The building was hoisted on pillars to accommodate a car park on the ground floor, the apartments were from the first floor onwards. The monstrous concrete pillars — to counter the gradient in the plot of land — resembled kangaroo legs: short in front and long hind legs. The lopsided building only emphasised the quaintness that was Mumbai. Nothing was straight. Nothing was perfect. Everything was individualist yet charming in its own fashion. Like any other apartment that was over half a century old, the façade was sad and dilapidated — Mumbai monsoon, the sea close by, the moisture in the air had all taken their toll, but the interiors of most of the apartments, however, were totally in contrast with the exteriors. It wasn't Cuffe Parade, but it was still was one of the most desired, most prosperous suburbs of Mumbai. Rita had bought a fourth floor 2BHK apartment — a Two-Bedroom-Hall-Kitchen — in the beginning of the new millennium; she had gladly sold two of her ancestral properties in Goa and invested the money in this.
