Stories are the flesh and blood, the link between past and present.

You could put all the French or Italian you wanted in their names, but you couldn't take Mumbai out of the buildings: the clothes drying outside the windows would remain, and so would the mud streaks from flowerpots on windowsills.

There was plenty of anger on offer in Mumbai and it was easy to look away. But every once in a while, someone with imagination crafted their fury like origami into something delightful.

It will be okay, you will be okay. They call this the spirit of Bombay.

Learning its mythology was one of many paths to calling a city home.