The current shimmering pale white. Around me,

Nothing but a few trees and a clump of reeds.

Liu Bingqi is a poet and novelist residing in Changsha. His works have appeared in numerous periodicals, including Literature of the Chinese People’s Liberation Army, Star Poetry Monthly, Poetry Monthly, Lotus, Genesis, Hunan Literature, Xiangjiang Literature and Art, Zhejiang Poets, Oasis, Green Wind, Spark, Poetry Tide, Contemporary People, Olive Green, Special Zone Literature, Young Writers, Literary Port, Creation, Avant-Garde Literature, Prose Poetry, Yellow River Literature, Coconut City, Yan’an Literature, and Writers’ Village. Many of his pieces have been anthologized. He has published four full-length novels, among which Traces of a Grand Dream Fade Away is his representative work.

刘炳琪，诗人、小说家，现居长沙。作品散见《解放军文艺》《星星》《诗刊》《芙蓉》《创世纪》《湖南文学》《湘江文艺》《浙江诗人》《绿洲》《绿风》《火花》《诗潮》《当代人》《橄榄绿》《特区文学》《青年作家》《文学港》《创作》《前卫文学》《散文诗》《黄河文学》《椰城》《延安文学》《作家村》等。多部作品被收入文集。著有长篇小说《大梦无痕》等四部

Translated by Ma Yongbo

By the River

Alone, I gaze eye to eye with a stretch of river,

The current shimmering pale white. Around me,

Nothing but a few trees and a clump of reeds.

I am the only upright shape left on the sandbar.

I have no wish to utter a word to the sunlight.

My shadow, the trees’ shadows

vanish the moment the sun slips behind clouds.

I can only fix my gaze on a lone waterfowl,

and picture the tender warmth of fish beneath the surface.

No boats drift on the water. All boats perished years ago.

The bridge stands as an everlasting tombstone.

Wind brushes my forehead, as if the whole afternoon

keeps repeating one truth to me:

Death holds no terror, others carry on living in their stead.

河边

一个人，与一段河流对视

流水泛着白光。我的周围

除了几棵树，一丛芦苇

我是沙滩仅剩的高度

并不想对阳光说些什么

我的影子，树的影子

太阳一进云层，就不见了

只能把目光落向那只水鸟

想象鱼儿的温情

河面没有船。船在多年前死去

桥成了永恒的墓碑

风从额前拂过，仿佛整个下午

都在向我陈述同一件事：

死并不可怕，有人替他继续活

***

Standing Alone by the Xiang River

Night spreads like thick ink. I cannot make out the river’s rolling waves,

only water pounding the embankment, sending sprays flying.

Lights glimmer on the far bank, blurring all fine shapes,

their reflections rippling and flickering on the current.

Streams of cars hurry to and fro along the shore;

not a single soul pauses. This vast, hollow quiet

feels reserved solely for me. I wonder

if I were a boat, would I sound my horn

to call down a handful of stars? The night hangs far too still.

Wind is forever the river’s devout follower:

it sweeps across the water, then brushes over me,

passes through my frame, and drifts toward the trees.

When nothing soft remains to stir, it tugs at tall buildings and bridges,

as if every trace of silence must be roused to life.

Yet I am no faint, half-hidden sandbar far out on the water,

forced to endure endless drifting to simply exist.

I only wish to linger a little longer. All grace in life

resides in fleeting instants just like this moment

cool current brushing gently over my insteps,

and I sink into hush beside the river, one with the sandbank.

独立湘江

夜色如墨。我看不清一江波浪

唯水拍堤岸，溅起浪花

彼岸灯光，并不刻画细节

把倒影弄得闪闪烁烁

车水马龙。在岸边

没有人停下来。这辽阔的空旷

像为我一人所有。我想

如果我是一艘船，会不会用汽笛

唤来几颗星星。它们太静了

风永远是水的信徒

吹过水，然后吹我

吹过我，然后吹向树木

都吹不动时，就吹高楼，吹桥

仿佛所有的沉默，都必须生动起来

但我并不是远处若隐若现的洲

非要流失中存在

我只是想多待一会。人生的美好

宛若某些短暂的时光，也如此刻

流水轻轻抚摸我的脚背

我和沙滩一样，沉浸水边

***

Morning by the Lake

At the touch of wind, the lake ripples into a smile.

Who else wanders through reeds and thin mist,

keeping company with the fish as I do?

The covered bridge stretches not far,

yet every step draws a tender romantic echo back to me.

Songs drift down the hills, figures linger along the shore,

morning hours drip with glistening water drops,

I wonder how many such gentle days

have left vivid marks upon this lake.

I spare no thought for the lake’s hidden depth

its waters run crystal clear.

No need to ponder the long road ahead,

nor plan what tasks await me later.

Each brand-new day ought to be like life itself:

steady, and full of joy.

Sunlight has not yet arrived.

A cozy warmth edged with faint coolness

spreads soft through every part of my body.

I long to stroll a while longer,

toward the pavilion, down to the sandbank,

unhurried, light as reed catkins,

to carry home the quiet serenity of the lake.

