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.