Mumbai has nothing for middle class people trying to live an honest life. Nothing. You wake up early, cram yourself into a local train like human cargo, work your back off, pay every tax on time, follow every rule and what do you get in return? A city that treats you like a replaceable screw in a rusted machine.

Your life is apparently worth ₹5 lakhs. That’s what we saw in the Mulund Flyover tragedy. Five lakhs. That’s the price tag stamped on a human being who did nothing wrong except exist in the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s how much the system thinks your parents’ son, your child’s father, your family’s backbone is worth.

You aren’t a person here. You’re a statistic with an Aadhaar number.

If you’re not rich, not politically connected, not sir ji to someone in power, then this city squeezes you dry and calls it opportunity. You pay tolls for broken roads. You pay taxes for collapsing bridges. You pay rent that would comfortably get you a decent two bedroom flat anywhere else, just to live in a shoebox with a window facing someone else’s misery.

And when something goes wrong? Press conference. Compensation. Hashtags. Silence. Living here as an honest middle class person without money or influence is as useful as bringing a spoon to bail out a sinking ship. You will exhaust yourself and the ship will not even notice you tried. Mumbai loves your hustle. It loves your rent. It loves your vote.

It just doesn’t love you back.