湖的早晨

风一吹，湖水就笑

有谁和我一样，穿行芦苇与薄雾

与鱼儿相伴？廊桥不算长

每走一步，都会浪漫和我回应

山上有歌声，湖边有人影

早晨的时间，滴着水滴

我想，有多少这样的日子

给一个湖泊留下生动

不去想湖水的深度，它们那么清澈

不去想还有多长的路要走

不去想接下来要做什么

对于一个新的白天，总要像生活那样

可靠，快乐

阳光还未到来。暖中带凉的舒适

从身体四处漫延

我还想走一走，到亭子，到沙滩

不急不忙，像芦絮那样

将湖的淡泊，带回家

___________________________

Read: To My Overseas Poet Friends

The post By the River – Poetry from China first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Dr. Jernail Singh Anand

In literature, every event has a 3D personality. The first dimension of an event is what really happens, if it is based on reality. Stories and events that are found in literature are not reality, but based on reality.  Suppose a murder takes place. It has a creative structure around it. Someone kills somebody for reasons best known to him. But a murdered body is lying on the road. People look at the body, talk in different ways, police arrives, and then, there are inquiries and investigations. These are things that have happened in real time.

Now, a novelist tries to bring this murder into his writing. First of all, he has no first hand of knowledge of what has happened, and how it has happened. Just as police reconstruct the scene of murder, the novelist too reconstructs the murder in his novel. What will be the difference between the real time murder and the reconstituted event?  The subtext of the real time murder is entirely different from the over text that the novelist will bring to it. The novelist takes this event into the furnace of his imagination, where so many past memories are on a permanent visa. This new item is added into the cauldron and baked in his imagination. Now, what he comes up with is the over-text [essentially it is bio-text] because to the event, so much of his own personality has been added. The event is the same, a murder, but the novelist has added his own vision to it. The novelist brings it to life in his fictional world. The people who see this murder and the dead body build their own texts, but they soon evaporate because they have no appetite for putting them down into stories. The murder becomes the headlines for a few days, the subject of gossip and then, everything whispers down. So, we have two personalities of the same event, the one which goes into police investigation. And the second that becomes a chapter in a novelist’s fiction.

The story does not end here.

When this novel is read by a reader, a new over text will be created, because the story as it is told by the author will further act and react with the reader’s imagination. And in his mind, a new structure will be created, which will be the amalgam of three personalities: the real murder, the reconstructed story of the novelist, and the reflexes of his own mind, adding something off his own imagination. In this way, an ‘innocent’ event [murder] has been treated to two more personalities. Who is justifying whom, who is at fault, the novelist debates, which the reader too debates in his own mind, finally, there is a story which is entirely different from the original event.

How literature becomes a kaleidoscope?

Things don’t end here. When another reader picks up the novel, the same story will appear in a different persona. And still, if we imagine a million people read the novel, a million stories will be architextured from the text.  It will be a mega amalgam of imagination, and a time will come, when it will be very difficult to extricate the real and the unreal, and the supra-real. This is the spectacle that literature offers, a thousand versions, which is the real stuff of human life.

What we live, and what we come across, are only version. We too are version, realized in a momentary state. We are always in a state of flux. Our consciousness is flowing. If we stand on the bank of a river, it is not the river alone that is flowing, our vision too is flowing.  Are our thoughts fixed at any time at anything for long? No. it is a flow. We are just moments, fleeting moments, and we are not more than snap-shots taken from a running car, which cannot be repeated even after a split second.

Read: Beyond Heaven Beyond Hell

_____________________

 Dr. Jernail S. Anand, with 200 books to his credit [18 epics] is a Chandigarh-based top ranking author, whose seminal work ‘Lustus: The Prince of Darkness’ challenges the moral complacency of our era. He is founding President of the International Academy of Ethics, and Laureate of Charter of Morava [Serbia], Seneca [Italy], Franz Kafka [Germany, Ukraine, Czeck Rep] and Maxim Gorky [Russia] Soka Ikeda and Mahakavi Bharati (India) Awards, his name is inscribed on the Poets’ Rock in Serbia. Email: anandjs55@yahoo.com.

The post A Kaleidoscopic View of Life first appeared on Sindh Courier.

The answer depends on what we do today. Let us raise our voices before it is too late. Let us protect the city that has stood for millennia. Let us honor the people who built it. Let us save Mohenjodaro. Because once it is gone, no amount of regret will bring it back.

Save Mohenjodaro. Save the Indus Civilization. Save the memory of humanity itself.

 Debasree Chakraborti | Kolkata                          

After Rakhaldas Banerji, has there truly been any deep and sincere research on Mohenjo-daro in that real sense?

Yesterday I had a long discussion with Nasir Aijaz Nasir ji about Mohenjo-daro. With great sadness, he said that today there is no longer any research on Mohenjo-daro in that true sense. During the monsoon, when floods occur, nearby landlords cut channels to divert the water toward Mohenjo-daro in order to protect their own agricultural lands. As a result, Mohenjo-daro is suffering irreparable damage.

At one time, an international committee was formed to protect Mohenjo-daro as a “World Heritage” site. Fundraising efforts were also initiated to save Mohenjo-daro. A “Mohenjo-daro Save Committee” was created, headed by a retired Chief Irrigation Engineer. But in reality, nothing came of it. In front of the media, they made grand statements, but inwardly their core attitude was—what is the point of preserving a “Hindu monument”?

Even today, many layers of Mohenjo-daro remain buried beneath the soil. From 1922 to 2026—104 years have passed along the banks of the Indus River. When will we again see research in the spirit of Rakhaldas Banerji? The very person who tried sincerely was removed. Foreign researchers come, write reports based on their own opinions, and leave—this is how so-called research is being conducted today.

Hindu is not a religion; Hindu is a profound philosophy. The people who lived along the banks of the Indus believed in this philosophy. Today, swept away by the currents of change, they are denying the roots of their own civilization, denying their true identity. What could be more terrifying than this?

