I grew up in the 1950’s in a city called Bombay. It certainly could not rival London or New York, but it was a pleasant enough town with a population of around half a million Bombayites. So just who was a Bombayite? That was the beauty of it; it could be just about anybody – Tehmina Batliwalla from Cusrow Baug, Balakrishnan from Matunga, Gidwani from Pasta Lane, Nanabhai Patel from Gamdevi, or Anthony Gonsalves from Bandra. At worst, they tolerated each other, but that was the exception. As a rule, there was an easy camaraderie amongst them. They made jokes about each other’s ethnic peculiarities; enjoyed each other’s specialty dishes; and shared a leisurely ride along Marine Drive on the top deck of a C route bus.

Yes, Bombay wasn’t a bad place to live in. For one thing, it was reckoned to be the safest city in India. Young couples strode hand in hand, or billed and cooed on the Marine Drive sea wall in blissful oblivion (moral policemen were unheard of then); and girls walked back to their Churchgate flats after a late diner at Bombelli’s. And Bombay was a wealthy city. The dalals shouted themselves hoarse in the old Stock Exchange; and dressed in crisp white dhotis and white Gandhi caps – like caricatures from the Independence movement – but they had pots of money. Or so it was rumoured. You’d never realize it, since they did not believe in ostentatious living. In short, Bombay was as good as it could get in a developing country like India.

That is what I thought anyway. Apparently, I was wrong. It took a prescient and wise gentleman named Bal Thackeray to realize that Bombay was not realizing its full potential; and that it was its colonial name that was holding the city back. So he promptly decreed that Bombay would be banished to the history books; and the city would reclaim its rightful name, Mumbai. Furthermore, all signboards on shops and other establishments would henceforth be in the language of Mumbai, Marathi. At first, the cosmopolitan citizens did not take him too seriously; but after his Shiv Sainiks defaced a few hundred signs – and broke a few dozen heads – they got the message.

So now I am living in Mumbai; and to be sure the change of name has also transformed the city. Mumbai now has 13 million inhabitants, half of whom live in filthy hovels. And that is not the only division. The city is now split between the Marathi manoos and the ‘outsiders’, most of whom seem to have descended from North India and are intent on despoiling the fair name of aamchi Mumbai. There may be a rape and a murder reported every single day, but at least Mumbai has been ‘purified’. There is a whole legion of self-appointed moral guardians who ensure that sinful acts like couples kissing on the rocks at Bandstand are nipped in the bud; and the offenders brought to book. Also, the pride of Mumbai has been restored by renaming almost every important public building after the great warrior-king, Shivaji.

There are still problems, of course. The city gets flooded, like clockwork, every monsoon; and potholes proliferate like rabbits. The streets are unsafe at night; and traveling by local train can cause severe bodily injury. The hapless public gets routinely fleeced by crooked taxi drivers, cops and so-called public servants. The list is quite exhaustive.

It has even begun to dawn on Mumbai’s original saviours, the Shiv Sena, that perhaps conditions are not ideal in their Garden of Eden. Being extremely savvy, they have also determined the cause of the decline. There are still a few stubborn holdouts – like Bombay Dyeing and Bombay Scottish school – who have not got the message; and persist with the hated old name of Bombay. That is why the gods are angry and are plaguing the city with so many difficulties.

The solution is obvious, of course. The Sainiks will obliterate the name of Bombay from every nook and corner of their city. Then, it is only a matter of time before Mumbai is restored to its pristine glory. I can hardly wait.