Mumbai in the monsoons is a beauty worth beholding. The dust and the grime vanishing from the atmosphere, lush greenery suddenly visible from nowhere, with the famous humidity taking a backseat while the rains lash the island city and it's more congested suburbs. With all the preconceived notions of it being a robotic jungle of concrete and little else, the financial capital of the world's largest democracy has a lot more to offer than people assume it capable of. But then, Mumbai has always been an enigma, to migrants like me, and its so-called sons-of-the soil, accepting the continuous inflow with little complaint, but never completely surrendering itself to you. You grow with it every day, learn to love it, fight it to stay alive, pamper it with love, and still you might not get what you actually deserve. The lessons it teaches you stay with you for life, gets entrenched in your soul, makes you a worthy person to take on the world, and yet every day you yearn to go back, back to where you came from, to receive the love you actually deserve, the care you always wished to have when you gave it your all and more, waiting for something in way of repayment. It's like living-in with your partner, you have it all you want for now, but you are scared of committing wholeheartedly, because you're afraid that in the end it might be you, left with nothing at all, while your partner has happily walked away to some one else's warm embrace.
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