It was high noon. In the middle of a sea of squalor where human labour was being extracted in terribly inhuman conditions a particular frame left a telling impression. A few years ago, this journalist, curious to get a sense of the sudden buzz around slum tourism (centred on Dharavi, naturally), had signed up to be a part of one such group. The pre-decided route seemed to be a well orchestrated and tailor-made advert for ‘poor India’ to sway fellow European group members (prelude to pre-Slumdog Millionaire-scripted days), to loosen their purse strings through donations. Still, it was easy to spot the countless sights and sounds beyond, as we made our way through lanes where sunlight never touched the ground, and smiling kids (our trigger-happy folk lapped up such moments) seemed oblivious to their harsh environs.