Bombay and Her Heart Line

Edited by Kiara Lakdawala

The following is a snippet of your typical Monday. The lives run on a fast track, rushing to beat the rat race. Meanwhile, the common woman with her toes on the footboard of a train is perfectly adjusting to the the rush hours. She worries not that a slip may cost her, her life. She is humming through the drizzle, with her hands firmly gripping the side handles. A grim smile on her face. She is but a girl, doing her best to brave the worst. This is Bombay through her eyes.

The sudden break of rain ushers the many hawkers who have laid - fresh fruits, vegetables and plastic trinkets amongst other things - sprawled on the greasy mud floor, to fret. Hastily they cover their bamboo baskets with flimsy plastic sheets. Effortlessly raising the large package while exclaiming the Lord's name synonymous to the colorful language that is permanently laced on their beat tongues. A mad frenzy echoes, matching the march of the violent storm that is raging, as the urban masses stomp their feet over plastic bags strewn lazily on the marshy road. It’s a typical rainy day here in the heart of Bombay. The potholes are open and waterlogged, making the road look wider than it is, creating an illusion of parity. The steel bars rattle on the east end, as the local train snails along carrying a fourth of Bombay in its belly. Wafting from it is a delicious smelling wave of freshly caught fish. The pedal boards lined with people, some leaning romantically on the side panels and others barely managing to place their toes on the edge of the footboard. As the train passes onwards, crackling gravel tumbles over the sides, and the hawker’s prodding call to the passersby booms through the air once again.

#CommanManSyndrome #Bombay #TheMeltingPotforHope