L.C. Road, Dadar

Amid the chaos, and of it, an entirely different and pleasantly unexpected kind of street food.

The #56 bus edged forward at a meter per hour. The window was stuck half-shut, and the passenger next to me, when I queried him for information, just slumped to his side. Ours wasn't a crowded bus — only a few standees. The Borivili-bound expresses had people hanging off the doors.

A girl, thirteen or maybe fourteen, in jeans and t-shirt, rushes on with an enormous cellophaned brick. "Biscuit!" she screams, "Biscuit biscuit!" Having just completed 40 or so hours of train travel, I was used to the sound. I was impressed to see entrepreneurialism sprouting at such a young age. But there was no system to her distribution; she gave three or four to everybody and moved ahead. And as quickly she was off, without collecting. Remarkable.

Half an hour and 30 meters later we pulled into the circle alongside Plaza Theatre, hung ornately with its own terra-cotta hordes, and then the onslaught began.

"Pani!"

"Chayyya!"

"Paaanaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!"

The median was swarmed with them. They dodged honking cars and skirted cycles. They tapped alongside the passing buses. They advanced from the paan shops with yellow packets streaming behind and tore off Rs. 1 worth of Parle-G for every man, woman, and child.

It continued for kilometers and kilometers. Through Shivaji Park, teams of schoolkids with platters of farsan, heavy aunties with coffee. Through Mahim, where alms are after all a daily affair. The crowds had shed completely only by the Causeway, where the Mithi air flooded in freely.

I've never before witnessed such an overwhelming outpouring of generosity. I still comprehend very little of the scope of the disaster, but I've learned so much about my city.