“These collapsing walls are located on the western side of the H-R Area of the great civilization of Mohenjodaro. They represent the hard work of the American archaeologist George F. Dales, my late maternal uncle Muhammad Waris Abro, and many other laborers and workers. The scene of destruction that you see before you today raises an important question: are the officials of UNESCO not also responsible for this devastation?

First and foremost, I hold the UNESCO delegates and inspectors accountable for the destruction of Mohenjodaro. Whenever they visit, they are welcomed with great ceremony. The Ajrak, a symbol of Mohenjodaro, is draped over their shoulders; traditional caps are placed on their heads; drums, flutes, and various forms of entertainment are arranged for them. Lavish meals are served, gifts are presented, and they are treated with excessive hospitality. In such an atmosphere, they seem to forget their actual responsibilities. They enjoy the festivities, accept gifts, and then return home.

I have often seen visiting experts who appear to know little about mud-brick conservation work. It reminds me of how, here, people with degrees in completely unrelated subjects have been appointed through recommendations and connections, only to become “archaeologists” on paper. The result has been nothing but destruction. Meanwhile, young graduates who have studied Archaeology, Anthropology, and related disciplines at universities are ignored, while politically connected individuals secure appointments.

Mohenjodaro is a World Heritage Site, yet for nearly fifteen to twenty years, no highly experienced senior archaeologist has been appointed here. Instead, inexperienced and politically connected individuals have been recruited, many of whom seem skilled only at signing documents.

When one witnesses the destruction of Mohenjodaro, there is little left to do except shed tears. Millions of rupees are allocated in budgets, but much of that money disappears into paperwork rather than genuine conservation efforts. This is why the walls of Mohenjodaro continue to crack, erode, and collapse.

The hidden lessons and secrets preserved within the ruins have been erased and destroyed. Villages and roads have been constructed on top of ancient archaeological remains. Local residents continue to remove bricks from the site from time to time, while livestock are allowed to wander through and trample the ruins.

Saline and rainwater are being directed toward the ancient remains through drainage channels. The lands surrounding Mohenjodaro have become increasingly fertile due to salinity-related changes, and now the pressure of saline groundwater is advancing toward the site itself. Fish ponds have been dug around Mohenjodaro, and rice cultivation is also taking place despite the risks it poses to the archaeological remains.

If urgent and decisive measures are not taken immediately to protect this great civilization, and if political interference is not brought to an end, then within ten years not a single original wall of Mohenjodaro will remain. Within twenty years, there may not be a single brick on the site untouched by salinity. The entire site could be transformed into reconstructed walls and modern replacement bricks, leaving little of the original ancient city behind.

Perhaps, for the survival of Mohenjodaro, it would be better if the Government of Pakistan were to lease or auction its management to a competent organization. At least then Mohenjodaro might survive. Otherwise, because of those who sit with closed eyes and indifferent hearts, this great heritage of humanity is being destroyed before our very eyes.

As a laborer, guardian, and lover of Mohenjodaro, speaking from fifty-five years of experience, I say this with complete conviction: if my words prove false and I die, then hang garlands of shoes upon my grave.”

– (Meer Abro belongs to a family that has been involved in the excavation activities and heritage conservation efforts at Mohenjodaro for many decades.)

More than 4,500 years ago, when much of the world was still struggling to build organized societies, the people of the Indus Valley Civilization created a magnificent city on the banks of the Indus River. They built streets with remarkable precision, developed advanced drainage systems, traded across vast distances, and created a culture whose mysteries still fascinate the world today.

Today, however, that great city stands in silence.

Its ancient walls are crumbling. Its bricks, once touched by the hands of our ancestors, are slowly being eaten away by time, salinity, climate change, neglect, and human indifference. Every year, a little more of Mohenjodaro disappears. Every fallen brick is a page torn from the book of human history.

The tragedy is not only that Mohenjodaro is dying.

The greater tragedy is that it is dying while the world watches.

Imagine if Mohenjodaro could speak. What would it say to us? Perhaps it would ask why we have abandoned the legacy of those who built one of the world’s earliest cities. Perhaps it would ask why humanity spends billions preserving modern structures but struggles to protect one of the foundations of civilization itself.

Mohenjodaro has survived floods, invasions, wars, and the passage of thousands of years. Yet today its greatest enemy may be neglect.

This ancient city is not just a collection of ruins. It is the voice of our ancestors. It is proof of human creativity, resilience, and achievement. It reminds us that long before modern nations existed, people dreamed, built, loved, traded, and created communities that shaped the course of history.

If Mohenjodaro is lost, we lose more than an archaeological site.

We lose a part of ourselves.

We lose the opportunity for future generations to walk the streets of one of humanity’s earliest urban centers. We lose stories that have not yet been discovered. We lose knowledge that may never be recovered.

The responsibility to save Mohenjodaro belongs to all of us—governments, historians, archaeologists, educators, journalists, students, and ordinary citizens. Conservation efforts must be strengthened. Research must continue. Awareness must grow. The world must recognize that protecting Mohenjodaro is not a luxury; it is a duty.

One day, future generations will ask what we did when this priceless heritage was in danger.

Will they say that we stood by silently as history disappeared?

Or will they say that we came together to protect one of humanity’s greatest treasures?

The answer depends on what we do today.

Let us raise our voices before it is too late.

Let us protect the city that has stood for millennia.

Let us honor the people who built it.

Let us save Mohenjodaro.

Because once it is gone, no amount of regret will bring it back.

Save Mohenjodaro. Save the Indus Civilization. Save the memory of humanity itself.

