has become quite standardized all over the world. It has become synonymous with real estate value and investment in a certain type of infrastructure.

What ideas would you like to work on in the near future?

Urbz takes me quite organically to thinking about the economy. Anthropology has a great deal to say about the human scale as the most appropriate one for thinking about the economy. For me, working out the nitty-gritty of local interconnected systems, even when addressing a global network, is something to think about for our next project. We also need to reevaluate the role of institutions in modern life. Today, institutions have become synonymous with bureaucracies, and these need to be sharply distinguished. Institutions today need to be more decentralised, responsive and flexible than ever before, and that is not the case.

What are your other interests, and how have you nurtured them alongside your work in urban planning?

I am a screenwriter for films and have been collaborating with filmmakers from India and Europe over the last five years on various projects, including short and feature-length fiction films and documentaries.  I also co-own a small artisanal business that produces an Indian alcoholic beverage called Mahua in France, where the company was established in 2019.  My Urbz team encourages me to keep innovating and experimenting with all my passions, and they are the ones who help me nurture these other interests!

Cover photo of Dharavi main road by Ishan Tankha

Click to read the article as first published

Every day, a coconut vendor can be seen on the Dharavi Main Road in Koliwada. He is one of many vendors who operate in the precinct. His Name is Kausar, Kausar Shaikh. He’s a native of Sahibganj, Jharkhand, where he has a loving family with two little sons. He came to Mumbai along with his younger brother Kareem around 15 years ago, when he was just 21. He grew up in a farmer’s household, but he said he was bored with farming. He wanted to do something different with his life.

Ab har kisi ko sab cheez me mazaa to nahi aata na, waise hi mujhe Kheti baadi me mazaa nahi aata tha.

Look, not everyone can like every single thing, you know? I just didn’t get any pleasure out of farming.

He starts his day at 2:00 AM, gets up, splashes water on his face, steps out of his King’s Circle room, and takes a fifteen-minute walk to a nearby park where he usually secures his cart at night. He then pushes his cart towards Sion Hospital, where he waits for the coconut-carrying truck arriving from Mysore, Karnataka, to stock up his cart. After stocking up his coconuts, he again takes the cart to the park and chains it to the fence of the footpath on the periphery of the park, trusting that his stock will be safe until he returns. In his six years of business, his cart hasn’t been stolen once; however, the police had confiscated his cart a few times, and he had to pay a fine to get it back.

He returns to his apartment to get ready for the day, after which he walks back to the park to retrieve his cart, and then pushes it about two and a half kilometres to Dharavi Koliwada, where he sets up for the day. 

On most days, customers gather at Kausar’s cart throughout the morning and afternoon. He serves them efficiently while maintaining friendly but professional relationships. He has built connections with regular customers and fellow vendors over the years, but says he prefers to mind his own business quietly.

Abhi tumhare aane ke pehle ek ladka aaya tha, vo hafte me do teen baar aata hai nariyal paani peene ke liye, mujhe ek ladki ka photo dikhaya, uske girlfriend ka photo tha, kehta hai , agar ise dekha yaha se jaate hue, toh mujhe phone mila dena. Abhi aise daily customer bolega, toh hum unki madad kar dete hai, sab achhe log hai, roz yahi se guzarte hai. Par phir bhi mai iss sab me itna padta nahi.

See that young man? He’s a regular, just left. He showed me his girlfriend’s photo and asked me to call him if I saw her passing by. When a daily customer asks for such a trivial favour, even if I feel reluctant, I oblige; they are good people, people I see every day. But still, I prefer not to get too involved in all these personal matters.

He says that despite the time that has passed, the longing for home is constant. Since becoming a father a few years ago, he has felt a persistent homesickness, intensely missing his children. He consciously chose not to bring his family to the city, firmly believing they were better off staying in Jharkhand, where life is perhaps simpler. His work cycle here is not continuous; he operates on a rotational basis. He works diligently for about four months, after which his brother, Kareem, travels to the city to take his place, stepping into the same demanding schedule and lifestyle. This four-month break is the only time he gets an opportunity to be reunited with his family.

This arrangement exists because he recognises a potential market here; the financial opportunity outweighs the personal cost. Before this current business, he spent almost nine years doing all kinds of odd jobs, including a relatively stable stint decorating for weddings, but none of those provided a sufficient or secure income. Seeing others around him, people who had lived similar lives of unstable work, successfully start small businesses, gave him the confidence to try something of his own. 

“Dhandha Chaalu karne tak toh mujhe laga ki Bambai aana aur itni mehnat karna bekaar tha.”

