New York, New York

"I got out of the airport and into a cab. I rolled down the windows and took a deep breath of smoke and garbage and stale perfume and I said to myself, 'This is home.'" This is how my husband first described The City.

It has been called harsh, dirty and dangerous, a city of no rest, a crucible you cannot escape. But who would want to escape New York?

It's a city that slyly slips an energy shot into every person who walks her streets. And walk is what you will do - from matchbox sized apartments to bus stops, from buses to subway stations, from one subway station to another. And on these journeys you will meet artists, teachers, lawyers, salesmen; people from Cuba and Iran, Poland and Chile. And that is when you will fall in love. And become a part of this neurotic place, this 'beautiful catastrophe' called New York. A city of superlatives, a place where the best, the biggest, the brightest is simply, normal.

Bombay / Mumbai

For me, Bombay is the rubble you find on her streets, always taking interesting forms. It is the sea, that endless expanse of water, never changing, yet always changing. Bombay for me is a childhood spent waving at trains, those huge worms that carry the city's troubles and hopes every single day.

Like a woman shelling peas on her way home from work, Bombay does not have time to spare. Not for her old or her poor, even her children grow up much to fast. Bombay is a woman racing to keep her promise and everyone just has to keep up.

And much as I curse her crowds and her filth, Bombay is that too. Bombay is where India wants to be, and just like her many cramped chawls, she has room for them all.

This is my Bombay, it may not be yours. Because like all strong emotions, Bombay is personal. What else can it be?