That is why I have learned never to return to a city where you have found and lost love.

For me Bombay spells nervous disaster. Losses. Heartbreaks. Nightmares. Endings.

Every day a string-wrapped thumb, a bright yellow Post-It. Each railway station a milestone from a time that contained us.

Every nook and cranny- from the sodium lit sidewalks, to the filth smeared streets and the glorious gutter they call the sea- an aching, crying chasm of a time that seems like only yesterday.

There is no relief. Not a corner of respite. No, Bombay is no place for the broken hearted.