Read: Tracing a Name Lost to Time

___________________

Debasree Chakraborti is a renowned novel writer of Bengali language. Based in Kolkata, West Bengal, India, she has done Master’s in Modern History from the Kolkata University, and authored some thirty books, mostly the novels, with historical perspective and themes. Her novel is ‘Maharaja Dahir’ that covers the history of Sindh from 662, the year of first attack on Sindh by the Arab armies till date, was published last year and translated by Nasir Aijaz into Sindhi language.

The post Save Mohenjo-daro Before It Fades first appeared on Sindh Courier.

And in every heartbeat, in every breath,

You declare: ‘I am strong. I am brave.

Once again, I will rise; once again I will fight.’

Tasneem Hossain, a multi-lingual poet, author, educator, translator, and columnist from Bangladesh, has left an indelible mark on contemporary literature. Writing in English, Bengali, and Urdu, she crafts poetry, fiction, translations, and essays with a voice that resonates across cultures.

Her works have become teaching material in universities in Bangladesh and China, and has been the subject of scholarly research papers and cited in scholarly research papers too. She conducts international haiku workshops, fostering literary creativity worldwide on an international poetry platform Life in Lyrics.

Recognized among the ‘100 Most Influential Literary Figures of 2025’ by Barcelona Adibia, she is the winner of the Walt Whitman 2025 Contest; earned first place in the Friedrich Schiller International Literary Competition 2025; has won the prestigious Giovanni Pascoli Award 2026-2027 and Shahittyapata Award 2025 and 2026. 

Featured in more than 280 anthologies, journals, newspapers, and magazines worldwide, her poems have been translated into 21 languages.

She is an Editorial Ambassador for Wordsmith International Editorial (USA) and Board Ambassador of Literacy and Culture for the Asih Sasami Indonesia Foundation.

Publications: Grass in Green, The Pearl Necklace, and Floating Feathers (poetry) and Split and Splice (article). Four more books are underway: Colours of Love, Spring Flowers of My Soul, A Tapestry of Tales: Everyday Lives, Extraordinary Stories, and Split and Splice -2

An ex faculty of CUET, she is a seasoned educator and business consultant and directs two human resource organizations (Bangladesh and Canada). With a rich background in radio, theatre, and sports, her life is a tapestry of creativity, intellect, and passion.

Thoughts of a Cancer Patient

When life fills with darkness

And your world becomes lusterless,

There’s an urge to leave the bone breaking pain;

To embrace eternal grave.

A tiny voice whispers, ‘Daadi I love you.’

The soft reassuring voice says,

‘Ammu you are strong, you can make it through,

Tame your body and plead her softly to soothe you.’

The smiling faces together say,

‘Ma, you will be okay, we know.’

The weary and tired taking care of you

Lies beside you.

He gently caresses and softly touches the head,

‘You are the best.’

The prayers and care of your loved ones fill your heart.

Their calm and dedication gently lights the path.

In their divine embrace, you find your strength

And you know it’s not over yet.

The resilience within you rises like the morning sun.

You fight, you endure and conquer each trial.

With God’s blessings and the love surrounding you,

You stand tall, a champion of hope.

You know that cancer may test your body,

But your soul will not break.

God will pave the way to pass the test;

And once again you will be okay.

You rise- unyielding, unbroken, unstoppable.

Your courage roars louder than the pain.

Your resilience shines brighter than the darkest plight.

A warrior, you fight with heart and soul.

Your spirit stands invincible and alive.

Through love, faith and unshakeable will

You conquer, you endure- triumphant, you win.

The light of love is stronger than the demons inside.

You know, it’s not over yet.

Cancer tests your body; the blight may strike again.

And in every heartbeat, in every breath,

You declare: ‘I am strong. I am brave.

Once again, I will rise; once again I will fight.’

Death is inevitable. God plans how long you will survive.

It is this that calms the mind and reaches Almighty’s gate.

He says, ‘I hear your prayers. You will be safe.’

***   

Cancer affects millions of lives worldwide. June is National Cancer Survivors Day (first Sunday in June) in the United States and is celebrated globally; June is also declared National Cancer Survivor Month primarily in the United States.

However, we can create awareness together, fund research, and celebrate survivorship around the year. Every month offers a focused opportunity to focus on specific types of cancer to educate and advocate for early detection, and give support to those impacted.

__________________ 

Read: I Wait in Silence – Poetry from Bangladesh

The post Thoughts of a Cancer Patient first appeared on Sindh Courier.

By Nisar Banbhan

As summer vacations begin, the atmosphere in our homes changes. The rush of early mornings for school disappears, uniforms are neatly hung away, school bags are pushed into a corner, and children enjoy a sense of freedom.

Yet, within a few days, a familiar phrase starts echoing in almost every household:

“Mom! Dad! We’re bored. What should we do?”

At first glance, it seems like a simple question. In reality, however, it raises an important concern about how we educate and prepare our children for life. More often than not, the answer comes in the form of a smartphone, a tablet, YouTube, Netflix, or video games. The children become occupied, the parents feel relieved, and peace returns to the household. But in that temporary silence, we often fail to notice how many valuable opportunities for learning and personal growth are being lost.

The truth is that many of today’s children live in an ocean of information but a desert of practical skills. They can navigate countless online platforms, watch videos from around the world, and spend hours on social media, yet many cannot prepare a simple cup of tea, change a light bulb, manage their personal finances, or confidently communicate their thoughts in real-life situations.

This raises a critical question:

Are we preparing our children for examinations, or are we preparing them for life?

Education is far more than grades, report cards, and academic achievements. True education equips individuals with the ability to think independently, solve problems, take responsibility, work collaboratively, and navigate the uncertainties of life with confidence.

