THE cliche isdeafening: Bombay is a city and Delhi is a village. The first has alwaysharboured delusions of being a stable, superior cosmos. The myth was exploded,in an all-too-literal fashion, in those dark days after Ayodhya. But our onlyManhattan-style megalopolis survived, with enough traces of megalomania. Thebustling entrepot on the Arabian sea and playground of the financial bourgeoisiestill thrives on smug assumptions. One being that it's somehow divinelyordained to wrinkle its nose forever at the sterile post-Lutyens outcrop in themiddle of the loutish cow-belt. If you haven't caught on, that's Delhi. Anunholy, unwholesome mess of semi-rural attitudes, paralysing forces ofgovernmental inaction emanating from every national centre-for-something-or-the-otherand far too many stupid gardens to ever throb with late 20th century urbanpower. Bombay has its urbanism mythologised in rags-to-riches Bollywoodfantasies, the classic urban possibility of the man-from-nowhere hitting theAsia Top 50 before you can say Dhirubhai Ambani, with the chawl and theskyscraper completing a picture of magnetic, schizophrenic charm. It's the BigCity in a Big Hurry, sometimes dirty, sometimes mean, but always open to dizzypossibilities. And Delhi, allegedly, is the killjoy town, where excitement diesevery day on monotonous tree-lined avenues, where greasy-haired babus rub theircrotch against trembling schoolgirls on uncouth Redlines, where culture getssmothered in cloying, everything-official-about-it ceremonies. Can the tales ofthe two cities ever compare? Or are the equations changing? Is there amyth-making factory at work, running on outdated machinery?