Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
The one place where Delhi retains a bit of the river life that it ought to have is Ram Ghat,
which clings to the west side of the river immediately below the Wazirabad Barrage. It is
behind this barrage, which doubles as a bridge to east Delhi, that the city's drinking water
supply collects.
Ram Ghat is a bank of broad stairs dropping precipitously to the river from a wooded
area next to the road. The upstream edge of the ghat abuts the barrage, itself several stories
tall. Thick concrete pylons support its roadway, with metal doors in between, to hold back
the upstream part of the river. In monsoon season, large volumes of water are allowed
through, but on the day Mansi and I visited, all the doors were closed but for one, and even
it was open only a crack. Several boys laughed and swam in the minor waterfall that spilled
from its edge. Because we were upstream of the sewage drains that emptied into the river,
the water here was brighter and clearer, and free of those unmentionable floating clumps.
On the far side of the river we could see modest fields of vegetables. There were small
fields like this up and down the floodplain, even in Delhi.
At the top of the stairs, a man wearing office clothes bought a tiny tray of birdseed from
a vendor, placed it in front of some ravens on the parapet, and prayed. On the submerged
steps at the bottom, a boy lingered knee-deep in the river, collecting plastic bags and scraps
of wood. A few yards downriver, a woman heaved a two-foot-tall idol of Ganesh into the
water. By the time his elephant-headed form had disappeared under the surface, she was
already starting the climb back, dusting off her hands as she went.
I walked down the tall stairs to the water. On the bottom step, a man in a white undershirt
was dragging a magnet through the water. The coin collectors were innovating. “To live,
you have to do something,” he said, in the universal wisdom offered to journalists who ask
people about their humble, dangerous, or generally crummy jobs. And there were worse
ways to spend your life than wandering up and down Ram Ghat in your shorts.
On the lowest step, I hunkered by the water. I wasn't about to take a holy dip, as they
call it, but this seemed like the cleanest spot on Delhi's riverbank to get tight with the god-
dess of love. If it was good enough for Shiva, it was good enough for my tiny, writhing
knot of a heart.
I put a hand in the water. Minute forms darted away. Water bugs. Something still lived in
the Yamuna. Under the heat of the day, the river was cool against my skin. Coliform-rich,
but refreshing. I lifted a handful of water. How much of this was Ganga? How much from
the Munak Escape? How much had diffused its way upstream from the nearest sewage out-
flow? I poured it over my head. Yamuna's all-encompassing love dribbled through my hair,
down the back of my neck, and soaked into the collar of my shirt.
