Water hyacinth covered half of the Yamuna. Mass of silt, debris and mud poked its nose, pushing back the water into a thinner stream. Can this be called water – this toxic semi-solid mix of industrial waste and garbage that the city discarded every day? Hussain Miyan sat on the banks of the river, staring blankly at the dark mass. He often threw a twig at it and with a worldly-wise look chaperoned the children who played in the shrubby land that lined the stream. "See, it neither flows, nor floats. It is just stuck. It is captured in that dark mess, like a curse. It will slowly sink." The children always made fun of Hussain Miyan. Nearly everybody did.
On the other side of the river stood the cybercity Noida, with giant buildings in different shapes and sizes. The blinking lights in those structures reminded Hussain Miyan of stars that twinkled in the skies of the Delhi of his younger years. When the sky was not as grey, his mind was less clouded and his judgments sharper. When his libido was kicking and he was not lost all the time. Then he dreamt more and daydreamed less.
Hussain Miyan reared two horses. He initially had three. Like Shoaib, his only son, the horses, Chunu, Munnu and Gajju, were like his children. He treated all his human and non-human wards equally, till compulsion pinioned him four years back. Shoaib had to go to the Gulf for work, and Hussain Miyan needed to pay 25,000 rupees to an agent named Abdul Lateef. Hussain Miyan had to sell off Chunnu, his best horse. Could he have done the opposite? Could he sell Shoaib to meet some imminent crisis in Chunnu's life? He often toyed with such philosophical conundrums while sitting by the Yamuna and waiting for the ships to arrive at midnight.
Hussain Miyan's wife Madina sold roasted corn cobs on the pavements of Okhla Head. She sat on the corner of a bridge that went over the Yamuna Canal. Hussain Miyan sometimes left the riverside and climbed the ret ka tilla, a sandhill, to sneak a look at her. He hid behind a neem tree and watched her from a distance. Her face glowed in the darkness from the orange flames of the fire she roasted the bhutta in. She started in the afternoon and continued till night. The colour of her face changed as day melted into night. Labourers gathered on the bridge from the morning, as it was also the biggest labour chowk in Okhla. The ones who could not find work hung around and flirted with Madina. She flirted back.