When my father spent all his life savings to buy a house, it was on a marsh where nothing existed but mosquitoes. They called it Lokhandwala Complex, but the only complex things there were the mangrove swamps. A dirt track led to it, and all around us buildings were under construction on reclaimed swampland. The air was full of dust, and the nights full of beastly buzzing, biting insects. The year was 1981.

But, it was home, and the cheapest my father could buy with his life's savings. Getting there was easy. You turn right at Four Bungalows and hurtle like a fiend down a half-road, headlights blazing. At the end, like the promised land, were the fiendish towers of Lokhandwala's. On full moon nights, luminous white horses galloped across the marsh and camels sashayed through the darkness, swinging their butts and releasing ammonia farts.