I was born and raised in the 1960s. Mumbai was Bombay then, no sea link, no skyscrapers, so slum rehabilitation, no false promises of “the city will be the next Shanghai”. No highways and connectors that don’t connect. We had cottages, parks that were in no danger of becoming shopping malls. It was a Hansel and Gretel-like existence. I was built in a gentler time, greed was considered an aberration not the norm, I stood tallish, a five-story building. I had mixed communities living up and down my floors. Sure, I got older — don’t we all? — cracks began to appear on my exterior, and the belief was in my interior, my structure as well.

Well I’m 60, give or take, and the powers-that-be felt it was time for me to be re-developed. A new avatar was required, my people, my tenants, have mostly voted for a new building. Well, I have a point of view, I mean they’re going to knock me to the ground, Ground Zero in a manner of speaking. Boom, boom, a few days and that’s it, I’ll be a rubble of memories. You could call me a sentimental fool, but on every one of my floors, there are memories: nosy neighbours squabbling with each other. French cricket played in the corridors, rangoli outside doorways, chappals piled up, graffiti on the walls.