Life goes on in the starkest poverty

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“Rich people fight about stupid things,” says slum resident Rambha Jha. “Why shouldn’t poor people do the same?” In Katherine Boo’s non-fiction account of almost four years in a Mumbai slum, those poor people are given the time and attention journalists normally reserve for politicians, plutocrats and celebrities.

The result is an extraordinary, intimate and gripping book, which it is no exaggeration to describe as a milestone in writing about poverty, and already one of this year’s most memorable reads. But for those living in Annawadi, an encampment of scavengers, prostitutes and thieves set around a lake of sewage opposite Mumbai’s gleaming international airport, this is just life.

Conscious of how Annawadi’s squalor would look to well-heeled arrivals, the airport planners build a wall to block the view. It is covered in adverts for Italianate floor tiles: BEAUTIFUL FOREVER BEAUTIFUL FOREVER BEAUTIFUL FOREVER. Behind these, Annawadi’s inhabitants sift rubbish for saleable commodities, sniff solvents, and eat (and are eaten by) rats.

The grimness may be expected; the warmth and humour less so. Scavenger boy Kalu acts out films the other children cannot afford to see, one minute being Bruce Lee, the next Bollywood star Deepika Padukone. “Only she can pull off those old-style outfits!” he declares, sashaying around. Slumlord Robert paints his “poke-bone, yellow-hide” horses with Garnier Nutrisse hair dye to look like zebras, so he can rent them out for middle-class children’s parties.

Half a million people a year travel to Mumbai in search of work. Many end up in slums such as Annawadi. Meanwhile, Boo notes, the wealth of the 100 richest Indians equals nearly one-quarter of the country’s GDP. Shockwaves from the same international events which touch the lives of those 100 reverberate loudly in the slum. The 2008 terrorist attacks on Mumbai stem the flow of tourists who create much of the refuse the scavengers sell, and the financial crisis dents prices: “A kilo of empty water bottles once worth 25 rupees was now worth 10.” But local events concern Annawadians more: police extortion, corruption, and the burning of a one-legged woman.

Boo’s seamlessly structured narrative allows these stories to unfold alongside the personal dramas of the characters. Her tone is admirably restrained, and never patronising or mawkish. There are no Slumdog Millionaires here; no sugar-sweet, wide-eyed naïfs packaged for the approval of foreign audiences. Among many vivid characters, aspiring slumlord Asha Waghekar stands out. Imagine Vito Corleone as a 40-year-old kindergarten teacher in a pink housedress, and you’re close.

Though it is evident that Boo’s documentary research has been as exhaustive as her interviews, she wears it lightly. Some readers may feel this as a want of context but there is no shortage of thumping sociological and economic tomes on modern India. The close focus of Behind the Beautiful Forevers is what gives it its clarity, and makes it so affecting.

Boo’s book was published in India a few months ago. One noteworthy review came from Manju Waghekar, Asha’s daughter.

“I have read the book, and I liked it even though it made me cry,” she told journalists. “What she has written is what I am.” India has seen something of a boom in nonfiction lately, which is just as well. If a nation of a billion people also has a billion stories, readers captivated by this book will want many, many more.

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