I am Bombay

A piece of fiction – an excerpt from the diary of "Mumbai"

 

I am the city of dreams, the city of hope, the city of glitter, and the city of gutters. I am Bombay, or rather now, Mumbai. There are many that come to me with dreams in their eyes, with hope in their soul and with nothing in their pockets. Some come here and some are born here. I take each and every one of them into my arms, welcomingly and try to accommodate them as much as my over-stretched resources allow me to. I stick with them through thick and through thin. I make each one of them a part of me. Some become successful, some become famous, and some remain like the gutter-creatures that they were born to be.

But all of them hate me.

And I don't understand why.

Is it my fault that all of India finds only me to come to, to fulfill their dreams? Is it my fault that the very people who are in-charge of my welfare mistreat me, abuse me, and think about their publicity and pockets? Is it my fault that I am not built to handle such a large and ever-growing population? Is it my fault that everyone takes everything shamelessly from me, but no one remotely even thinks of returning to me – and that too not for me, for the million others like them who are going to come to me? Is it my fault at all?

I let 18million (and still counting) people walk over me every day. I have let them cut across my body to let them build their so called railways. I feed them. I take care of them.

And what do I get? "Bombay, oh I hate this city!" – echoing everywhere. Be it the film star, or the student, or the slum-dweller or the businessman. They all forget that they are what they are – good or bad - somehow, because of me.

Then why don't they leave me, I wonder. If I am really as bad as they portray me to be, then why do they still tramp over me every day, struggling to fulfill their dreams? Why don't they just pack their bags and take their family someplace else, that they think is better than me?

Maybe because deep down, they know, that there is none other like me.

For all I do for you, all I ask of you is acknowledgement, if not appreciation. At least don't bad-mouth me. I can hear you. All of you. And it hurts every time I hear those words. If you think that wherever it is that you come from is better than me, please feel free to leave. I will miss you, that is for sure for I have made you my own, and it does hurt when a part of me leaves. But if you are really as miserable here as you sound, then it is best that you leave. I can assure you one thing though; you will never forget me. For as I said: there is none other like me.

Until next time…