Growing up as a teenager, I was in love with Mumbai. Songs like Rim Jhim Gire Sawan (Manzil) painted pictures of lovers embracing the rain, wandering through the city’s colonial streets, finding romance in raindrops. Baadlon Se and Geela Pani (from Satya) captured the raw, gritty beauty of monsoons, when even the darkest corners seemed to sparkle. Walking in the rain on a seaside road eating a Vada Pav, or standing on a railway footbridge watching clouds blur the distant skyline felt like the greatest joys in life.

Until I started working and my daily commute meant public transport.

The city that once felt so romantic seemed to merely endure it. The couples weren’t embracing the rain, they were just trying to get home through waterlogged streets. That Vada Pav didn’t taste the same when you were worried about reaching the station on time to catch the 6:23 Andheri local. Wading through overcrowded footbridges with a backpack on my chest felt so soul-crushing. Then came 26 July 2005, and my moment of disillusionment.

I left the city in 2010. Mumbai no longer felt magical. Except for food, nothing seemed worth the money. The city and its soul, I realised, were figments of our collective imagination. Sure, it’s welcoming, but ruthless. It offers a life of endless struggle, with hardly a breather. There’s no real quality of life here unless you’re filthy rich.

Yet today, when those monsoon songs play, a part of me still wishes that Mumbai existed, not just in my memory, but for real. And that I could be its proud resident again.