A river runs through this city The river crawls along, hidden away from most people. No one, it seems, wants to admit its presence. The river’s sewage-infused water stinks. It smells of rotting animal carcasses that bob on its currents. It smells of harsh metallic chemicals from industrial runoffs. Its bends, which trap objects, smell of sour fermenting trash.
All along this forgotten river live the forgotten people. They live in cramped hives of mud huts with rusting corrugated roofs. They breathe the dust from the road that runs alongside the river. On this road, I often see children chasing old bicycle rims. They roll the hoop along, shepherding it with a small stick. Beside one of the river’s many bends, some kids play cricket. Instead of wickets, they use bricks. Instead of a bat, they use a small plywood plank. Their fathers watch them from the doorsteps, chain-smoking. Their mothers barely look up from the job at hand. I mostly see them wringing piles of laundry. Sometimes I see them queuing at the community water taps. Plastic jars astride their hip, waiting their turn, they make small talk.
I take this pockmarked, uneven road to work to beat the traffic. After heavy rains, its surface softens to sludge. In the summer, the tyre marks turn into narrow crisscrossing ravines. But no one thinks to move the rocks that remain. They jut out at unexpected places, looming like miniature hills. They just lie there, unaccounted for by the road department.
The road department focuses on the bigger, vehicle-clogged blacktopped roads. The motorists too don’t prefer this bumpy riverside road. Thus it barely sees traffic. The river cuts like a long gash through this city. And yet the river remains invisible to most people. Perhaps this city wants to forget the river. Perhaps the city wants to forget the people living alongside it too.
All along this forgotten river live the forgotten people. They live in cramped hives of mud huts with rusting corrugated roofs. They breathe the dust from the road that runs alongside the river. On this road, I often see children chasing old bicycle rims. They roll the hoop along, shepherding it with a small stick. Beside one of the river’s many bends, some kids play cricket. Instead of wickets, they use bricks. Instead of a bat, they use a small plywood plank. Their fathers watch them from the doorsteps, chain-smoking. Their mothers barely look up from the job at hand. I mostly see them wringing piles of laundry. Sometimes I see them queuing at the community water taps. Plastic jars astride their hip, waiting their turn, they make small talk.
I take this pockmarked, uneven road to work to beat the traffic. After heavy rains, its surface softens to sludge. In the summer, the tyre marks turn into narrow crisscrossing ravines. But no one thinks to move the rocks that remain. They jut out at unexpected places, looming like miniature hills. They just lie there, unaccounted for by the road department.
The road department focuses on the bigger, vehicle-clogged blacktopped roads. The motorists too don’t prefer this bumpy riverside road. Thus it barely sees traffic. The river cuts like a long gash through this city. And yet the river remains invisible to most people. Perhaps this city wants to forget the river. Perhaps the city wants to forget the people living alongside it too.
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