Sir PM was poring over an open book at the top of a pile that sat precariously on one of the pews inside St Thomas Cathedral; Lady Flora had spotted him from afar as she stepped inside the landmark. These days, the friends chose to keep their adda sessions indoors, and had discontinued their strolls, given the menacing thundershowers and evening rain that was having a longish spell in the city. Not to forget the condition of the roads that had made matters worse.

“Pheroze, what’s gotten all your attention? Is there a submission or a project that you’re working on?” asked Lady Flora. She couldn’t think of any pressing, urgent issue. Sir PM slowly looked up to his friend; she noticed a few worry-lines and hints of frustration all over his face. “Why so serious? What’s bothering you? Hope it’s not bad news…” Sir PM removed his spectacles and rested them on the open book. “Cousin Sohrab couldn’t believe his ears when he heard the news. It happened so quickly that even his ever-alert neighbour, Russi, missed this one. And what a big miss it was…” Sir PM’s tone was tinged with sadness. “They got to it, finally. And that too, in the name of a public service facility or something like that.” The suspense was killing Lady Flora. “Out with it now, Pheroze. What is such a huge problem that seems to have affected you and your Bandra-residing cousin and his neighbour?” she demanded. “Bandra fort has been changed forever. That 17th century fort that was built on the rocky promontory near today’s Bandstand has been given a ‘makeover’ [he used his fingers to depict that much-debated word in single-inverted commas] by our civic authorities. The original, historic stone façade has been plastered over; and a few other interventions have also happened, I am afraid. Cousin Sohrab caught wind of it awfully late. If only Russi had not been preoccupied watching cricket all day on the telly,” Sir PM sighed as the last sentence rolled out.