Mumbai’s monsoon is like a symphony played on repeat from June to September—its rhythm steady, its melodies interspersed with sudden crescendos. Unlike the rains in Chennai, which arrive with thunderous clouds and howling winds driven by low-pressure systems in the Bay of Bengal, Mumbai’s monsoon is a quiet, relentless companion. There are no booming thunders or streaks of lightning here—just an unceasing downpour that seems like the Rain God has left the shower running.
At times, the shower slows to a drizzle, offering a fleeting respite. But just as quickly, the heavens seem to refill, and the cascade resumes. For Mumbaikars, the monsoon isn’t a disruption; it’s a way of life. Umbrellas and raincoats are constant companions, shielding them from the rain’s sudden embrace.
While Mumbai pulsates with unrelenting chaos, my workplace lies in Navi Mumbai—a stark contrast to the bustling metropolis. Navi Mumbai is a city of balance, where urbanity meets nature. The wide, well-planned roads and verdant greenery feel like a soothing balm against the concrete cacophony of Mumbai. During the monsoon, the hills surrounding the city come alive. Waterfalls tumble down the slopes, creating a picture of serenity that is hard to find in the heart of Mumbai.
Every day, my office bus takes me through this scenic route, a refreshing journey where I lose myself in the beauty of the rain-drenched landscapes. Amidst these hills and fields, my gaze often falls upon a small roadside patch where vegetables are grown. Near this patch sits a lone girl, a quiet yet resolute figure braving the elements.
Her entire setup is modest—a small polythene sheet spread on the roadside, displaying a sparse assortment of vegetables. Sometimes there are tomatoes and cucumbers, other days it’s bitter gourds and lentils. The variety changes, but the quantity remains minimal. She sits crouched there, day after day, under a makeshift white plastic cover that barely shields her from the rain.
In the mornings, I see her waiting, her eyes scanning the road for a buyer. Evenings are no different; she’s still there, her shoulders drooping but her determination unyielding. The remnants of her unsold vegetables sit forlornly on the sheet, a stark reminder of the burden she carries. I often imagine her mother’s words as she sends her out into the rain: “Beti, sell these vegetables somehow. Only then will we have money for dinner.”
Many a times, I’ve felt the urge to stop the bus, step out, and buy vegetables from her. I’ve wanted to talk to her, visit her family, and understand their struggles. But I never do it. I don’t know why I hesitate. Maybe it’s the fear of disrupting my own routine. Maybe it’s the rational voice in my head that whispers: “How much can you help? There are millions like her. Why isn’t the government stepping in? Why don’t the wealthy do more for the downtrodden?”
Yet, these arguments do little to quiet the guilt in my heart. Each time I see her selling vegetables in the pouring Mumbai monsoon, the rains which sounded like a symphony earlier create a feeling of melancholy in me. I feel a pang of shame for my inaction. I feel like a mute spectator, complicit in turning a blind eye to her plight. She represents the countless children in this country who bear the weight of responsibilities far beyond their years.
As I write this, the image of that girl lingers in my mind—her small figure crouched against the vastness of the world, her resilience unwavering despite the relentless rains. And I wonder, isn’t her story the story of Mumbai itself? A city that braves every storm, carrying the weight of its people’s dreams and struggles, never stopping, never giving up…
And yet, I wonder: Is it enough to merely admire resilience? Or does true compassion demand action?