No comparison with Indian economy!
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Shabaz Sharif
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India is world famous for slums, no need to remind me again. Nominal GDP per capita, there is hardly any difference now thanks to Indian rupee tanking.
Pakistan GDP was $252 billion, per capita around $1350-1400.
karan.1970
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Get the data dude and not talk anecdotal.. world bank is a good site to look at... Same with slums.. Dont go by news highlights.. Check the numbers..
btw, have you seen Paksitani rupee value? Has it touched 110 yet ?
Shabaz Sharif
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Yes i get the data and i know the ground realities. To suggest Pakistani cities have slums anywhere near comparable to Indian cities is hilarious. World Bank data also showed Pakistan GDP growth rate is now higher then India. Yep war torn country is doing better then supa powa.
karan.1970
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Again.. Get the data and stop talking subjectively. Get the numbers for current per Capital GDP, % Urban population in Slums and Human Development index for both countries. And then lets compare
Shabaz Sharif
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Its the only way Indians can feel better, hence inferiorty complex against Pakistanis.
Shabaz Sharif
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Again.. Get the data and stop talking subjectively. Get the numbers for current per Capital GDP, % Urban population in Slums and Human Development index for both countries. And then lets compare
There is hardly any India like slums in pakistaní cities let alone on the scale of India. Thats what Indian journalists have written after visiting Pakistan.
Shabaz Sharif
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Orangi town, aka slum of Pakistan is better then half of India. One need to actually compare these slums instead just saying hey look Pakistan also have slums.
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It's unfair to compare India to first world nations.
But Indo-Pak comparison? Why not... If you account for size differences then valid comparisons can be made.
Say what you will, but in terms of economy. This last decade sent them flying ahead.
Whereas we have experienced the most bitter economic climate in our existence.
Pakistanis need to wake up, enough with the damned excuses.
karan.1970
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Shabaz Sharif
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Orangi versus Dharavi
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Farzana Versey
He parted the dull grey curtain with a flowery print. Inside, a group of men of all shapes, sizes and ages, shuffled as images of entwined couples moaning flickered on a bulbous old TV screen. The moment some light slithered into the room, it was startled eyes and hands akimbo, almost in a cease-fire pose. I wanted to laugh, but Muthaiah motioned them not to bother about me. I wasn't a cop. Cops too visited, watched the show and extracted money from them.
In the 90s, video parlours that showed blue films were big business. Muthaiah was the entrepreneur of Dharavi, a hero-villain. It was easy for him; he was once a henchman of Don Varadarajan. His parents had moved here from a village in South India decades ago when the place had developed from marshland to tenements that began to spread like a gathering storm. His father had left them after producing three children. By the time he could walk, talk and demand cheap plastic toys, he had to become a man to fend for the family. His first job was with a bootlegger. "I was good and cheated my boss, that's why I got to join the gang."
If a metaphor for Dharavi is needed, it would be found in his persona – poverty, spunk, drama, power, fear and a hierarchy that makes sure that poverty is not a leveller.
Soon enough, one-storey houses had an extra floor, like a pack of cards and just as precarious. The airless rooms were reached with a ladder placed inside. These illegal constructions had the blessings of slum lords who collected hafta every month.
I sat with Farhat bi in a room lit by a naked bulb even in the afternoon. Her husband worked as a junior artiste in films. He was at home. "Kaam nahin mila," he said as he brushed his teeth with a twig. Farhat was a seamstress. Her clients were from lower middle-class homes outside the Dharavi belt. As the machine creaked, she recounted her life story, brief and yet telling. "Bachchon ke liye sochna padta hai. Lekin yahaan koi danga-fasaad nahin hota."
There is no place for communal disparities. In fact, what the residents worry about are do-gooders. When I cornered Satish, who carried a cycle repair kit, his first question was: "Woh didi waali tau nahin hai?" We went into a tea shop and sat on a rickety bench. "Aye, kya bolti tu?" was the song that captured the Bambaiyya patois and bravado; it seemed like an anthem here. It played at full volume. Satish ordered kadak chai and bun maska. He asked for a thanda for me, imagining I'd prefer a bottled drink. I would, but he wanted to have an upper hand. Dharavi is about such arrogance. I chose tea. He slurped it from the saucer and queried, "Tu kya karti idhar?" I was amused by his comfort with lack of respect in addressing a person much older than him.
