It's that time of the year when the so-called 'Spirit of Mumbai' gets invoked. It's very similar to the imaginary fourth seat that you demand for in a crowded local train. They don't exist but still do somehow for convenience. This seasonal garment has nothing to do with the fabric of humanity. It's an abstract reality, that's all. A function of necessity more than a root of compassion. You can't sit at home for long no matter how much it rains. Your financial conditions don't permit. So you venture out, keeping the cogs of the city running. And the ones who have a way with words term it spirit, not helplessness. That's how the language of a city unable to rectify the wrongs speak. That's also how an island city keeps itself afloat. It knows no other method. This is it. A poetry abandoned by reality; a lullaby cautioned by nightmare. If only there was a way to figure out why does the city clog after a heavy rainfall EVERY SINGLE YEAR without fail. How is it even possible for a metropolitan to be not prepared—consistently. Two monsoons ago, i was trudging along on the railway track towards Kurla station after our train broke down at LTT. On my way, i stumbled upon two lil' rats soaked and trembling on the rail. The two must have lost their families to flood. Fortunately, none of the people walking by bothered them. Perhaps, both the species, no matter how different they are, are one in the spirit of survival.