As much as I am sure I would never tolerate living in slums, I find life there so beautiful. In its simplicity and roughness, I find my mind in contradiction. The houses are all unfinished, made of red bricks and usually with no roofs. I wouldn’t refer to them as shelters; they don’t look like they are. Their walls are full of cracks and their roofs are full of gaps which are usually closed by some unwanted pieces of things that I couldn’t even recognize; most importantly, the gaps are slightly closed, enough to not let the rain water dive in although I am sure the cold air manages to get to the reckless people living below. I am amazed by how the people find “home” behind those cracked walls. Crossed by the clothes hanged on ropes and realizing the repetitive technique that every house uses to hang their clothes, you’d be left with a smile on your face. The larger cloth is usually hanged at the last rope, and the size gets smaller as you reach the first rope where you find tiny ...