Child labour; I was writing about it. He was disgusted. "Kaam nahin karega tau peit kaisa bharega? Bada ho ke sab ko karneka, tau abhi se ich shtart kar liya. Taim nahin." He seemed busy. I went to the tanneries and found young boys surrounded by the smell of burning animal hide. Furniture factories showed similar scenes. Hands were calloused with age as faces retained a frayed innocence.
Their creations are displayed in fancy stores and they don't know about it. Recently, I drove past the area. It was late in the evening and bright tubelights hid the ***** of illicit liquor made in greasy drums as gutter water seeped in and used batteries added the extra zing to nasha. What shone were bags and antique chairs through glass fronted shops that had names like Enigma. Today, it is as fashionable as distressed jeans, the slits deliberate.
Dharavi has now lost out to Karachi's Orangi as the largest slum in Asia.
Orangi has always had 'town' suffixed to its name. It has neat divisions and is surrounded by areas that might be quite similar, like Gulshan-e-Iqbal or Gulberg. There is a bond of demand and supply. Orangi supplies labour, space and a cosmopolitanism similar to Dharavi. It is essentially mohajir dominated, the dregs of Karachi finding place here. But Pathans too came in, partly as a result of the needs of a city that required gun protection and a poppy high.
It was the push of poverty that made the residents enhancers of their own destiny. The town status was granted only in 2001. It has resulted in several development measures and, therefore, lacks the canniness of dirty streets. Vazir Ali's family had moved to Nazimabad after partition and brought along their leather business. "Small-scale," he said. His workshop is in Orangi. "It is expensive in the main areas and I only manufacture so it does not matter." His products won't have a 'Made in Orangi' label, though.
It appears like lower middle class chawl areas in Mumbai. Perhaps because it does not have a history as long as Dharavi, which is a century old and has reinvented itself to the lowest depths till it became a celebrity. Travel operators run a 'real Bombay' tour to show how people here live and work.
Orangi might not fall for this. It is a hidden township surrounded by respectability; even the little boys scurrying with tea seem to defer to your presence. I asked a woman for directions. She gave it impassively. There is an acceptance and you don't see much status variations. Conversation is difficult, unless you want to buy something. I opted for pirated CDs. The young man would not tell me his name. He refused to acknowledge my Urdu and spoke in broken English. He recognised a tourist from afar. "Software?" He had all possible software available. And music, the covers garish, plenty from Hindi films. "Any qawwali?" I asked. He shook his head. "Not selling."
Elsewhere, close to a small shrine, they do sell qawwali and Sufi music. Strings of flowers smother other smells. Orangi needs a camouflage to justify itself as a Karachi township.
Dharavi hits you in the face as you drive to the east part of Mumbai, the greenery stinking of turd dropped in malnourished pellets. It isn't Danny Boyle's chocolate soufflé version.
The writer is a Mumbai-based columnist and author of A Journey Interrupted: Being Indian in Pakistan. Email: kaaghaz. kalam***********
Source: http://www.defence.pk/forums/economy-development/33359-slums-south-asia-3.html#ixzz2gVRc77uV
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Farzana Versey
He parted the dull grey curtain with a flowery print. Inside, a group of men of all shapes, sizes and ages, shuffled as images of entwined couples moaning flickered on a bulbous old TV screen. The moment some light slithered into the room, it was startled eyes and hands akimbo, almost in a cease-fire pose. I wanted to laugh, but Muthaiah motioned them not to bother about me. I wasn't a cop. Cops too visited, watched the show and extracted money from them.
In the 90s, video parlours that showed blue films were big business. Muthaiah was the entrepreneur of Dharavi, a hero-villain. It was easy for him; he was once a henchman of Don Varadarajan. His parents had moved here from a village in South India decades ago when the place had developed from marshland to tenements that began to spread like a gathering storm. His father had left them after producing three children. By the time he could walk, talk and demand cheap plastic toys, he had to become a man to fend for the family. His first job was with a bootlegger. "I was good and cheated my boss, that's why I got to join the gang."
If a metaphor for Dharavi is needed, it would be found in his persona – poverty, spunk, drama, power, fear and a hierarchy that makes sure that poverty is not a leveller.
Soon enough, one-storey houses had an extra floor, like a pack of cards and just as precarious. The airless rooms were reached with a ladder placed inside. These illegal constructions had the blessings of slum lords who collected hafta every month.
