Sir PM looked as if he was set to head out for a monsoon trek—raincoat, sturdy rainproof walking boots and a walking stick—the last prop made Lady Flora wonder if he had a fall. It was unbearably humid despite the steady sea breeze that was blowing across the Oval Maidan, while they were taking their stroll. Their pace was slowed down by Sir PM’s lugging of his rain gear in a waterproof tote that came with a zipper. She glanced every now and then to check if her friend was alright, and chose to not speak until he did, given that he was gasping for breath.

He finally did, after he got used to this excess baggage. “My Lady, you must surely be wondering why I am lugging this around,” he smiled, sheepishly. “Well, it’s all for my protection. You would have also witnessed the pre-monsoon showers that hit the city last week. Dare I ask if you were caught in the downpour and the aftermath. Unfortunately, I was. I was in the middle of my usual evening chai session on the balcony, when the wife requested me to head to Byculla station to pick up her cousin who was arriving from Surat. I should have sensed that it was an inauspicious sign when I spotted raindrops dripping into my chai. By the time I reached Byculla things worsened; the familiar traffic snarls, and the muck flowing out of untreated drains. It was the pits. To add to the melee, my footwear couldn’t handle the messy roads, and I took a near full dive near Khada Parsi statue near a non-footpath; thank goodness for an agile taxiwallah on his chai break, who spotted my loss of balance and grabbed me before I did a full tumble. I swear I could see Seth Cursetjee Manockjee Shroff guffaw at my plight from the corner of his mouth, despite my horizontal position. Luckily, the cousin and I returned home unscathed from any further trauma. Who knows I would have been six feet under by now,” he sighed.