

When the question “Where does Delhi get its water from?” was posed to a roomful of people at Mool: multidimensional space and art collective, South Extension, silence filled the space. Some thought the answer was tap water, tankers, clouds and borewells and some suggested Yamuna—but few knew the real answer.
“It’s from the Upper Ganga canal,” explained Avli Verma, a researcher at Manthan Adhyayan Kendra, after the recent documentary screening, organised by Films Aaj Kal, themed around Rivers, Urbanisation, and Displacement.“Even though the Tehri Dam, located in Uttarakhand, was primarily built to supply water to Delhi, not just the local population. Only about 22 per cent of our water comes from the Yamuna. The rest is diverted from upstream sources.”
Two documentaries were screened, both exploring the river’s shifting ecological and human landscapes. The first, Jamna: The River Story by Ishani K. Dutta, offers an emotional portrayal of Shyam, a third-generation boatman living with his mother, Sarla Devi, on the riverbanks. As their family boat business declines due to pollution and changing river dynamics, the film intertwines personal memory with systemic failure.
The film alternates between glimpses of the river’s still-evident beauty and its decay: children playing, rituals at temples, and industrial foam swirling amid garbage. The film also shifts from Shyam's emotional narrative to input from historians, ecologists, and Delhi Jal Board officials, offering insight into how Delhi itself contributes to the river’s deterioration. The Yamuna Action Plan, which since 1993 has cost over R5,000 crore with little impact, is questioned. Government officials blame upstream pollution, while locals navigate broken promises. amidst the foam and debris, rituals such as Chhath Puja continue on the riverbanks.
Shyam’s story anchors the film emotionally. He recalls when festivals and faith gatherings filled the ghats. Now, those memories fade with the river’s vitality. Despite shrinking income and losing his boats during the July 2023 floods, he refuses to leave. “Not everything is about money,” he says. For him and his mother, the river is home – more than just a livelihood.
Dutta’s film doesn’t shy away from hard questions. Can a river be saved by displacing those who have lived with it for generations? Who is environmental conservation really for?
The second film, Disappearing Diving Communities by Kritik V. of the People’s Resource Centre, focuses on the Gotakhors, a traditional diving community who have long lived by and worked in the Yamuna. These divers have kept the river’s depths clean and navigable for generations, but their livelihoods are now at risk as the condition of the river deteriorates.
Environmental researcher Soumya Dutta, also a panelist, offered a broader critique: “From the river, not only water, but the river as a whole—the life system of the river, the dependent communities, the other biological species—deep thinking is not happening today.”
Often seen at Yamuna ghats like Cheeni Ghat and Chhath Ghat, the Gotakhors dive into the river not just to clean but to survive. They recover coins, religious offerings, and even waste—both decomposable and not—which they later sell to earn a living.
One of the film’s protagonists, Muhammad Zakir—a Gotakhor who works in the ITO Ghat—spoke to the audience after the screening. “I have lived by the banks of the Yamuna all my life and this river has been my source of livelihood for years. But now things are changing, our work continues, but we’re not being allowed to engage with the river the way we once did. If we can’t work here, where will we go? Sometimes, we try to explain things to people—ask them not to throw plastic or polythene bags into the river, and to give them to us instead so we can dispose of them properly. But instead of listening, crowds gather, people argue, and our work gets disrupted. It feels like no one really wants to listen to us.”
The screening didn’t offer solutions; instead, it raised the right questions: Who truly understands the Yamuna river? Who decides its future? And whom do we forget when we talk about saving it?