Amita’s evocative poem welcome us to Mumbai, where dreams are forged in the heart of the city’s relentless energy. An exclusive for Different Truths.
The street's abuzz
the taporis hum with stories
too raw for the rich.
Here, dreams are wrapped in paan leaves,
tucked into pockets,
whispered in broken Hindi,
shouted over rickshaw horns.
Lanes pulse with the heat,
dust kicking up like ambition—
sharp, gritty,
burning every man’s eyes.
The rickshaws roll,
but we run faster,
hustling in the shadows of glass towers,
where the suits don’t see
how we fight to keep the city’s heartbeat alive.
We are the ones who sell hope,
peddle it like counterfeit watches,
or shiny new sneakers.
Catch us on the crowded trains,
squeezed like dreams in a dabbawala's box—
no space for hesitation.
We’re on the move.
The starry sky above us is a distant promise,
but down here,
we’re too busy burning ourselves
into the dirt to survive.
Gully cricketers aim for the stars,
Though we hit the pavement, night after night,
And carve our names in the filth
and yet unstoppable, we keep moving.
We may be broke,
but this city’s got a way of making
the forgotten feel like kings.
We fight for scraps of hope,
because in this chaos,
even the dust has a purpose—
and we are it.
We are Mumbai,
We are Mumbai.
Picture design by Anumita Roy
By
By
By
By