From a purely legal standpoint, a slum demolition is a routine legal exercise to reclaim public land. But on the ground, away from municipal offices and courtrooms, the reality looks vastly different. On the ground, it looks like a humanitarian crisis. When bulldozers tore through Kaula Bander on Mumbai’s eastern water front, they didn't just clear "unauthorized structures", they dismantled the lives of hundreds of children. Legally, the state may have the right to clear the land. But humanitarily, we must confront the cost. To understand the true emotional and physical toll of displacement, following is what the children have to say regarding the displacement.
Siblings (Aged 10 and 14): Dreams Buried Under the Debris
Before the bulldozers arrived, this brother and sister had their days anchored by school routines, the learning centre into the community, and big aspirations of wanting to be a cricketer and a doctor. The demolition has removed this stability from their lives. Beginning in the middle of the night, at 3:30 AM, authorities arrived, loudly banging on doors withdandas (wooden sticks) and trapping families behind barricades.
"They came in the middle of the night, shouting and hitting the doors," the 14-year-old girl recalls. "They trapped us inside a barricade and told us to get our things out. They weren't supposed to start breaking things until 10:30 AM, but the machines started tearing everything down by 7:15 AM. We were forced to stand outside in the blazing, blinding sun all day until 4:00 PM, watching our houses get crushed while the officials sat nearby eating their lunch."
The emotional fallout was worsened by political betrayal and community taunts, forcing the children to seek psychological escape just to cope.
"None of my friends talk about what happened," the 10-year-old boy says softly, playing cricket amidst the ruins. "If we talk about it, we just get more stressed. So we just play and try to forget. We tell ourselves this is just our life now, and maybe our parents will find a house somewhere."
Yet, the daily reality of homelessness is impossible to ignore, stripping them of basic human dignity.
"We can't even bathe properly and have to use a neighbor's tiny space," the sister shares. "Friends are here today, but they won't be tomorrow. In the end, I will have to face this alone. My family is my only support."
Economically, the family of five is completely paralysed. Their father, a welder, has been unable to go to work since May 12th out of sheer panic that their remaining belongings will be cleared or that they will face forced eviction. As the community widely says:"Agar ghar hoga, toh kaam hoga"(If there is a house, only then can there be work). They now survive entirely on food handouts from localsansthas(NGOs).
This economic strain is forcing a painful educational displacement. If they cannot rebuild, the family must fracture and relocate to a relative's home in Mira Road. Though the children bravely say they "will have to adjust," it means abandoning their schools, their friends, and the vital support networks that kept their dreams alive.
Two Girls (Aged 9 and 12): "Jo Ho Gaya, Ho Gaya"
Before the demolition, the 12-year-old had lived in the community her entire childhood, and the 9-year-old had called it home for five years. Like the siblings, their days were built around school and sessions at an NGO’s learning center. That ended at 3:30 AM, when officials arrived unannounced and the breaking began immediately, with no warning and no time.
"They told us to get out but didn't let us take anything," the 12-year-old recalls. "Our bags, our clothes, our school things, everything got buried inside the rubble. When we asked why, they just said, “What's done is done."
Half their belongings remain entombed beneath the debris. The physical loss is staggering, but what the demolition also dismantled is the social world both girls had built over years. The 12-year-old, who once counted ten friends in the neighborhood, now counts just three.
"Most of my friends have gone," she says. "There are only three of us left now." For the 9-year-old, who used to attend school in Bandra, the uncertainty of what comes next is the most disorienting loss. With her family weighing whether to find a room nearby, move to relatives, or return entirely to their village in UP, she does not know whether she will see her school or her friends again when the new term begins in June.
"We'll go, we'll just go," she says, with the quiet resignation of a child who has learned not to count on things staying in place.
Their mothers carry the grief differently. When the 12-year-old turned to hers for answers after the demolition, what she received was not comfort but instruction: the room is gone, she was told, so send your curses to the police. The word her mother used “baddua”, an ill-wish, a prayer of misfortune upon those who wronged you, may be the only power left to a family with nothing else. It is not bitter for its own sake. It is grief in the only language strong enough to hold it.
