2 days Ago
The water is opaque and blackish, moving sluggishly. A man slowly emerges from under it. His whole body stays submerged in the water, except for the head.
He looks up, and waves at the gazer standing by the bridge. The bridge is upon the Yamuna. The sacred river originates from the snowbound altitude of the Himalayas, falls into the plains, flows through Haryana, and then is obliged to traverse 20 very dismal kilometres through Delhi, where more than 20 drains eject their refuse into it.
While some 15 bridges span over the Yamuna along its fateful Delhi course, this bridge on the DND flyway most cinematically illustrates the bonds between the megapolis and the river. The river is spread wide, flanked by trees and tall grass. The wilderness, in turn, is flanked on one side by the faraway business towers of Noida, which, from this distance, are looking like an optical trick of the air.
This late afternoon, cars and bikes are running non-stop on both directions along the bridge. Everything is a blur but for a signboard prohibiting commuters from throwing “pooja material or any other material like food grain, oil, flower, polythene, garbage” into the river—“any person found violating this shall be liable to pay compensation of 5,000 rupees.” Soon enough, a scooterist stops by the signage.
He scoops out a fistful of grains from a plastic bag and throws the grains along the roadside. At once, scores of grey pigeons appear. Despite the traffic’s steady unfluctuating drone, the overwhelming ambiance on the windy bridge is of utmost quietude, the kind experienced in remote destinations.
In all, the stretch of the river here has managed to strike a somewhat serene rapport with the city. And yet; the great river otherwise barely registers its presence in the cultural map of our city. The Yamuna definitely is not to Delhi what Ganga is to Benares, or Seine is to Paris.
Far away, down under the bridge, a woman in a yellow sari is walking by the river. She suddenly makes a turn, and starts to climb a raggedy slope, moving away from the river. Ant-like, she walks into a dense cover of trees, beyond which the Noida high-rises are shimmering in the haze.
On escaping the Capital, the Yamuna heads to the Taj Mahal in Agra, flows past the picturesque fort at Kalpi, onwards to its eventual merger into the holy Ganga. Meanwhile, the aforementioned man is continuing to linger in the river. See photo.
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