It's a month since I moved to Mumbai. Its suburbs- where I live and commute to work- is a dirty part of the city. The rains had camouflaged it. Down they came from the skies, washing the roads clean, flushing out the dust from the buildings, wrapping the city in a clean dress and giving an illusion of well being. Now that the rains have stopped, the city is an assault to the senses. Dust swirls around from the dirty paint-flaking buildings, open gutters run alongside the roads, the stench hits my nostrils and the dirt assaults the retina. In an overcrowded and space- hungry city continuous construction work is happening all around; each day the city gets clothed in dust. The only place clean and alluring to look, is above your head: the sky.

Watching mumbai go to work is a sight in itself; it's a tourist attraction. They pour in and out from every pore of the city: roads, buildings - the gothic ones in the town, the dirty ones in the suburbs, the trains, beach, the parapet on marine drive. Even the rocks are not spared the human sweat- behind haji ali, at band stand; the vadapav stalls...

Watching mumbai party is no less a sight. At night Mumbai life is a celebration of lust, wanton lust. When the sun showers the city it trades in commerce and under moonlight it trades in human flesh. A city of drunk migrant men and women with itch between their legs need scratching. It's not, as advertised, just a city that never sleeps, but a city that sleeps around.