Unfortunately, our educational culture often places overwhelming emphasis on academic performance while giving little attention to practical life skills. As a result, many young people graduate with impressive qualifications but remain dependent on others for even the most basic aspects of daily living.

Summer vacations present a unique opportunity to change this narrative.

This is a period when children are free from examination pressure. They have time, energy, curiosity, and a greater willingness to explore new experiences. If parents dedicate just two or three hours a day to purposeful skill development, the transformation can be remarkable.

Imagine a fourteen-year-old who can prepare a simple meal, grow vegetables in a small garden, create a professional presentation on a computer, manage a personal budget, provide basic first aid, and remain calm enough to make sensible decisions during emergencies. Such a child is not merely a student; he or she is becoming a responsible, capable, and self-reliant individual.

Equally important are soft skills, whose value has never been greater than it is today.

The future will belong not only to those who possess knowledge, but also to those who can communicate effectively, think critically, collaborate with others, embrace change, and demonstrate emotional maturity. Leadership, adaptability, creativity, teamwork, and problem-solving are no longer optional qualities; they are essential competencies for success in the twenty-first century.

In an age shaped by artificial intelligence, automation, and rapidly evolving industries, information alone is no longer enough. Information can be accessed instantly with the click of a button. Character, however, cannot be downloaded. Leadership cannot be searched for online. Emotional intelligence cannot be generated by an algorithm.

These qualities are developed through guidance, practice, responsibility, and real-life experiences.

This is why summer vacations should be viewed as more than a break from school. They should be seen as an opportunity for character building, leadership development, and lifelong learning.

Parents must ask themselves an important question:

Do we merely want to keep our children occupied, or do we want to prepare them for the realities of life?

The child of today will become tomorrow’s doctor, engineer, teacher, entrepreneur, administrator, or leader. If we want our children to become confident, responsible, and resilient adults, we must teach them more than textbooks. We must teach them life itself.

Summer vacations are a precious investment of time. When used wisely, they can contribute significantly to a child’s personal growth, confidence, independence, and future success.

Ultimately, a parent’s greatest achievement is not measured by the grades their child earns, but by the kind of person that child becomes.

Because degrees may open doors, but it is character, competence, resilience, and self-confidence that enable individuals to walk through them and thrive.

Read: Ignored habits gradually weigh down lives

______________________

Hailing from Village Mir Muhammad Banbhan, Taluka Mirwah, District Khaipurpur and based in Karachi, the capital of Sindh, Nisar Banbhan is a seasoned professional with nearly 25 years of multifaceted experience, encompassing 3 years in journalism and over two decades of service in a public sector organization. His extensive expertise spans content creation, scriptwriting, screenwriting, lyrics, poetry, and storytelling across multiple languages, including Sindhi, Urdu, and English. Nisar has honed his skills in writing articles, columns, and short stories, contributing to various national and regional media outlets.

The post Summer Vacations: A Wasted Future? first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Zaffar Junejo

[Author’s Note: I joined a non-government organization in mid-1993. In those days, we were frequent travelers to other Asian countries, and during that period I maintained a diary. I once showed the notes to Muhammad Ibrahim Joyo — the legendary scholar, translator, and intellectual giant of the Sindhi world — who suggested categorizing the entries by theme and getting them published. He recalled that long ago, perhaps in 1955, the Sindhi journal Mehran had launched a similar idea titled ‘Hik Deenh Ji Ghaleh’ (The Story of a Day), even offering a prize for it. He himself had submitted the first story, he told me with a smile, just to set a standard for other writers. Later, Maulana Ghulam Muhammad Girami, a scholar of high standing and journalist; Shamsher ul Haidri, a distinguished Sindhi poet, journalist, and playwright; and Siraj ul Haq Memon, an iconic novelist, linguist, and journalist, all contributed their observations of a single day. These writings were published until 1968.

I agreed with Joyo Sahib that I would group the write-ups by subject and get them published, but I failed to do so. Recently, I sat down to organize my notes. I found various entries about the taxi drivers of Karachi city. Some were very brief and incomplete; others were short but held a finished truth. I have chosen five stories from each year, all of them gathered from the drivers of those cars. In total, there will be thirty-five stories covering the period from 1993 to 2000.

On the surface, these pieces appear to be simple narratives. However, beneath the prose, they depict the complex socio-political and cultural landscape of Karachi during those turbulent days. They are the echoes of a city in motion.]

The Good Story

The dining hall doors closed behind me. The NGO banners hung inside against the velvet drapes, smelling of chicken tikka and heavy cologne. I stepped onto the driveway. The concrete felt cold through my thin soles. No yellow cabs waited under the porch lights. Turning right, I walked fast toward the Metropole roundabout. The air carried a sharp chill, unique to Karachi nights when the breeze shifts from the sea. Shadows stretched long against the high wall of the Military Officers Mess.

Four taxis idled in the dark near the petrol pump.

A young man leaned against the front fender of the first car. He wore tight jeans and a loose linen shirt, the top two buttons undone to the chest. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his shoulders square, his hair slicked back high in the style of the cinema actors. I stopped two paces away.

“Gulshan-e-Iqbal,” I told him.

He looked me over, his eyes wide and clear, measuring my stance. “Five hundred rupees.”

I nodded, gesturing toward the passenger side. “Open the door.”

I took the seat beside him. He slid his key into the ignition, then paused. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he pulled out a packet of Gold Leaf, tilting it toward me in a silent offer.

I waved a hand to signal him on. “Go ahead.”

