Ancient facades of crumbling masonry stood proudly above the midday steam rising from hot sticky tar; unaffected by the incessant cacophony of hooters; and unintimidated by the constant parade of almost impossibly bright orange, pink, blue and yellow saris flowing past them.
They have had their heady moments of being stared at, admired, photographed, marvelled at; there was a time when they demanded admiration. But now they are quiet and graceful in their journey towards the dust from which they were born. Silently holding hundreds of years of secrets within their greying walls.
I had arrived in Bombay.