At times I forgot I was reading non-fiction and thought I was reading a dystopia: children subsist on the chemical high of white-out, living shacks are propped up with leaning bricks and scrap metal, goats’ bellies become bloated and blue by drinking acid run-off. This book opened up my eyes to the modern poverty and corruption of Mumbai. What I loved most about Boo's descriptions were her subjects, real people she had met and interviewed in Mumbai. Boo's portraits of these individuals were illustrations of flawed humans: greed-driven, sarcastic, yet caring and some perseverant.
Boo's subjects do not ask for pity. I found myself routing for Abdul, the book's sole heroic male subject, a teenage trash sorter, who sought ways to "fill his heart" with empathy, beauty, and even tragedy, instead of fighting to climb the slum’s broken economic ladder. This book is not portrayed using the typical heart-wrenching doom-and-gloom shock effect that I feel many writers use to sensationalize injustice. Instead, Boo focuses on the rare occasions in which we can learn from those who can choose to better themselves in the face of such adversity.
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