Understanding the Challenges Faced by Children After Slum Demolitions in Mumbai
by Sameer Ahmad
Jun 8
From a purely legal standpoint, a slum demolition is a routine legal exercise to reclaim public land. But on the ground, away from municipal offices and courtrooms, the reality looks vastly different. On the ground, it looks like a humanitarian crisis. When bulldozers tore through Kaula Bander on Mumbai’s eastern water front, they didn't just clear "unauthorized structures", they dismantled the lives of hundreds of children. Legally, the state may have the right to clear the land. But humanitarily, we must confront the cost. To understand the true emotional and physical toll of displacement, following is what the children have to say regarding the displacement.
Before the bulldozers arrived, this brother and sister had their days anchored by school routines, the learning centre into the community, and big aspirations of wanting to be a cricketer and a doctor. The demolition has removed this stability from their lives. Beginning in the middle of the night, at 3:30 AM, authorities arrived, loudly banging on doors with dandas (wooden sticks) and trapping families behind barricades.
"They came in the middle of the night, shouting and hitting the doors," the 14-year-old girl recalls. "They trapped us inside a barricade and told us to get our things out. They weren't supposed to start breaking things until 10:30 AM, but the machines started tearing everything down by 7:15 AM. We were forced to stand outside in the blazing, blinding sun all day until 4:00 PM, watching our houses get crushed while the officials sat nearby eating their lunch."
The emotional fallout was worsened by political betrayal and community taunts, forcing the children to seek psychological escape just to cope.
"None of my friends talk about what happened," the 10-year-old boy says softly, playing cricket amidst the ruins. "If we talk about it, we just get more stressed. So we just play and try to forget. We tell ourselves this is just our life now, and maybe our parents will find a house somewhere."
Yet, the daily reality of homelessness is impossible to ignore, stripping them of basic human dignity.
"We can't even bathe properly and have to use a neighbor's tiny space," the sister shares. "Friends are here today, but they won't be tomorrow. In the end, I will have to face this alone. My family is my only support."
Economically, the family of five is completely paralysed. Their father, a welder, has been unable to go to work since May 12th out of sheer panic that their remaining belongings will be cleared or that they will face forced eviction. As the community widely says: "Agar ghar hoga, toh kaam hoga" (If there is a house, only then can there be work). They now survive entirely on food handouts from local sansthas (NGOs).
This economic strain is forcing a painful educational displacement. If they cannot rebuild, the family must fracture and relocate to a relative's home in Mira Road. Though the children bravely say they "will have to adjust," it means abandoning their schools, their friends, and the vital support networks that kept their dreams alive.
Two Girls (Aged 9 and 12): "Jo Ho Gaya, Ho Gaya"
Before the demolition, the 12-year-old had lived in the community her entire childhood, and the 9-year-old had called it home for five years. Like the siblings, their days were built around school and sessions at an NGO’s learning center. That ended at 3:30 AM, when officials arrived unannounced and the breaking began immediately, with no warning and no time.
"They told us to get out but didn't let us take anything," the 12-year-old recalls. "Our bags, our clothes, our school things, everything got buried inside the rubble. When we asked why, they just said, “What's done is done."
Half their belongings remain entombed beneath the debris. The physical loss is staggering, but what the demolition also dismantled is the social world both girls had built over years. The 12-year-old, who once counted ten friends in the neighborhood, now counts just three.
"Most of my friends have gone," she says. "There are only three of us left now." For the 9-year-old, who used to attend school in Bandra, the uncertainty of what comes next is the most disorienting loss. With her family weighing whether to find a room nearby, move to relatives, or return entirely to their village in UP, she does not know whether she will see her school or her friends again when the new term begins in June.
"We'll go, we'll just go," she says, with the quiet resignation of a child who has learned not to count on things staying in place.
Their mothers carry the grief differently. When the 12-year-old turned to hers for answers after the demolition, what she received was not comfort but instruction: the room is gone, she was told, so send your curses to the police. The word her mother used “baddua”, an ill-wish, a prayer of misfortune upon those who wronged you, may be the only power left to a family with nothing else. It is not bitter for its own sake. It is grief in the only language strong enough to hold it.