Mani Mistry

Mani Mistry is the only person who breaks down while telling me her tale. Hers is a riches-to-rags story. From a comfortable life, she has been reduced to a hand-to-mouth existence. In her sixties and plagued by health problems, she makes do by making things at home and selling them door-to-door. Her husband has been reduced to a shadow of his former self after a paralytic stroke. Her siblings who were supporting her family refused to do so after her son dropped out of school. Her married daughter just about manages to look after her family, and can’t contribute much. Her son earns 3000 a month and they just manage to get by. Their house deceives their hardships. A subsidised new flat in the Parsi housing complex at Lullanagar, a fridge, a phone, a geyser gifted by relatives. But a closer examination reveals badly-torn mattresses, old furniture and clothes stored in bags and suitcases.

Banoo Thanawalla stands on the balcony of her home on Sachapir Street