Mumbai.

I am Mumbai. On the shores of Arabian sea, looking westward to the holy land of Mecca. Everyday thousands throng into my heart, all with dreams. Some big. Some small. But dreams nonetheless. I am not a city. I am an illusion. An illusion with bright lights and darker shadows. An illusion made of unreal stories and broken dreams. An illusion that is broken with every heartbeat and reinforced with every breath. As far as the eye can see, I see people of all colors and features. They all call me their own. I am not defined by a language or a religion. I am defined by a spirit that can not be defined.

I sing the tunes of the films that are made here. I wear the sweat of the mill workers who worked here. I  taste the hard work of dabbawallas who bring food to millions here. I believe in the faith of Mount Mary, Siddhivinayak and Haji Ali. I dance to the music of dandiya and the dhol of  Durga Puja. I wake up to the holy sounds of Azaans in Bombay Central and sleep to the quiet murmurs of the distant waterfalls in the ghats. I live vicariously through the youth of Fashion street and Colaba causeway. I relive my past  with the sounds of Bhindi Bazaar and the songs of the kolis. I smile at undying spirit of the kids who grow up on my streets. I am saddened  by the unending pursuit of money at Dalal Street.

Yes, I am an illusion. An illusion one can touch and feel and see. I am an illusion made up of millions of dreams. I am an illusion people live in and call their own. I... am Mumbai.