“Until I started this business, I felt that coming to Mumbai and doing so much hard work was useless.”

He explained that the almost perennial humid weather makes selling coconut water successful anywhere in Mumbai. But the Dharavi Main Road is a good location strategically to conduct his business, especially on Sundays, with several churches nearby, people leaving church after mass who use the road, see his cart and stop for a quick, refreshing coconut. Business is so good, he often sells out before noon on Sundays.

When asked more about Dharavi, He says, like many others, his story of landing up in Dharavi was guided by community ties and economic logic. He explained that a lot of people from his own village work in the informal industries here, so he essentially just followed their lead. He set up his cart nearby, not necessarily among friends, but among familiar faces who reinforce that subtle, comforting sense of regional unity and fraternity that’s vital for migrants in a huge city like Mumbai. His decision paid off, and he's doing better now than he ever did in those years of shifting from one job to another.

His sense of humour and warmth with customers reflect the relationships he has built over six years in Dharavi, a place that has allowed him to earn a steady living and offered the support of familiar people, embracing him so completely that he doesn't intend to move out anytime soon.

Written by urbz co-founders Matias Echanove and Rahul Srivastava, the book makes the case for a radically new path to urban development based on collective initiative, local knowledge and use value. It reframes the city as a place where people are creators of their habitats and agents of their own evolution. Rather than offering a list of wishes for how the city ought to be, Rahul and Matias base their vision on years of work in some of the most complex and diverse urban environments on the planet. 

Their collaboration began in 2008 in Dharavi, a large settlement in the heart of Mumbai, India. This neighbourhood was developed by its inhabitants without architects, engineers or planners, against all odds. It was here that Matias, Rahul and their colleagues shaped urbz’s unique approach—one that places residents at the center of the process and actively supports local initiatives. 

The 240-page book is published by Verso in London, a publishing house known for its engagement for social justice and progressive collection, which includes such classics as David Harvey’s Rebel Cities and Mike Davis’ City of Quartz. The Homegrown City has received endorsements from Amitav Ghosh, Susan Fainstein, Neil Brenner and Arjun Appadurai.

The book will be officially released in January 2026 and it is currently available for pre-order worldwide in paper and digital formats. A series of book launches and presentations will be held in Paris, Mumbai and London in the first semester 2026. Pre-order now on Verso!

We met Mohammad Irfan Alam, aka Irfan Bhai, while on a hunt for a leather artisan for an urgent project deadline. Most of the time, you find the Diamond in the rough, especially in Dharavi. He never finished school and only studied until the eighth grade. Books didn’t feel right. “I wanted to do something,” he says. So he came to Mumbai from Bihar and to Dharavi, the city’s humming heart of work. “Whoever wants to work gets work, here in Dharavi.” 

“In Dharavi, whoever wants to work gets work” 

He is thirty now, but he began working in the leather industry at twenty, learning in playful moments from his elder brother, who worked in a workshop nearby. Irfan watched, learned, and slowly found his interest.

Inside the workshop, four men, Irfan, Khurshid, Danish, and Saddam, live, work, eat, and argue within a few square feet of space. Their beds and machines share the same floor, a tiffin service delivers lunch and dinner, and Wi-Fi delivers the rest. They start around ten in the morning, and work takes them late into the night. When asked why all of them have the surname Alam, Irfan bursts into laughter. “Everyone likes to put Mohammad and Alam! Makes us sound respectable!”

A few days of the week, Irfan becomes Masterji Irfan at the FAB Academy of Fashion. Helping fashion design students work with leather. The story of how he ended up there is a coincidental one. The design program head was wandering through Dharavi one day, and she stumbled upon his workshop and found him, just like that!

He likes it there, the respect, the structure, the quiet acknowledgement that his skill means something. He tells me there’s another Masterji who earns one lakh a month. “I look up to him and have also befriended him,” he says. Back at the workshop, Irfan is the one everyone looks up to and asks for his advice.

“Jyadatar mithi zubaan hai sabki idhar (everyone speaks nicely to each other in Dharavi)”, he says in Hindi. There are many fights, sure, but they get solved. “Sab apne gaav ke hai (Everyone here is from our village)”. Even the owner of the workshop is from Bihar. The neighbours know each other's names. In moments of crisis, the whole neighbourhood will stand together. 

Every few months, Irfan goes back to his village in Seetamandi, Patna, Bihar. He’s not married yet, so he uses his time to travel. Bengal, Kashmir, wherever the train takes him. “If Irfan were married,” his friend Saddam jokes, “he’d be travelling with his wife, not with us!”

