Lady Flora had wound up for the day, and was freshening up near her pedestal when she heard a sound. Assuming it to be vandals, which was the usual case, she swiftly turned around and readied for action. To her shock, she saw a familiar face — one that she had spotted around the traffic island many decades ago. ‘Could he be who I think it is?’ she wondered, but approached him in any case. Shoulders stooped, the artist was seated near her pedestal in the Fountain square. With some trepidation, she gently enquired, “Is that… is that you, Mr Miranda — the famous artist? Are you lost?” The man looked surprised, “I’m sorry, is this a dream? Yes, I am Mario Miranda, and I am not lost. I decided to revisit a few of my favourite spaces in the city. But aren’t you supposed to be a statue?” he asked, suitably puzzled.

Lady Flora smiled, “Well, yes and no. I also consider myself an ‘active’ custodian of this city, and don this avatar at nighttime, for obvious reasons. A dear friend and committed Bombay wallah joins me on this mission; you know him well —  Sir Pherozeshah Mehta.” Miranda managed a half-grin. “Is it? This is fascinating. And is Mr Mehta expected tonight?” he checked, politely. As if on cue, Sir PM’s heavy footsteps emerged from the far corner of Somaiya Bhavan.