My friend Hala has often said that India is a country of contradictions. I'm staying at the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel, which is arguably the finest hotel in Mumbai. Many of the rooms were donated and, believe me, I'm thrilled and grateful to be staying here. But standing on the polished marble floor in the grand lobby, surrounded by both wealthy Indians and Westerners, as I look out on the manicured courtyard with white-gloved waiters taking poolside orders I become critically aware of my friend's statement. As beautiful, rich, elegant, sexy, and colorful as India can be, just outside these glass doors lies another India—one that is devastatingly poor, filthy, exploited, unhealthy, and illiterate.

The YouthAIDS crew and I gather in three cars and drive about 45 minutes away to another part of Mumbai. We are going to Dharavi, the largest slum in all of Asia. There are over a million people living in an area slightly larger than 2 kilometers. It is home to the largest population of migrant workers whose main interest is to make money to send it back to their families. These men work in small galas (sweatshops), putting in 16- to 18-hour days and, because they work in illegal businesses, get no protection from governmental interference. They labor at such tasks as steel and leatherwork, sorting plastic, even sewing and embroidery. Their tools are often dangerous and archaic. Along with the migrant workers, of course, lives a large population of impoverished sex workers. These women will have as many clients a day as they can solicit, and charge about 44 rupees (one dollar). However, the prices vary depending on how clean the man is or whether he wears a condom. If he refuses a condom, the sex workers will comply, rather than risk losing the client or getting beaten or raped. Many of these men are from neighboring countries and don't speak the national language of Hindi and are unaware about HIV/AIDS and STIs. The men who do know about HIV/AIDS often assume that infection comes from the female sex workers. They believe they eliminate their risk by having sex with other men. So instead of females, they often seek out the services of transsexual sex workers thinking it is impossible to contract HIV through anal or oral sex. Since homosexuality is looked down upon in India, the social stigma is huge and this behavior is kept on the down low.

Dharavi has one of the largest condensed areas of HIV/AIDS infections and is a primary location for some of YouthAIDS educational outreach, too. YouthAIDS depends on its VAT (Visibility, Accessibility, Touch) Team to capture the attention of targeted groups. The VAT Team essentially concentrates on the alleviation of stigmas and negative predispositions related to sex and condoms. They employ mixed-media strategies, infotainment, and a spirited approach to increase awareness. Dharavi also houses eight Key Clinics (the clinics YouthAIDS funds to provide health services to sex workers, their children, and clients). These clinics test and treat the various STIs, including HIV/AIDS. Key Clinic accessibility is necessary, but the challenge is often making the people aware of the Key Clinics availability and getting them through the door. We are here to witness how this is done.

As we near Dharavi, I can already see examples of the surrounding poverty. There are makeshift "homes" on the sidewalk, one after another, made of scraps of wood, plastic, and random pieces of steel. Through small entryways, I can see men and women lying on the bare dirt inside, keeping cool from the hot morning sun. Filth litters the sidewalk and gutter. I see a small child, naked and dirty, squat and defecate on the sidewalk next to the road. There are no adults nearby.

I look out my window and see Dharavi ahead of me. I am overwhelmed at the vision of miles of corrugated steel, garbage, cow dung, and cement that make up the foundation of this little city. We get out of the car and are directed toward a dark alley and told to be careful as we descend through the dirt and muck. The alley opens into what is literally a garbage dump, a few women in saris pick through the debris while a small group of children play with a piece of Styrofoam.

The women look at us curiously, but the children smile and wave. This part of Dharavi is built directly over a sewage pipeline. The smell is a mixture of piss, shit, propane and dirt, but I could also smell Marsala, and realized someone close by was making tea. We were led through the narrow walkway of a street and shown a gala. I could see men working tirelessly squatting together on the dirt floor in a dark, 8x8-foot space. There were men, women, and children everywhere living 8-15 people in a single room. The YouthAIDS program managers pointed out various brothels where women were sitting looking bored and hot. I asked about the water supply and was shown a cloudy gray stagnant pool that, according to the program manager, was filled with typhoid as well as other diseases. He told me that the people here had built immunity to these diseases, but that I would probably die if drank it myself. He told me that they eat, drink, and bathe with it, and—more often than not—use it as a public toilet.

As we walk through what seems like a labyrinth of debris, wood, and steel, I hear a small, high-pitched laugh coming from behind me. I turn to see a filthy little girl, wearing a blue dress way to large for her tiny frame, smiling brightly at us. It only takes me a moment to recognize that she is physically and mentally disabled. This moment catches me off guard. I struggle to center my emotions as I hold her gaze in mine.

I have a boyfriend, Al, who has three children that I love very dearly. I have had the privilege to watch them grow into beautiful young adults over the last 6 and a half years. His oldest child, Sophie, is severely disabled, similarly to the little girl in blue. I know well what measures have been taken for Al, his ex-wife, and a team of medical professionals, to keep Sophie alive and healthy all these years. Without access to proper care, I am desperately aware of this innocent child’s fate.

When I decided to come to India, I made a commitment not to impose my level of comfort, belief systems, politics, or perceptions of right or wrong onto anyone or anything. I came here to learn, and to observe this culture and its people as is, but my feelings of outrage overwhelmed me in that moment. How can any government allow its people to suffer this way? All people should have access to food, clean water, and health care! How can a culture, so steeped in spirituality and religion, live in such prejudice, neglect, ignorance, discrimination, and abuse? Looking into the girl's vacant eyes I felt anger swell in my heart at a God who could let any of His children suffer in this way, in such a horrible place. I felt the sermon of "unfair" begin to bubble in my heart.

Forcing myself to stop judging, I remember to take some deep breaths. My body begins to relax as I close my eyes and do what I always do when I don't understand something. I pray to God. When I open my eyes again, the girl is still grinning, so I smile back at her beautiful face and offer her a blessing straight from my heart. I reach out to touch the hem of her blue skirt, bowing my head in gratitude. There are teachers everywhere.

As I walk away, I silently affirm my commitment to continue being a voice for those without one. It's action and compassion, I tell myself, not pity or judgment that will facilitate change. I had to move on.