It was an angry woman, Kitayun Alwa, who stepped onto Marine Drive, seeking relief from an issue that had played on her mind all day. Her beloved Mumbai was threatened by an underground metro which would strip it clean of five thousand trees. From flowering gulmohars to sturdy banyans, some of these were a hundred years old and as much a part of the city’s heritage as its Gothic and Art Deco structures. By removing the trees, the underground water table would be affected, the risk of floods would increase. Had the city planners gone mad? she wondered. Had they forgotten that terrible flood of 2005, when the city had received, over two days, 94 centimetres of rain? The highways had been flooded, the airports had been closed, and railway platforms and tracks had disappeared underwater. In parts of the city, the water level had risen to 15 feet. Trees had fallen, walls and fences had come crashing down, cars had turned turtle, and a landslide had swept away a hundred lives: slum-dwellers, living in shanties, at the foot of a hill. The city planners should know, when it came to floods, Mumbai had a history, or rather, a propensity.

She had brooded all day, thinking, if it had happened before, it could happen again. And she had called to mind that poet who’d said: the great tragedy of human existence is not that we suffer but that we forget. Truly! Truly! The amputations were there for all to see. Hapless stumps and spidery roots, evidence of daylight murders, extending from Princess Street to Churchgate, all the way up to Cuffe Parade.

She had hurried past the stumps, aware of a growing lump in her throat, aware of a rising bilious rage. Heart pounding, she had stepped onto Marine Drive, hoping the sea breeze would assuage her anger. The promenade had never failed her. It was here that Kitayun walked every evening, in track pants and sports shoes. Daily she would clock three kilometres, noting the different walking styles of people, and trying to figure out, by their manner of stride, their state of mind. Were they stressed or relaxed? Disgruntled or happy? Insular or friendly? This was one of the games she played with herself, and it was childishly liberating. At other times, she would eavesdrop on passing conversations, trying to gauge, by the pronunciation of the speakers, their community.

The promenade was, perhaps, the only place in Mumbai where life ceased to be agitated, where you were reminded, instantly, that nature could prevail over concrete, regardless of what was happening in the city. Walking here had been Kitayun’s routine for years, and despite the pressing duties of the day, it was strictly non-negotiable.

Sometimes, she would pause and watch the sunset. And just the sight of that bright flaming orb taking its leave of the city was enough to inspire deep feelings of awe.

And today she was in good time. Turning onto the drive, she saw the blazing ball of fire in the sky. And then, before her, the sadhu lying naked on his back. Yes, brazenly naked.

She looked around, her eyes craving support. This can’t be possible, she thought. But there he was, spread out shamelessly, along the parapet, his palms over his chest, his nunu hidden in a fuzz of grey. Did anyone share her outrage? she wondered. Did anyone feel as furious?

Looking around, in the same line of vision, she saw two cops, a man and a woman, both very young and relaxed. Seated on the parapet, they were laughing and chatting; for all you know, they could have been romancing. And farther down, standing on the parapet with their backs to the sea, were a group of boys and girls posing for selfies.

What was this selfie mania? she wondered. People were taking pictures all the time. They couldn’t walk a few steps without taking a snapshot. She had been seeing this for months. Friends hugging like lost-and-found siblings. Families posing like exuberant tourists. Girls pouting like debutants in a movie. And, oh, the one she hated most: people crouching and sticking out their fingers in a “V”. V for vanity, V for validation, she would snicker in her mind.

Come to think of it, she was glad she wasn’t growing up in these times, glad that she had missed it by 30-odd years. But, strangely, what she felt now was the black, heaving anger of youth. Walking up to the cops, she said, “Hello, don’t you see that naked man? Don’t you see how he exposes himself? Don’t you think you should be doing something about that? This being a public place, you know.”

The male cop glanced sideways, then said, “Madam, he is a sanyasi; he has renounced the world. How is he affecting you by being there? If you don’t like what you see, don’t look, no. See those youngsters. Are they bothered?” He pointed to the selfie gang who were posing ecstatically.

The lady cop said, “I too am a woman, madam; so I know how you feel. But he is not misbehaving, he is not doing any harm. If he were, then we would take action. That we won’t tolerate. You be assured, huh.”

The male cop said, “You just take your walk, no, madam. Enjoy the breeze and this view. Why you bother your head with such mad people? You should just ignore …”

“Yes,” said Kitayun, “we should just ignore. But, sometimes, the real mad people are not the ones we see, and yet they do us great harm. They cut our trees and take away our shelter. And they don’t think what this does to our city, our climate, our health. And we should just ignore, you say. How? Tell me how. By not seeing, not caring!”

“What are you saying, madam? Why are you talking to us like this? We have not cut any trees. All that is decided by people in the municipality and in the government. We have no say in that.” The male cop looked at her incredulously. His fingers tightened around the stick he was holding. He felt uncomfortable in the presence of this fair, middle-aged woman, who was looking at him with hard, accusing eyes.

“So, how is it that you have the authority to stop us when we try and protect our trees? But you don’t stop politicians when they hold processions and block the traffic. Or when they put up illegal hoardings, when they plaster their faces all over bus stops, bridges, and walls. But, when we try and save our trees, you arrest us … treat us like common criminals.”

“See, madam, we don’t know anything about that. We are here for your protection, to see there is no pickpocketing or bag-grabbing. But, if you like, we will go and speak to the sadhu. We will request him to go elsewhere.”

“The only place he should go to is prison. Such a man should not be allowed to roam free. That is the problem with our society. In the name of religion, anything goes. Nudity-fudity, building of illegal temples, shouting and dancing on the streets, and putting up mandaps and hoardings on a whim. Now, are you going to do something about this pervert, havildar, or should I …?”

Reluctantly, the male cop got to his feet, and the lady cop followed him. Approaching the sadhu, the male cop banged his stick hard against the parapet. “Kai re, baba, people here are getting upset with you. Don’t you have something to cover yourself? Why are you sleeping naked, as though you are in some forest?”

Excerpted with permission from ‘Mental About Mumbai’ in Muses Over Mumbai, Murzban F Shroff, Bloomsbury India.