I didn’t fall for Bombay instantly. I don’t think anyone truly does. Bombay is like that stern teacher who doesn’t smile on the first day, and you wonder whether you’ll ever earn even a nod of approval. I arrived here thinking I was a temporary visitor, someone who would quietly slip out after a few months without leaving much of a mark.

Then the trains introduced themselves.

People here speak about local trains with the same pride that other cities reserve for monuments. They say things like “You’ll get used to it” as if it’s a spiritual journey. I learned the truth the day I tried entering a fast train without understanding what “fast” meant. The crowd surged, gravity gave up, and a flying lunch box hit me right in the groin. For a full second, I forgot my name. A stranger grabbed my arm to stop me from falling, nodded once, and disappeared before I could even say thank you.

That’s Bombay. People save your life and vanish like urban saints.
Then came the hill stations. Or what Bombay calls hill stations.
People said, “If you want a break, go to Lonavala. Beautiful mountains.”
Mountains, apparently.

Now, having grown up with the Himalayas practically smirking at you from the horizon, I assumed Bombay was being modest. But when I reached the “mountain,” I found slopes that looked like they’d been gently nudged upward by a mildly enthusiastic gardener. Families around me sighed at the “view,” while I tried not to look offended on behalf of the actual mountains back home.

But this city doesn’t care about your comparisons. It expects you to adjust your definitions of everything—from mountains to personal space.

And along the way, it sends you tiny miracles.

Like the man who held my bag in the train when I didn’t have the balance of a flamingo.

Or the woman who pointed me to the quieter end of the platform during rush hour and vanished before I could ask her name.

Or the old man who told me which bus to take, then got off at the next stop without any explanation, as if guiding lost people was his part-time job.

They’re everywhere—these quiet helpers. They appear when you’re confused, hurt, late, stuck, or simply having a bad day. They don’t want thank yous. They don’t want credit. They don’t even wait to see if their advice works. They help and disappear, as if the city has dispatched them on tiny missions of kindness.

Over time, Bombay began shaping me without my permission. It taught me patience by placing me in crowds that made breathing optional. It taught me humour by placing me in situations ridiculous enough to be unforgettable. And it taught me kindness by showing me that help often comes without introductions, agendas, or expectations.

Somewhere between the madness of the trains and the disappointment of the “mountains,” I slowly grew roots here.

Not dramatic ones. Quiet, accidental ones.

Now, at forty-nine, when I think of Bombay, I don’t think of its chaos. I think of moments—the unexpected hand that steadied me, the stranger who shared an umbrella, the commuter who made a joke just when the day felt too heavy.

The city never promised comfort. It only promised truth. It never pretended to be gentle. It simply kept showing up. And somewhere along the way, without realising it, I started showing up too.

Bombay may still exaggerate its mountains. But it never exaggerates its heart.

By Dipankar Bose