He rolled his window down two inches and struck a match, the small flame lighting his sharp jawline. He drew the smoke in but did not swallow it. He held it in his cheeks, then exhaled slowly in a thin, tight stream. The gray smoke hit the cool air from the window, traveling straight for a second before curling into sharp zigzags under the dashboard light.

I watched the gray line of smoke break apart. “You have a specific way with that.”

He flashed his teeth, white in the dark dashboard glow, and put the car in gear. “The style brings the trouble, sir.”

I leaned back against the vinyl. “Let me know how?”

He shook his head, his eyes fixing on the dark stretch of Shahrah-e-Faisal. “Let it go.” He tapped the plastic stereo console. “Music?”

“Play your favourite.”

He pressed a black Sony cassette into the slot. The tape clicked. The speakers rattled with the high, clear voice of Salma Agha: Chale Aao… Chale Aao. The voice filled the small cabin, heavy with the old rhythm. I watched the streetlights flash across his face.

“A beautiful song for someone waiting,” I observed, turning slightly toward him. “You carry a story behind that shirt.”

He tightened his grip on the wheel, his knuckles squaring off. “Everyone carries one.”

The car rolled past the marble block of the Jaffar Building. The road opened up, wide and empty.

“I stood by Frere Hall last month,” he began, his voice dropping below the steady hum of the engine. “Just opposite the Marriott. The sun was down. I saw a couple by the mosque gate near the hotel. They did not move. They did not speak. The air between them looked hot.”

He flicked the indicator on, then switched it off.

“The woman broke away,” he continued, staring straight through the windshield. “She crossed the road alone. The man stayed by the gate like a stone. She reached my side, waved her arm hard, and shouted, ‘Taxi!’ I flashed my lights to show her I saw. Before I could turn the wheel, she ripped the back door open. She did not look at me. She just barked, ‘Go.'”

He shifted into third gear.

“I thought the man who was standing there was sick,” he said, his fingers restlessly tapping the wheel. “I turned the car toward him anyway. I slowed down near his curb. He stepped forward. She didn’t even glance his way. She just hammered her fist against my shoulder. ‘Go, go.’ Her hand was shaking.”

I leaned slightly forward. “Then what did she say?”

“She spat out one word,” he muttered, his jaw tightening. “‘Bastard.’ The man just remained on the curb. I pressed for a destination. Silence. I checked the rearview glass—the water was running down her cheeks. I let some minutes pass before trying again. She snapped, ‘Just drive.'”

The car passed the Karsaz flyover.

“Shahrah-e-Faisal is long, it kills time,” he went on, gazing into the dark road ahead. “At Star Gate, I warned her the airport was next. She commanded me to turn around and take the same road back. Near Karsaz, she requested a tea stall.”

“Did you find one?” I asked.

He gave a short, sharp jerk of his chin. “The roadside stalls are for labourers. Her clothes were too fine. I took her to the Aga Khan Hospital instead. The canteen stays open.”

He took a slow drag of his cigarette, the cherry glowing bright in the dim cabin.

“She brought two cups of tea and two slices of cake to the car,” he recounted, exhaling slowly. “She sat in the back and questioned my name, my family. I explained that I live in North Nazimabad. Three sisters. I am the eldest. She just nodded.”

“Then?”

“She announced she wanted to meet my mother,” he said, tracing a finger along the dashboard. “Then she stopped herself. ‘Let us go,’ she muttered. We walked out to the parking lot. She did not get in the back this time. She took the front seat. Exactly where you are sitting now.”

He pointed directly at my leather seat.

“She pulled two 555 cigarettes from a silver case,” he whispered, his eyes tracking the memory. “She placed one right between my lips. She struck a lighter, but the breeze from the open door kept killing the flame. I reached out and held her small hand to steady the fire.” He let out a short, hollow laugh. “She looked right into my eyes through the spark. She whispered, ‘Coward.'”

I offered a smile. “A good word, if a beautiful lady says it.”

He ignored the comment, rolling his window all the way down before hurling the cigarette butt into the wind. “She remarked that I smoked like a hero in the movies. Then she struck another match. Before the flame died, she commanded, ‘Mehran Hotel.’ I nodded.”

The car turned toward the Sui Gas head office.

“We reached the porch,” he said, his tone flattening out. “She opened her purse but didn’t hand over a single note. She stepped out, dropped her cigarette on the marble floor, and crushed it with the heel of her sandal. That was when I saw it. A heavy silver payal around her left ankle. It caught the brilliant porch light.”

“Did she speak?” I prompted.

“She stood by the glass doors of the lobby,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with a strange regret. “She looked back and beckoned me with her hand. Just a common sign.”

“And you?”

He gripped the wheel until his knuckles went pale. “I lost my nerve. I waved my hand vaguely, pretending I was just parking the car. Then I rolled the windows tight, threw the gear into reverse, and slammed the gas. I didn’t dare look in the mirror.”

He reached into his pocket, searching for a fresh cigarette to calm his hands.

“Have you seen her since?” I asked.

He stared blankly at the dark dashboard. “Yes.” He paused, his voice breaking slightly. “No.”

The car grew quiet. He held the smoke in his mouth again, letting it out in that same straight, broken line.

The taxi slowed near my block in Gulshan. He pulled the handbrake until it clicked hard, then stared intently at his hands on the wheel.

“Thanks to God,” he whispered, flicking a glance upward in gratitude. “A man stays away from sin. Earned bread is better.”

I handed him the five hundred rupees and stepped out into the cold Karachi night.

