There's nothing really special about Mumbai.
Nothing spectacular. Only that you miss it once you've left. Once you realise that its silent goodness was the sea upon which your tiny, fluttering boat could sail endlessly and freely. Sure, at times you'd be rendered thirsty, tired and without shoes, with miles to go before you come back to yourself, almost submerged. (I have been rendered thus, on 26 July, 2005.) But you miss it. You miss its sense of humour - the only time it knows how to be truly articulate - its double edged sarcasm that cuts like a knife and yet is graceful as truth, like that moment when vulnerability looks at you with its direct gaze. You miss how it wears its solitude, beautifully and patiently, the way time does. Or the way in which it holds its scars, its imperfect body, and yet embraces what you really are, not merely what you were meant to be. You miss it's exuberance, whimsical yet ethereal & wise, like youth. You miss it because even though it is inconspicuously silent in its noise, like the universe, and just as dreadful, it has the world open for you when you walk along its shoreline, listening to that one song you don't want to hear anymore but can't stop listening to anyway.
To those who twitch in righteous indignation when it is called Mumbai and not Bombay - apologies.. Not. A name has surprisingly little to do with what the city really is, or for that matter, what you really are. Calling the city Mumbai or Bombay hardly reveals that little rebel or cultured intellectual in your soul, a little more than that will, so really, call it what you will but get over it.