Gargoyle no. 1 stared at his wingspan. It didn’t look good. A sheath of moss that threatened to discolour and mar his impressive gait, was giving him sleepless nights. As if the whizzing endless city traffic below wasn’t enough. “The Mumbai monsoon, I tell you...” he muttered under his breath, loud enough to be heard by one of the tropical animal figurines from the menagerie on the façade of the Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus (formerly Victoria Terminus). “We really feel for you. Especially since you’re exposed to the elements,” sighed the lizard-like creature from the group. “This year, the rains have been quite unforgiving; look at my feathers, my plume...” moaned the peacock from another corner of the weather-beaten wall. Towards the main entrance to the offices of the terminus, the roundels with faces of some of the city’s founding fathers didn’t look particularly happy too. Over 150 monsoons had left its mark on their imposing legacy.

The opposite neighbour, the BMC building had slightly better luck, what with the recent restoration. But as we drew close, the whispers and sighs could be head. Gargoyle no. 2 sitting pretty at the centrepoint of the landmark let out an unappeased growl (or so we’d imagine would be expected of this medieval beast). “Restoration. Huh! Look what’s become of it already. All that pomp and spendour, for what?” Sir PM Mehta nodded. After all, his once-magnificent robe wasn’t becoming of his standing. “Ho-hum. This is Bombay. No wonder, Britain’s soldiers couldn’t survive even three monsoons,” he scoffed, as he wiped off a few giant raindrops from his forehead.