I walked toward my apartment building, the sound of my shoes loud on the pavement. I had heard the story five times before from five different drivers, from old gardeners in the colonial bungalows, from the cooks in the defense societies. In all their stories, the madam was rich, the girl was beautiful, and the advance was made by women. And in every story, the poor man kept his hand on the wheel and his eyes on the road, saving his soul.

Fabricated, but a good story. It made the journey shorter.

______________________ 

Dr. Zaffar Junejo has a Ph.D in History from the University of Malaya. His areas of interest are post-colonial history, social history and peasants’ history. He may be reached at junejozi@gmail.com 

Read: The Tales of Taxi Drivers – Part-1, Part-2, Part-3, Part-4, Part-5, Part-6, Part-7, Part-8, Part-9, Part-10, Part-11, Part-12, Part-13,

The post THE TALES OF TAXI DRIVERS first appeared on Sindh Courier.

By Mohammad Ehsan Leghari

I know a man and a woman.

Or perhaps I do not know them at all.

People say they grew up together in a village where the summers were long and the dust settled slowly over the old haveli walls. They studied in the same schools, sat beneath the same neem tree in the courtyard, read the same books, and dreamed the same impossible dreams.

They grew up believing that the world could be better than the one they had inherited.

Then they married.

By twenty-eight, he had already published two books. Poems, essays, stories — words that travelled farther than he ever had as a child.

By twenty-six, she had found her place before cameras and lights. Acting, modelling, the uncertain world of performance. A world larger than the village and louder than literature.

They had three children. A family.

He believed in freedom. Not the kind people praise in speeches and deny in their homes, but the difficult kind. The expensive kind.

He encouraged her career. Defended her choices. Celebrated her successes. Whenever a door opened before her, he stepped aside and let her walk through first.

She appreciated him for it. And he meant every sacrifice he made.

That is what progressive men do, isn’t it?

Or perhaps that is what men in love do.

You ask whether they loved each other.

Why are you asking me?

I am not a witness. I am not a storyteller. I know no more about their hearts than you do.

I only know that wherever there is love, there is joy.

And wherever there is love, there is pain.

Years later, they lived in a flat in Karachi. The children occupied one room. Books occupied another. The city occupied everything else.

Some nights he would sit by the window after everyone had gone to sleep. A notebook lay open before him, though he often wrote nothing. Outside, the city lights drifted through the darkness. And sometimes, reflected in the glass, he saw the old neem tree.

Not literally, of course. The tree still stood in the haveli courtyard hundreds of kilometres away. Yet somehow it appeared beside him. Its branches pressed softly against the window. Its roots reached into the room. It had followed them. Perhaps all beginnings do.

Near midnight she would return from a shoot. He would hear the lift stop, the key turning in the lock, the quiet footsteps in the narrow passage. She had learned to move silently through the apartment, just as she had once learned not to wake the old floors of the haveli.

“The children?” she would ask.

“Sleeping.”

She would nod.

Water would run in the kitchen. A plate would be lifted from a shelf. Small sounds. Ordinary sounds. The sounds of a life built together.

Sometimes they ate in silence at the small table by the window. Sometimes she spoke about work. Sometimes he spoke about writing. Mostly they spoke about the children. And sometimes they spoke about nothing at all.

One evening she said, “Someone asked me about my last advertisement.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That it was real.”

He smiled faintly. Then he asked the question he always asked whenever the village reached them through rumours or old expectations.

“Do you want to stop?”

She looked at him carefully.

“Do you want me to?”

For a moment neither spoke. Then he turned his hand upward on the table. She placed hers inside it — cold from the night air.

“No,” he said.

That was all. The conversation ended. The question did not.

The next morning he stood again at the window. The neem tree was there. Or perhaps it was not. Memory is difficult that way.

He thought about the promises they had made beneath its shade before their nikah — the life they would build, the freedoms they would defend, the doors they would keep open for each other. He had kept those promises. She had too.

Yet promises, like trees, grow larger than the people who plant them. The roots travel farther than expected. Sometimes they crack stone. Sometimes they enter houses. Sometimes they press silently against glass.

I never saw them quarrel. I never saw betrayal. I never saw unhappiness. But some wounds are too educated to bleed. Some sacrifices are too voluntary to become complaints. Some loneliness is born not from abandonment but from faithfulness to an idea.

There is a price for being a writer.

There is a price for living in the public eye.

There is a price for believing in freedom when freedom becomes real.

The strange thing is that love does not divide the price equally. It merely ensures that both people pay. One person’s tears become another person’s eyes. One person’s victory becomes another person’s test. One person’s freedom becomes another person’s responsibility.

And still they remain together.

Perhaps happily.

Perhaps painfully.

Perhaps both.

One night she stood beside him at the window. Neither spoke for some time. The city moved beneath them. The old neem tree stood between them and behind them and within them.

Finally she said, very softly,

“We are still doing what we said we would do.”

He nodded.

“Even when the roots reach here.”

He looked at the dark glass.

“Especially then.”

They stood together for a long time. When they finally turned away, their shoulders touched briefly in the narrow passage — a small gesture, almost nothing, and yet perhaps everything.

I cannot tell you that their happiness is different.

I cannot tell you that their pain is different.

I cannot tell you that their love is different.

I can tell you only one thing.

Some prisons are built by tradition.

Some are built by fear.

And some are built by the courage to remain free.

There is pain in being progressive.

But that pain is not a flaw in freedom. It is its proof.

Because the deepest burden is not being denied a choice.

It is making the choice, knowing the cost, and refusing to turn away.

That is the price of living by your convictions.

And that is why the deepest pain is the one you choose yourself.

