Kamgar Nagar, Kurla East taught me what patient work looks like: how stubborn tenderness moves through cramped lanes. Its comfort lives in the rhythm of greetings, the cadence of doors opening, the small and often invisible economies of care that hold a place together. I spent two weeks there with 24-year-old Tanushri Kadam, the UPHC (Urban Primary Health Center) coordinator at the BMC Thackrey Hospital help post, a dear friend of mine and a face the entire basti recognizes.
When I picture her, I remember her wide grin at our community influencer meetings. She begins with a bright “Assalamualaikum,” though she isn’t Muslim. If we respond too softly, she exclaims, “I can’t hear you!” prompting a louder “Walaikum assalam!” and the whole room exhales.
As Doctors For You (DFY) evolves and our partner organization transitions into the area, neither of us will be stationed in Kamgar Nagar anymore. My time here has encompassed everything about this work that I find hard and worthwhile. I spoke with Tanushri as she closed out her own time in the neighborhood. Leaving this field site feels heavier than I expected, and this interview is my attempt to honor a place that became, briefly but unmistakably, a kind of home.
Tanushri began in Kamgar Nagar on January 4th. She admitted, “I didn’t know the ANMs or the PHNs,” ANMs being Auxiliary Nurse Midwives and PHNs being Public Health Nurses. “Theoretically I understood their work, but practically? Nothing. I kept thinking: how am I supposed to interact with them? What will I even do here?” The area is labeled “high risk,” a phrase she heard constantly. “Whenever someone is about to join Kamgar Nagar, they cancel,” she said. “They say they don’t want to work in a high risk area.”
She didn’t understand what made it high risk until she reached Section A: the bhool bulaiyaa, the mountainous labyrinth of steep lanes, stacked houses, and cramped corners where outsiders are viewed with suspicion. “People don’t listen,” she said plainly. “If you ask, ‘Why didn’t you take the vaccine?’ they will come to beat you up.” There’s almost nowhere to sit. Outsiders struggle with the terrain, the pace, and the unfamiliarity. “Vegetarians struggle to work here,” she added matter-of-factly. “Everything is non-veg.” Still, Tanushri is optimistic. “If we work here, our skills become sharp. This is the most challenging place to work. If I work here, I can work anywhere in the world.”
Her early months were shaped by navigating a government ecosystem where permanent staff often treat outside coordinators as temporary. “Three to four months,” she said, “I tried to mix in. Most of the time I would give up when they wouldn’t support or respect me.” Advice from Dr. MD, a pharmacist at the ground floor hospital dispensary, stayed with her: “Give your 100% no matter what. It will take time, but don’t give up.”
Every morning she climbed the steep lanes. “Half my energy went in just getting up the mountain,” she said. The other half went into summoning the emotional readiness to work after the climb. Over time, she learned the geography by wandering the lanes with a map in hand and gradually, the staff softened. “Now I don’t even have to ask,” she added. “They help me without hesitation.”
During DFY’s week long polio campaign, we moved through at least ten classrooms per day, reaching more than a 1000 children with awareness sessions on polio, rabies, malaria, and dengue. She believes these sessions helped raise first day polio coverage in Kamgar Nagar from 55% last year to 73% this year.
I asked her about another incident that stuck with me: a BMC government school teacher charging students ₹200 for books that were supposed to be free. Earlier that day, we had met two sisters, four and five years old, who had dropped out of school because their family couldn’t afford this fee. At the school, the principal seemed unaware; the teacher insisted she was charging for basic “123” writing materials that should cost far less.
“The teacher’s attitude was wrong,” Tanushri said. “I could take action, but I didn’t.” I appreciated how blunt she was: “In every school there is some kind of issue. How many issues can we solve? If I take action, they won’t allow me back. That would impact my immunization work. If I am banned, it’s an injustice for the kids I can’t reach through home visits.” Then she added, “Immunization is my main priority. Even though I am a social worker, that is where I must put my focus.”
Vaccine refusal families were their own challenge. “Every family has a different reason,” she said. Some cite mother-in-laws, some husbands, some fevers, some fear of seizures or “fits.” About half of the refusal families we encountered believe the swelling after vaccination, also known as the ghat, lump, or “knot,” will require a surgery costing “three lakhs.” She estimates that at least 10-20 families have told her outright that vaccines are meant to reduce the Muslim population in Mumbai. And among migrant families, language barriers can complicate basic counseling.
Tanushri’s approach is deliberate: understand the concern, then counsel, then identify the right community influencer. “Fit is important,” she said. “Find the right person.” She described a man who refused every ANM, every coordinator, even the L-ward ANM. Yet an Anganwadi Sevika named Sunita who knew him well convinced him with ease. In Kamgar Nagar, rapport beats authority every time.
However, some visits turned aggressive. In Ladoo Building, after she asked a father why his children weren’t vaccinated, he threatened her: “You cut my kids’ name [from the list] or I will cut you.” “Internally, I got angry,” she told me. “But I calmly said, I am here for the kids who didn’t get vaccines. I will come again.” She explained her reasoning: “I should not respond with aggressive anger. I don’t want him to hit me or create a situation.” She didn’t want the help post’s name damaged. “I also have some self respect,” she said. “But what’s more important than my self respect is my work and my help post.”
Another time, a mother in law lifted the aluminum pot she used for cooking vegetables, threatening to strike. “I was very scared,” she said. “If she hit me, how would I run?” She stayed calm, explained why she was there, and left slowly. “If I ran because I was scared,” she said, “then no one would ever come back to their place.”
When I asked how Kamgar Nagar might remember her, she didn’t pause. “Not just immunization work,” she said. She supported school dropouts, helped families navigate hospital visits, and guided them through whatever services she could offer. “They think of me as a social worker,” she said. “Any hospital matter, blood work, fever, they remember me first.” Even after leaving the field site, families still call Tanushri.
I was honored to witness her close relationships with the NGO Apnalaya and with Mr. Azmat Ali Idrisi, a community influencer from Garib Nawaz who even offered his newly built office as a routine immunization site. The ANMs and PHNs appreciated her work deeply; “They said I helped them so much, more than any other NGO,” she told me. And what she returns to most is the Kamgar Nagar help post staff: “They treated me as their own.”
Listening to Tanushri clarified something I had sensed but hadn’t been able to name. What can look like field chaos – the refusals, aggression, migration, and misconceptions – is in fact held together by slow, disciplined work and patience. Trust in places like Kamgar Nagar isn’t built through systems alone. It is built one conversation, one climb, and one visit at a time.
