The capital of Bollywood,
Cutting chai and vada pav
The real capital of the country.
A city of stories,
People weaving in and out of lives
Like the waves on a beach,
Where summers are unbearable,
The rains indomitable
And the winters, non-existent.
An island that’s a melting pot
Of myriad tongues, tastes and faiths
All stuck in the same traffic jam.
Is the bhaaji wala, the housemaid
And the woman who brings fish to your doorstep.
And chaat stalls around every corner
Is why millions call it home.
Teeming with life
From five star windows
To tiny nooks on streets.
Its soulful roads
With pavements far too hot
For children running across barefeet
For tournaments on cement
That has seen the turn of a cricket ball
As much as the wheels of cars.
Is the chaos of Bombay
From the patter of toiling feet to the chugging of local trains.
The night begins,
The streetlights and restaurant signs
Gleaming till dawn.
The day, never ended.
It merely changed,
Grew into the next, moved on
Much like the city itself.
Over soaring, cemented skylines,
Surrounded by seas that make the horizon,
Drowning the city in a fiery light
And it makes me proud
That I am able
To call it