I look out of my window on a dark and gloomy Friday evening, and it strikes me as amazing, how so suddenly the weather changes right in front of our eyes, and yet we do not notice it.

The evenings, they have always been theatrical, the riot of colors, the blue vistas and the oranges and grays, each competing for our attention, but sadly, none succeeding.
One day, the evening ends at seven, all happy and aglow, and over the next few days, it’s as if they are in a hurry to spread out the blue blankets. Six o’clock suddenly seems like seven used to, and seven, well, seven as always.

The evening walkers, in their daily attire, are amused at the lack of light, but nevertheless, carry on in their mission to cover their daily distances as usual. The kids are unhappy, for their hours of delight are woefully cut down, and for no fault of theirs too. The rains, as is usual during such days, bring with it a faint smell of melancholic sadness, as if nature herself rues the haziness, but is helpless against it. We all feel it in our bones, that moment when we wish we could all have spent a more profitable today in Switzerland or other places north.

But Mumbai in its inevitable madness never ceases to amaze me either. As has been said a thousand times before me, the city never sleeps. The trains, they rumble on, regardless of the rain and the light, or the lack thereof. The buses continue to hog the road and fight with rickshaws for supremacy, putting countless commuters through their daily grind.
And really, come to think of it, we all feel a bit let down if there is no harassment, no real incident that marks out the Mumbai city life for what it is. What is it with us? No one knows. It’s part of the mystery that is Mumbai. It is part of our existence, part of the mark on our foreheads that tells the devil leave them be, they have already gone through hell.

And when all is said and done, in the evenings, we all travel the same roads that lead to home, after what is a normal day for us, with another battle on our hands.
The roads(At least I assume that’s what they are called these days) continue to win the pockmarks contest hands down, and everybody gets home at the end of another harrowing day, too tired to notice that the weather has changed again.