He talks about real leather with reverence. He refuses to work with artificial leather materials. “Rexine is fake, it is made fast and also dies fast. Real leather lives longer and takes relatively more time to make. It ages well, too. Sometimes, what we make today becomes someone’s heirloom.” 

“Rexine is fake, it is made fast and also dies fast. Real leather lives longer and takes relatively more time to make. It ages well, too. Sometimes, what we make today becomes someone’s heirloom.” 

Once, the tanneries used to be here in Dharavi itself, he tells me. Now the hides come from Chennai, but the rhythm continues. In a world sprinting towards convenience, Irfan and his colleagues persistently and efficiently add value to the craft of making by hand, a gentle reminder that the best things sometimes take a little more time!

The Handstorm workshop in Dharavi, with the Engineers for Social Impact from NYU, Abu Dhabi took place for the second time this year in October, 2025. The soon-to-be engineers embarked on a week-long journey to understand the way water flows through Dharavi Koliwada. 

The urban indigenous fishing village of Dharavi has a complex relationship with water, which takes on different meanings ranging from the spiritual, the providential and the domestic. While the Kolis worship the waters around them and possess a deep ecological understanding of the estuarine landscape, their current struggle is to deal with the waters that circulate to and from their homes in an intertwined network of pipes and drains. 

"One very special way in which the dual nature of water shows is water’s ability to purify as well as to clean. Water communicates its purity by touching or waking the substance of a thing and it cleans by washing dirt from its surface" - Ivan Illich, H20 and the Waters of Forgetfulness

Illich asks us to make the distinction between water that is used to purify and water that is used to clean and goes on to explore the symbolic functions of the ability of water to clean “what sticks to people, to their clothes or their streets.” 

We conducted a practical exploration of these very waters. Students diligently followed the water, listening carefully to the stories it had to tell.

Over a week, we walked through the lanes of Dharavi Koliwada, observing Water in the diverse and unexpected paths that it took to and from people’s homes. From dripping taps, condensation from AC units, detergent-laden water used to wash clothes and vessels on the street, water burdened with sewage and other plastic waste, mysterious sources of water that trickled out of buildings and water that seeped out of the reclaimed marshy ground beneath our feet. 

They say all living things are 70% water. This couldn’t be truer for Dharavi Koliwada. The indigenous fishing village that was once embedded in a watery landscape is now straitjacketed in a network of pipes and drains, with no room to manoeuvre without rupture. We have been working on the ABCD of Koliwada, a project that includes the development of an alternative water infrastructure system to replace the existing one. The alternative system that urbz is working on needs to be mindful of the fabric of Koliwada, the typology of its street network and its surface and sub-surface hydrology. Moreover, it needs to seamlessly transition from the existing infrastructure without disrupting the rhythm of daily life - to which water is central. 

We have been documenting existing water networks, for which we rely on the resident Koli population to help us understand and unravel. During our walks with the students, we met friends from Koliwada who enlightened us on the water infrastructure flowing beside or under us, sharing anecdotes from the past and concerns about the present. This community participation helped build a picture of the ad hoc infrastructure that quenched and cleaned Koliwada. 

To convey a broader urban narrative to the students, we needed to position this evolving picture within the landscape of the Mithi River system that neighbours Dharavi Koliwada. The Mithi River is a product of a manufactured urban landscape and has been gradually transformed into a giant sewer that transports soiled waters into the Sea. We took students into the Mithi to see the man-made fishing ponds of the Kolis. Protected by mangroves and manual labour, the ponds help to maintain their link to traditional livelihood and identity. Here, the students got to witness another relationship with Water, one more primal and unmediated by civic infrastructures, but shaped by collective effort, traditions and ritual. 

The students made their observations by scanning, mapping and investigating the ways in which Water used for cleaning and ablutions exits the neighborhood, most of which makes its way to the Mithi. 

A meeting with the Dharavi Koli Jamat helped the group focus their attention on a smaller but relevant need that they could address without buy-in and investment from the municipality - a solution for the crumbling pedestrian infrastructure. The paths through the village are essentially all pedestrian and inseparable from the network of pipes and drains. Many drains also function as footpaths.

In the coming months the students will be putting together an open source collaborative mapping workflow for our team to use, we will also be working with them to come up with paving solutions that are affordable, easy to put together and dismantle - keeping in mind the changing water infrastructures beneath, strong enough to take the load of the occasional two wheeler and most importantly permeable to flows of rain and marshy groundwater. A tall order from the Dharavi Koli Jamat but nothing that the engineering students from NYUAD can't handle! 

