Ordering a coke with ice in a Nairobi cafe had been a costly mistake. Several days of intestinal distress left me weak and dizzy when my plane landed in Mumbai. On the trip, a fellow passenger told me “India will either make you spiritual, or make you incredibly angry.” I was ready to get spiritual.

In the terminal, I was instantly mobbed by beggars. Some had leprosy, others had cleanly amputated limbs. I later learned that some Indian doctors will amputate healthy limbs in exchange for a percentage of the beggar’s take. Especially heart-wrenching to see mothers holding babies with multiple amputations.

Outside, I threw my backpack into bicycle rickshaw and climbed in. The sinewy driver pedaled hard for an hour in the hot sun to get me across the city to my hotel. He told me he was 24, but hard labor had aged him – he looked 40. When we arrived, he carried my bag inside, then asked me for 100 rupies (6¢) for his hour’s hard labor.

A housekeeper, maybe 45,  was cleaning my room when I arrived.

Are you from Mumbai? I asked her.

“Oh, yes, my family lives just there.” She pointed out the window. The slum went on for miles. Later I learned it was one of the biggest in the world.

Do you have children?

“Alive, or dead?” she asked.

Um, both, I guess.

“I have six living children. I believe I’ve had fifteen, in all. The others died from diarrhea. It’s so hard to get clean water here.”

What do people do about it?

“We try to boil it, but fuel is so expensive. Many people cannot afford it. Do you see that wall?”

She pointed to a long, brick wall, dotted with pancake-like blobs.

“Most people gather up their own waste, flatten it, and put it on the wall to dry. When dry, it burns well. Each pancake has the owner’s handprint on it. If someone is found taking another’s waste pancake, they will be beaten or killed.”

Killed over a pancake of poo?

“Oh, yes. If you take my fuel, my children will get sick. It is very serious. Ah. Your room is ready, sir. Enjoy your visit.”