The faces blur into one as people push past me on the platform of Dadar station.

Here, every sign looks the same. Underneath the signs, bystanders aggressively compete for the attention of the taxiwala. The road seems to be moving of its own accord, pushing people ahead, stopping for no one.

I stand in the middle, dazed.

"This is why I always book an Uber", I think to myself.

But then, I see it: A young couple walk past me, arms linked, unbothered by the rush around them. I see it: the lady on the footpath selling marigold flowers. I see it: the bhaiya who patiently explained to me that I had stepped down on the wrong side of the platform. I see it: the woman who walks with me to the main road, realising that I'm new here.

New. I don't think that this word is allowed here. Let no one know I'm new, lest the city swallow me whole. Walk with confidence, push past to make my space, climb on top, even if I suffocate up there.

The realisation is difficult because, as a child, I’d visit my family here often. Every time I came, I fell in love with it a little more. Living here has burst that bubble for me. It's difficult to look past the sweaty faces, overcrowded lanes, waterlogging, and delays, which cost me my attendance.

But then I meet someone who has lived in the city for four decades, someone who probably came to the city of dreams with the hopes of being the next Shah Rukh Khan or Amitabh Bachchan and ended up staying because the city made space for him.

Bombay is a generous city, adjusting its building blocks ever so often to allow people 1x1 feet of space to dream. The best part is that it doesn't ask for anything in return. It only warns me once: "learn to tap your feet to the rhythm of my roads, sinkholes open here often."

I’m learning, slowly.

Maybe I'll go to Dadar station again tomorrow or the day after. This time, I'll get off on the correct side of the platform, because I'm not new here, remember?

I should remember.

I won't fall behind.

By Shreya Saksena