You are looking rather sharp in that brown suit, Pheroze. It seems like a spiffy new addition to your wardrobe,” remarked Lady Flora. Hardly anything missed her eye; she always made it a point to mention these observations, irrespective of the fact that her friend, Sir PM would go white in the face each time she made such comments. It’s a different thing that she took great joy in saying these out loud, for the same reason. The friends were back in their favourite adda at Horniman Circle Garden, sipping on milky pudina chai and cookies that Sir PM had brought back from his English August break. “My Lady, you noticed. It was a lone indulgent purchase,” he confessed. Better to come clean and be spared the Spanish inquisition lest, she found out from one of her countless sources, he felt.

“So, how was the trip? Surely, more can be spilled now that you are back, considering how hush-hush you were before your departure,” she teased. “It was unusually hectic with all the engagements, but a splendid one considering the honour that was bestowed on aapro Dadabhai. And to see how all of London’s Zoroastrian community and its heritage mavens turn up to raise a toast… This was a celebration of not just Dadabhai’s life and his work but his legacy in another country where he was the first to democratically win an election,” he trailed off. Lady Flora noticed him wipe away the tears that had trickled down his cheeks as he removed his face mask.