For nearly two decades I have been living in this glorious city and my scrapbook of memories is filled with nameless people who went out of their way to take care of me. I was never able to thank them because they left before I could say a word — but they left me with a love for this city that has grown into an enduring passion.

It started the moment I landed in the city. It was nearly midnight and I had no place to stay. A friend of mine thought nothing of depositing me at his kaka and kaki’s house in Worli. A simple Gujarati couple, they welcomed me into their homes and in an instant adopted me. They actually assumed I was going to move in with them and made room for me in a their tiny flat — by moving out of their own bedroom.

For one month I was fed, hugged, and pampered. I didn’t even have time to miss home. When I finally left they actually wept — even though it meant they were getting their privacy back.

I come from the original rude city — New Delhi— so I was taken aback when Bombay opened its heart to embrace me. I was a naive, clueless 21-year-old when I landed, with no survival skills and was ripe for the picking.

Instead of taking advantage of me I was taught how to grow up.

By a kind Parsi gentleman who realised I was heading to Marol instead of Hutatma Chowk. Not only was I lectured on my poor sense of direction, he took the time to escort me to my office all the while explaining BEST routes to me. Of course he paid for my ticket, found me a place to sit on the bus and walked me to the door. Did he wait to be thanked? Before I could say a word he had already hurried off.

... contd.