Ravi’s story is deeply rooted in the dynamic landscape of Dharavi, one of Mumbai’s most densely populated and economically vibrant informal settlements. Originally from Ratnagiri, a coastal town in Maharashtra, Ravi moved to Dharavi in 1995 due to financial constraints. His father, who had found work in Mumbai as a painter, had already begun establishing a foothold in the city. Ravi followed in his footsteps, driven by necessity and the pursuit of economic stability.

Upon arriving in Dharavi, Ravi began working in the screen-printing industry, initially making frames and designs for textile printing. Over the years, this skill became both his livelihood and passion. With more than 30 years of experience in this field, Ravi has since established his own business, which he has been running for the past decade. His work is not only technical but deeply creative. He designs and constructs the frames used in screen printing, adapting them to the specific preferences of his customers. Much of this work is done manually, requiring a meticulous and practiced hand. Ravi demonstrated this process, laying a frame on a light table that projects the design onto a mesh surface, a technique central to the production of printed textiles like T-shirts and pants. 

Much of the material Ravi works with comes from different corners of Mumbai, particularly Kalina Nagar. Essential items such as the CS5 chemical, gum, mesh, and locally-sourced wood make up the bulk of his supplies. His studio in Dharavi remains the core of his operations, even though he now resides in Diva, a small town adjacent to Mumbai, following a family dispute that led him to leave the small room his father had left for him and his brother.

Despite a daily two-hour commute involving both bus and local train, Ravi remains deeply connected to Dharavi. As he puts it, “To be very honest, no one can leave Dharavi. It is impossible for people to leave this space.” For him, Dharavi is more than just a place of work; it is a support system. It offers the environment, resources, and networks essential for the smooth functioning and growth of his business. His studio, for which he pays a monthly rent of ₹9,000 excluding electricity charges, is strategically located amidst the bustling informal economy of Dharavi. This ecosystem, shaped over decades, has allowed micro-entrepreneurs like Ravi to flourish.

However, Ravi also expressed concerns regarding the proposed redevelopment of Dharavi. While he acknowledges the potential for improved infrastructure, he fears that such changes may disrupt the existing economic structure. According to him, “redevelopment may be a good initiative, but it is uncertain whether local businesses like mine will survive in the aftermath.” He predicts that large-scale unemployment could follow if the organic networks of informal labour and production are dismantled.

Ravi also reflected on Dharavi’s resilience, particularly during the COVID-19 pandemic. Despite the high population density, Dharavi reported remarkably low case numbers and demonstrated a collective strength that surpassed many expectations. This, he believes, is a testament to the strong social fabric and communal solidarity that defines the area. People from various castes and religious communities cohabit and work together harmoniously, something Ravi values deeply and sees as central to Dharavi’s identity.

Outside his professional life, Ravi is a family man. He has two children, both of whom have completed high school and are now preparing for higher education. His aspirations for their future mirror his own journey, rooted in hard work, resilience, and hope for better opportunities.

Ravi’s life stands as a compelling narrative of survival and creativity within urban settlements. His story sheds light on the critical importance of acknowledging and preserving the socio-economic ecosystems in places like Dharavi, especially in the face of top-down redevelopment agendas.

On a narrow staircase of Dharavi, Samsuddin climbs to the first floor of a modest house, where his small printmaking studio hums with purpose. The air carries the faint scent of ink and fabric, and the rhythmic whir of a heat gun punctuates the day. Here, Samsuddin crafts t-shirts, shirts and pants adorned with logos and artwork, his hands moving with the ease of someone who has mastered the intricacies of a densely interconnected environment. Day or night, the studio is alive when orders come in, and for Samsuddin, that's precisely how he likes it.

He can print up to 20 shirts in one go, each batch taking about 30 minutes to print and dry. The pace is brisk, but it's what ensures every order, whether a handful or thousands, everything gets delivered on time. "It all depends on the orders," he says steadily. Some nights, work stretches past midnight, yet he never complains. For Samsuddin, this isn't just a job; it's freedom. "I love this work more than a stable job," he explains. "No restrictions. I can come and go whenever I want." That flexibility is his edge, drawing clients who value his speed and reliability. Most of his orders come from Badlapur and Panvel, which are located in the outer suburbs of Mumbai, especially schools needing uniforms. One order stood out: it came from his own village in Unnao district of Uttar Pradesh. "I was so surprised and happy," he says, his eyes lighting up at the memory. It felt like a small piece of home had found him in Dharavi.