I sat with Farhat bi in a room lit by a naked bulb even in the afternoon. Her husband worked as a junior artiste in films. He was at home. "Kaam nahin mila," he said as he brushed his teeth with a twig. Farhat was a seamstress. Her clients were from lower middle-class homes outside the Dharavi belt. As the machine creaked, she recounted her life story, brief and yet telling. "Bachchon ke liye sochna padta hai. Lekin yahaan koi danga-fasaad nahin hota."
There is no place for communal disparities. In fact, what the residents worry about are do-gooders. When I cornered Satish, who carried a cycle repair kit, his first question was: "Woh didi waali tau nahin hai?" We went into a tea shop and sat on a rickety bench. "Aye, kya bolti tu?" was the song that captured the Bambaiyya patois and bravado; it seemed like an anthem here. It played at full volume. Satish ordered kadak chai and bun maska. He asked for a thanda for me, imagining I'd prefer a bottled drink. I would, but he wanted to have an upper hand. Dharavi is about such arrogance. I chose tea. He slurped it from the saucer and queried, "Tu kya karti idhar?" I was amused by his comfort with lack of respect in addressing a person much older than him.
Child labour; I was writing about it. He was disgusted. "Kaam nahin karega tau peit kaisa bharega? Bada ho ke sab ko karneka, tau abhi se ich shtart kar liya. Taim nahin." He seemed busy. I went to the tanneries and found young boys surrounded by the smell of burning animal hide. Furniture factories showed similar scenes. Hands were calloused with age as faces retained a frayed innocence.
Their creations are displayed in fancy stores and they don't know about it. Recently, I drove past the area. It was late in the evening and bright tubelights hid the ***** of illicit liquor made in greasy drums as gutter water seeped in and used batteries added the extra zing to nasha. What shone were bags and antique chairs through glass fronted shops that had names like Enigma. Today, it is as fashionable as distressed jeans, the slits deliberate.
Dharavi has now lost out to Karachi's Orangi as the largest slum in Asia.
Orangi has always had 'town' suffixed to its name. It has neat divisions and is surrounded by areas that might be quite similar, like Gulshan-e-Iqbal or Gulberg. There is a bond of demand and supply. Orangi supplies labour, space and a cosmopolitanism similar to Dharavi. It is essentially mohajir dominated, the dregs of Karachi finding place here. But Pathans too came in, partly as a result of the needs of a city that required gun protection and a poppy high.
It was the push of poverty that made the residents enhancers of their own destiny. The town status was granted only in 2001. It has resulted in several development measures and, therefore, lacks the canniness of dirty streets. Vazir Ali's family had moved to Nazimabad after partition and brought along their leather business. "Small-scale," he said. His workshop is in Orangi. "It is expensive in the main areas and I only manufacture so it does not matter." His products won't have a 'Made in Orangi' label, though.
It appears like lower middle class chawl areas in Mumbai. Perhaps because it does not have a history as long as Dharavi, which is a century old and has reinvented itself to the lowest depths till it became a celebrity. Travel operators run a 'real Bombay' tour to show how people here live and work.
Orangi might not fall for this. It is a hidden township surrounded by respectability; even the little boys scurrying with tea seem to defer to your presence. I asked a woman for directions. She gave it impassively. There is an acceptance and you don't see much status variations. Conversation is difficult, unless you want to buy something. I opted for pirated CDs. The young man would not tell me his name. He refused to acknowledge my Urdu and spoke in broken English. He recognised a tourist from afar. "Software?" He had all possible software available. And music, the covers garish, plenty from Hindi films. "Any qawwali?" I asked. He shook his head. "Not selling."
Elsewhere, close to a small shrine, they do sell qawwali and Sufi music. Strings of flowers smother other smells. Orangi needs a camouflage to justify itself as a Karachi township.
Dharavi hits you in the face as you drive to the east part of Mumbai, the greenery stinking of turd dropped in malnourished pellets. It isn't Danny Boyle's chocolate soufflé version.
The writer is a Mumbai-based columnist and author of A Journey Interrupted: Being Indian in Pakistan. Email: kaaghaz. kalam***********
Source: http://www.defence.pk/forums/economy-development/33359-slums-south-asia-3.html#ixzz2gVRc77uV
grey boy 2
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Perhaps the OP should change the thread title to "No comparison with Indian internet hoax" instead
India rising in US: Govt falls victim to net hoax - Times Of India
"Long live the BIGGEST INTERNET HOAX in internet history"
karan.1970
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Nuff said
4 years old article
here's some more updated data
% Urban population in slums
Pakistan - 48%
India - 35%
Working in slums in India - Homeless International
Slums and urban poverty in Pakistan - Homeless International
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