The year was 1996. Mumbai was still a little bit of Bombay, accepting us migrant cousins with open arms. Chintan Upadhyay and I were among the many, who had come to the city to make her our home. Mumbai was beautiful and affectionate, inspiring and challenging. The taller-than-tall apartments wowed us, the shimmering lights of Crossroads mall and the display windows of Rupam and VAMA showrooms excited us. We were romancing with the local trains and rented homes in decrepit lower middle-class societies, savouring our starvation in late night roadside bhurji-pav meals amidst the golden-brown haze of the sleeping city, revisiting our tangential dreams. And we knew we were growing up in an environment that we would romanticise about some day.

But I am digressing.