The Bombay described in Prarambh was already disintegrating in the 1950s, when the first disputes arose between Gujaratis and Maharashtrians over the possession of the city. Cooperative, cosmopolitan Bombay broke down completely on October 30, 1966, when Bal Thackeray launched the Shiv Sena at Shivaji Park. You can provide many explanations for why its infrastructure is a mess, why speculators are allowed to drive its land prices so high, why slum redevelopment rackets and haphazard constructions are the norm: you can say that there is a “governance deficit,” that the municipal commissioner, the city’s CEO, is not an elected official, that the city gives more to the state than it gets back, that the state gives more to New Delhi than it gets back. These are reasons for Mumbai’s decline. But more important than any of them is a decades-old cultural war between a part of its Marathi-speaking population and everyone else in the city—a war that has ensured a group of corrupt men can keep running Mumbai, no matter badly how they wreck it, as long as they keep it Marathi. Like everything else to do with Mumbai, the issue is complicated: many Marathi speakers oppose parties like the mns, and the Maharashtrian identity is a complex one, riven along caste and regional lines. All this is true, but what is also true is that as Mumbai’s municipal elections draw to a close, on the final, all-important days of polling, what the candidates yell from their podiums is not a promise to improve trains or roads, but “to cut the hands of anyone who tries to separate Mumbai from Maharashtra”.