Bombay is a poem
A poem with no rhyme
Bombay is a painting
A painting with no lines
Bombay is bhel-puri
A delicious mixture
Bombay is like the ocean
Far too vast to capture
Here, religions merge
Into one blinding haze
Identities are hidden beneath
The city’s frantic craze
The Muslims are at Mahalaxmi
The Hindus, Haji Ali
Sikhs and Jains and Buddhists
In every little galli
At a Buddhist temple
A man with big brown eyes
Showed us the white Buddha, and said,
“This is where the truth lies”
The hair on my arm rose
I was mesmerised
By this temple, by this faith
By what I saw inside
After a minute of absolute silence
We set out again,
To Haji Ali
With one recorder, a camera and a pen.
At this dargah we found stories
Of religion and Bombay
Hearing these I was jolted
I had nothing left to say
Markandeshwar temple
Had a priest with grey hair
He had on a thin white dhoti,
Which looked like it just might tear
The temple was serene
With the sea on all four sides
In this city by the sea,
Religions are free and don’t need to hide
Amar, Akbar, Anthony Chowk
With honking buses and cars
At night the Christian cross illuminates the soul,
Even brighter than the stars
Interviewing people in Bombay
We saw religion through their eyes
And somewhere I think
We got answers to a million hows and whys
We went on a quest
And, we know now,
That everyone in Bombay
Comes together somehow
Somewhere in all this madness
There is a story the city tells
When Mumbaikars are at peace with each other
They will find peace within themselves