“Madam, 1992-93 lafda mein, woh gully mein bahut taxi ka nuksan ho gaya,” my trusted taxiwallah directed me to look outside the window of his Eeco kaali-peeli to spot the scene of his historical anecdote as we passed it during a trip on a road that ran parallel to the Harbour Line 
Railway track.

This was a few months ago when Vasant, my septuagenarian taxi driver of over two years, decided to use an alternate route instead of taking the Eastern Freeway from my SoBo area of reportage to our office in Bandra East. It was an eye-opener. I was grateful for this exploratory route crisscrossed by semi-functional factories, graffiti-filled walls that opened up to the unknown, labyrinthine corridors and mysterious looking colonies that housed near-abandoned apartments. That it took us 15 extra minutes to return to the newsroom didn’t matter. Google Maps, be damned. It opened a window to another world, one that us time-strapped Bombaywallah tend to sacrifice more often than not at the altar of “reaching on time” or our “jaldi chalo” attitude.