Like a dystopian character from an Orwellian novel, Mumbai deals only in superlatives.
It’s a city that does not allow for subtlety or nuance, and prides its diseased, air-kissed, thick-as-hide skin.
Mumbai’s turning on itself in the wake of the recent bombings is only inevitable for a schizoid.
Please, no “we will survive”, “spirit of Mumbai” or “candle-light marches”, the cognoscenti screamed.
Like a wolf biting its own leg to free itself from the trap which offered meat, the city is now gnawing at its conscience to free itself from being shackled to its own cravings for everything Maximum.
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