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They say Delhi is going to dogs. Everyone spits, everyone eve-teases, everyone blow horns. The old monuments are disfigured; the new buildings lack aesthetics. The Yamuna, the river that gives water to the Capital, is no better than a filthy nallah. Its water is black; its fishes are toxic. The consensus is that we are like this only.

We are not like this only.

One rainy morning, The Delhi Walla spotted a middle-aged couple on the Yamuna Bridge, the one that connects Lakshmi Nagar to ITO crossing. It was drizzling; the man and the woman had no umbrella, no raincoat. The lady’s sari was wet. Standing by the side of the bridge, she threw a fresh-looking rose into the river. The flower quickly swimmed away towards the direction of Okhla. Because of the rains, there was more water in Yamuna; its usual sluggishness had given way to a fast current. The lady then cupped her palms into a namaste, closed her eyes and murmured what appeared to be some prayer. Meanwhile her man fiddled with a cloth bag before taking out freshly kneaded atta dough.

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