Samsuddin doesn't have permanent employees, but when big orders roll in, sometimes 1,000 to 2,000 t-shirts, he hires help to keep up. The studio, though small, is a hub of efficiency, with every corner used with purpose. But it comes at a cost. The rent, a steep 9,000 rupees a month, including the power bill, is a constant weight, whether business booms or slows. Still, Samsuddin shrugs it off. "That's just how it is," he says, his pragmatism as steady as his work ethic.

He arrived in Dharavi in 1995, leaving behind Unnao district in Uttar Pradesh. Samsuddin's journey into printmaking began with his Mamu, his mother's brother, who first guided him through the narrow lanes of Sangham Galli in Dharavi. It was there, in 1995, that he took his first steps in this trade, learning the art of transforming plain fabric into something bold and personal. "I don't know why I chose this," he says with a faint chuckle, "but I'm glad Mamu showed me the way." Back then, his first job paid just 700 rupees a month, with 400 going to food alone. "It was tough," he recalls, but he smiles when discussing Dharavi's past. "It was beautiful back then, especially Kalakilla and the leather market," he says. Life wasn't easy, though; long water lines were a daily struggle. Still, he found his way into printmaking, though he's unsure how. "I don't know how I started, but I'm happy I did," he says with a quiet laugh.

He lives in Dharavi now, just a short walk from his workshop, in a home where his children are growing up. All of them attend local schools, and one daughter is carving her own path, studying design, a spark of creativity that makes Samsuddin's eyes light up. "She's learning to make things beautiful, like me," he says proudly.

When asked about redevelopment, he pauses. "Yes, we want development," he says, "but not by pushing people out. That's wrong." He believes in improving Dharavi while keeping its heart and its people intact.

From Sangamgalli to his studio's perch, he's woven himself into the fabric of this place. Perched above the street, his studio is a testament to the hustle that defines this place. It's not about grand plans or polished spaces; it's about getting things done, one t-shirt at a time. And in the hum of his heat gun and the stack of freshly printed shirts, Samsuddin adds his own thread to the intricate fabric of Dharavi.

Satish Dalvi, a man in his late 30s, is a second-generation resident of Dharavi, where he was born and raised. His grandfather migrated to this urban enclave from the rural edges of Maharashtra, seeking better opportunities, and since then, Dharavi has been the heart of Satish’s world. His life reflects the resilience and challenges in Dharavi.

For years, Satish has been working as a caregiver for ill elderly residents in Vasai and Virar, suburbs far from his home. His daily commute is exhausting, marked by overcrowded trains that test his endurance. Packed tightly among countless commuters, Satish’s journey underscores the physical and emotional toll of earning a livelihood in a city that never slows down. Yet, he persists, driven by necessity and a commitment to supporting his modest household. 

Satish’s role as a non-certified nurse and caregiver was not his first choice. Opportunities for work that aligned with personal aspirations for Satish were scarce. With few local options, Satish turned to caregiving, a demanding job that allows him to maintain his modest home in Dharavi, a small but dignified space that stands as a testament to his hard-earned stability.

In his younger years, as a high school student, Satish worked in sanitation across Dharavi, Chembur, and Ghatkopar. As a member of the Scheduled Caste, he secured this job through a poignant gesture, pointing a finger upward, a symbol associated with Dr B.R. Ambedkar. This gesture served as a quiet but unmistakable signal to the supervisor, indicating Satish’s caste identity. This act resonated deeply, as 98% of India’s menial sanitation workers belong to Scheduled Castes, where such roles are an unspoken reservation. However, the job soon turned into manual scavenging, a dangerous and degrading practice that posed severe risks to his health and safety, forcing Satish to leave.

Satish is a passionate activist, deeply vocal about issues affecting his community. His activism extends to challenging superstitious practices, inspired by the legacies of Govind Pansare and Narendra Dabholkar, rationalist thinkers who were tragically killed for their beliefs. Satish firmly believes that, though their lives were cut short, their ideas remain untouched and will continue to flourish, inspiring him to speak out for justice and reason.

Despite the hardships, Satish finds joy in the simple rhythms of Dharavi. His favorite pastime is strolling through its lively lanes in the evenings, a ritual that allows him to unwind and connect with the pulse of his community. For Satish Dalvi, Dharavi is a home where his family’s history, his activism, and his resilience converge, shaping a life of purpose amidst the challenges of everyday existence.