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.