Going grey has its uses. We were on the Metro in Delhi recently, travelling from Noida Sector 15 to Subhash Nagar. The coach wasn’t crowded, but there was no place to sit. Suddenly, two young men jumped up to make room for us: these were the seats reserved for the disabled and the elderly (that lovely word, varisht ). “They do that,” Shobha, long-time Metro-user, said. “They get up for you, wherever they are sitting.”
Now, that was a pleasant surprise because, let’s be honest, Delhi is a pretty aggressive place. In fact, just the day before, a new friend I made on the evening walk in Chennai had talked about how, in her career as a flight attendant with Indian Airlines, she had noticed that colleagues from the south tended to be self-effacing (more power to that), while those from the north were more pushy. This is a generalisation; however, it projects a certain trend, or probability.
You feel the aggression, and see it: at the Meru counter outside the airport; in a bookshop in Khan Market; while buying sweets at Bikanerwala in Noida. People elbowing you out of their way, no questions asked, no quarter given, and certainly no excuse-me-pleases.
Assault on senses
The sight of the massive structure that’s come up to host the cultural event proposed to be hosted by The Art of Living, on the bed of the Jamuna, right beside the DND flyway, is similarly an assault on the senses. As indeed is the sight of the gigantic and sprawling Akshardham complex a little further, also occupying precious acres of space on the riverbed.
Let’s assume that all permissions are acquired (through means fair or foul). And let’s set aside any arguments we may have for or against the case (and there are plenty of those). What gives anybody, or any organisation, even the government, the right to meddle with the delicate balance of our hugely endangered and highly compromised natural resources?
For years, local farmers have grown vegetables on the riverbed and bank. Checking for this fact on the net threw up a disturbing piece of information: in 2005, the National Green Tribunal had ruled that vegetables grown on the floodplains of the Yamuna were contaminated, and consuming them could lead to cancer. It, therefore, went on to prohibit the growing of vegetables.
We, the common people, know that misuse of the river, the riverbed, and its banks will certainly lead to an ecological disaster. As has been happening all over the country, whether as a consequence of building huge dams (Narmada) or land-filling for illegal construction on waterbeds (Chennai) or carelessly dumping toxic materials (mercury poisoning in Kodaikanal) — it’s a long list, growing longer.
A river’s journey
In this latest instance, the point is: How much more trauma will the Yamuna have to endure, and for how much longer? This river, the longest and second largest tributary of the Ganga, travels all the way from the Yamunotri glacier in Uttarakhand to Allahabad in Uttar Pradesh, a distance of over 1,200 km. Rivers have, over civilisations, sustained lives and livelihoods. We know that the most prosperous communities have been those that lived on the banks of clean, flowing rivers, yielding fish and facilitating trade and travel. History books from all over the world tell us that.
Yet, when the Yamuna comes to Delhi, it becomes a sewage drain. This sewage drain supplies drinking water to the capital of India. It’s akin to cutting off your own feet: filthying the river with effluents comprising household, industrial, fertiliser and pesticide discharge, and refuse from construction and other activity. Today, it is believed to be one of the most polluted rivers in the world.
Mythological corroboration
Is that the Yamuna’s fate? And is that the fate the people of Delhi and surrounding areas are condemned to? It would appear so, judging by the mythology surrounding the Yamuna. For instance, there’s one story about Krishna’s brother Balarama, wanting to bathe in the Yamuna.
It appears he’s nice and high at the time and so, instead of making his unsteady way to the river, he commands the river to come to him. Yamuna refuses to comply. Balarama is furious. He chucks his plough in the river’s direction and makes the Yamuna come to him, thus physically changing her course. Not very different from the kind of things we’re doing to rivers these days.
Then there is the story of Kaliyamardana, popularly depicted in song and dance — but it would seem that its real message remains encrypted. Kaliya was a serpent that suddenly slipped into the Yamuna, and began to spew its poisonous toxins into the water. All those who drank from the river — humans, animals, birds, and plants — died. When Krishna noticed what was happening, he jumped into the river, climbed on to Kaliya’s head, and literally pounded the poison out of the serpent’s system. Kaliya left the Yamuna, supposedly never to return. The Yamuna was detoxified with the help of the sun’s rays.
Has Kaliya returned? How long will we have to wait for Krishna? If and when Krishna does arrive, how will the sun’s rays manage to reach the river through the polluted air?
The real question, though, is: Who are Kaliya and Krishna?