Disquiet remains Dadri. Quiet flows the Yamuna. In Dadri life surrendered to death. On the banks of the river life asserts itself all over again. Even though on Nigambodh Ghat –– Knowledge Bank –– many undertake their last journey, the river continues to give meaning to life. Not for nothing is it believed that once the river in spate gave us the Shastras. Not for nothing was this chosen by Mughal emperor Shah Jahan to build his imperial palace, the Red Fort. The timeless Yamuna and the historic city are synonymous –– one is the lifeline, the other life.
Yes, often it is filled with pollutants. There is so much grime, so much waste. The river, silent and long suffering, forgives, accommodates, even embraces. Like the pandit who conducts an aarti on its banks every evening. Like the muezzin who pronounces the azaan at the crack of dawn. Like those whose mortal remains find lasting abode.
Then there are others who earn their daily bread by its shores, by its oft-maligned waters. Some are washer-men who bring their pile of greasy collars, soiled sheets to the river every morning and return a few hours later, all the smudge washed away from the clothes, and sunk into the bed of the river. Like the little madaris who bring their monkeys or the occasional snake-charmers. Not to forget those elephants who find an abode close to the river and come to play in its tranquil waters. Then there are those gutsy guys whose bread stems from someone’s devotion to the river. As the faithful offer coins to the Yamuna, sister of the God of Death, Yama, the boys dive right in to catch the coin. A few coins a day often mean the difference between sleeping on a full or half empty stomach on the sands of the river.
The Yamuna, it encompasses all in Delhi. Not just those who we oft consider marginal to our existence. It touches us too. Don’t we drive over the Kashmere Gate or ITO flyovers? And does not Metro rise above the river at more than a place? Indeed, on the banks of the river lies life. In its fond embrace too lies a pacific end for millions. Life, death, pollutants or pelf, the Yamuna never complains.
And Dadri? It remains a sad song. As Jagjit Singh once sang, “Hum jise gunguna nahin sakte waqt ne aesa geet kyun gaya.”
