Requiem for a stream
Rooma Mehra

Every summer I would start hearing the call of Chail from all the sweating nooks and corners of burning Delhi. It was Sadhopul — our special stream in Chail that beckoned me. There is very little water left in this tiny gurgling stream now, but I have made it an annual ritual to at least once immerse myself in the waters of this beloved stream, surrounded by caves. It brings back memories of what I had read about in Enid Blyton adventure books as a child.

My sister and I smiled at each other as we saw the tiny board with "Sadhopul" written on it. My uncle, who accompanied us this time, and my nephew Saif, had excitement writ large on their smiling countenances.

Saif and I headed towards the stream straight away. It was only when we noticed a huge construction truck standing nearby that we realised that something was not quite right. I had already quenched my one year long thirst of embracing this stream that I was so attached to, primarily because nobody else seemed to come here, and it was beginning to seem ours. And it had a quaint feel to it. Its shiny boulders seem to smile at us every year, as we approached it.

I looked at the construction truck, with a sense of foreboding. What I was told, devastated me completely.

They were constructing a concrete dam to convert the stream into a lake for tourists to do boating in. The moving, gurgling, laughing flow of the stream was going to be throttled and "dammed" and further gallivanting blocked. Now its flow was going to be chained by humans and imprisoned into a stagnant pond by the dam. Tourists would flock around the stagnant lake or move around in boats scattering polythene bags into its dirtied soul. My heart lurched.. and what about the boulders?

What about its tinkling, singing, gushing, gurgling water... always streaming on? It’s voluntary flow would be blocked. Now it would move to the tune of man-made oars and cringe under the sound of the motorboat’s engine.

Stream songs? They would be replaced by the latest remixes blaring out from the fast food joints serving Pepsi and other cold drinks and snacks, that could already be seen but would be seen in their full glory, only after the taming of the wild stream.

This year, I returned to Delhi not just with a heavy heart.

Two days later, we were back. I barely staggered in with my throat completely blocked and my voice gone. When the doctor asked me what on earth had happened to cause such damage to my throat, I thought I would unburden my heavy heart to him.

"It is such a strange little story. There was a beautiful little stream in Chail called Sadhopul, which I love to take a dip every year. This year I went down with my nephew, and I as was to impatient to notice that there was huge construction standing nearby, and chemicals and concrete being injected into the water, (they have decided to "dam" the stream and make a lake for tourists there). Although there was too little water to be fully immersed, I fully immersed my head into it first. I really loved that stream. That night my throat was so blocked that I could hardly breathe, let alone swallow. Fever was touching 105 by the time I reached home half-dead." The doctor was not at all amused at my carelessness, and remarked, "Well! If you live through tonight, we shall know that you survived the poisons from your beloved stream."

Well! I survived the dying convulsions of my once pure and beautiful stream as it was being injected with all kinds of poisons!

I am too much of a coward to be able to face the dead stream locked into a pond for tourists, its dirtied waters giving a tiny shuddering heave every now and then as if to escape its man-made boundaries, as it is bombarded with boats, tourists and loud, remixed songs...

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