55 Days in Dharavi

About the Book

The hands struck 12 and the 55th and final day had come. The boy knew it was time to go. He wished all 34 families he had studied farewell. The lives of poor in the face of a pandemic was an essential story in the pages of history, he promised to an especially skeptical family. He glanced it at his watch. 12:20 PM. The flight was only 4 hours to go. The boy rapidly paced through the cracked pavements of Dharavi, in desperate search for an exit. And there he found a curious sight: the girl made no sound, but the sight said enough. Her 7-year old hand skillfully graced the pages of a blue pad, as books surrounded her on all sides. This was the sight he had sought the last 55 days. Her pencil tip was old and gray from overuse, and she had no eraser. "Here," said the boy, throwing her one of his. As he moved closer to the girl, black eyes stared from the back door. This girl was the boy's ticket to the poor, but his real ticket sat crushed in his black coat. He unfolded it and glanced at the departure time: "3:45". His watch said it was too late. The hands struck 4. The boy was not returning to America.

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