Read: The Crime of Blossoming

______________________

The author is a water expert, former Sindh member of Indus River System Authority (IRSA), and a prolific writer

The post The Pain of Being Progressive first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Our ink and rice paper weave a profound bond.

Selected Classical Regulated Poems by Ma Yongbo

Ma Yongbo is renowned for his modern avant-garde poetry and translations of European and American verse. In recent years, he has also composed ancient-style poems and traditional regulated verse. His works weave together the vast, rugged experiences of northern China, the tranquil contemplation of his study in Jinling, landscapes encountered on his travels, and intimate reflections on family life. Meticulously crafted in formal meter and rhyme, his verse carries contemporary thematic threads, free from the stale clichés of old literati, blending ecological lyricism with profound meditations on individual existence.

—Yuan Ren, poet, writer and critic. He has published more than thirty works and excels particularly at composing metrical classical poetry. He currently resides in Shenzhen.

马永波以现代先锋诗、欧美诗歌翻译名世，近年兼作古风及传统格律诗，融北方苍茫阅历、金陵书斋心境、行旅风物与家事感怀，格律谨严而意脉现代，少旧文人陈腐套语，兼具生态诗意与个人生命沉思。

——远人，诗人，作家，批评家，出版著作三十余种，尤其擅长格律诗词写作，现居深圳

To My Overseas Poet Friends

Our sails are parted by vast ocean waves,

Yet poetic visions share one earthly space.

My translations cross to Europe and the Americas,

From China rise ten thousand misty landscapes.

Blue birds carry letters across far kingdoms,

Our ink and rice paper weave a profound bond.

Someday beneath green mountain slopes,

We sit face to face, counting our scrolls of

Psalms.

赠海外诗友

云帆隔沧海，

诗思有桑田。

译句通欧美，

神州挥万烟。

青鸟传远信，

文墨结深缘。

他日青山下，

相对数寸笺。

***

Meeting an Old Friend in Changsha — To a Distant Wanderer

Ten years scarce meet by river pavilion’s shore,

We gaze awhile at frosted hair once more.

Leaning on rail, we talk of Xiaoxiang rain;

Over wine cups, relive Hengyue’s cold terrain.

Lonely heart still retains the wanderer’s zeal,

This fleeting life won’t let age and illness steal.

Tomorrow I depart for worlds far bound,

I’ll climb green peaks on heroic wind profound.

旅次长沙遇故交——赠远人

十载江亭一晤难，

相逢暂把鬓霜看。

凭阑共话潇湘雨，

对酒重温衡岳寒。

孤怀犹存壮游兴，

浮生未许老病闲。

明朝又向天涯去，

且趁雄风上翠峦。

***

Cliff Cypress

On steep cliffs it forges hardy frame,

Iron branches defy wind and frost.

Deep roots hold fast in rocky seam,

Braving cold through ages of bitter cost.

崖柏

危崖凝劲骨，

铁干傲风霜。

石隙深根固，

凌寒历沧桑。

***

The Trumpet Vines in Bloom

Long cherished the dream of the climbing cloud,

Lingering here, where the world is left behind.

The pine-shaded path is free from mortal dust,

Unwittingly, another ten years have passed.

凌霄花开

久有凌霄愿，

淹留在此间，

松径绝尘迹，

疏忽又十年

***

Ancient Jue Verse – For a Friend

Waited long, my friend nowhere in sight;

With whom to share the moon and winds of night?

Spring days gone by suddenly cross my mind;

Blossoms fall into my lonely cup of wine.

古绝——赠人

候友久无踪，

风月与谁同，

忽忆上春时，

花落一杯中。

***

Grain in Ear

Plum rains moisten hills in misty May,

Wheat fields turn golden day by day.

Needle-green shoots sink in paddy’s sheen,

Hard work earns the good autumn grain.

芒种

梅雨润平冈，

田畴麦渐黄。

秧针栽碧水，

勤作待秋粮。

***

Drunk through the night

Into the town I came last day,

Drunk through the night till break of day.

Ballads dispelled the endless gloom;

Looking back, half my life feels light.

通宵沉醉

昨日入都市，

一醉到天明。

笙歌销永夜，

回首半生轻

***

Passing an Old Friend’s Cottage in summer (Not Calling In)

Soft winds drift across country paths,

Faint smoke rises quietly above the village.

Seeking the charms of distant mountains,

I stroll along the woodland edge.

夏日过故人庄不入

清风吹紫陌，

寂寂起村烟。

缓步经林畔，

寻幽向远山。

***

Lilac Knot — For Nolcha Fox

Purple mist weaves the mood of spring,

Soft winds bear fragrance far to bring.

Each bloom hides knots of thoughts untold,

Breeze drifts, and scents the courtyard hold.

It never vies with blossoms’ grace,

Pure simple joys fill all your space.

The worldly cares that come and go,

You laugh, and let them softly flow.

丁香结——赠诺尔查•福克斯

紫雾凝春绪，

微风送远芳。

瓣藏千结意，

风过满庭香。

不与群芳竞，

清欢岁月长。

人间多少事，

一笑尽相忘。

***

Dante Emerging from Purgatory

Through purgatorial trials, we greet the dawning sky,

Benevolence and grace pervade the world on high.

Forged time and again, no impurity is left inside,

We merge with void and soar to heavens wide.

但丁出炼狱

炼狱熬穿见曙天，

恩慈遍洒满人间。

千锤百炼无余滓，

迹化清虚上九天。

***

Mountain Dwelling

Free from the glitter of the world’s vain day,

Clouds drift down the slanting evening’s ray.

Cranes soar toward isles of old fairy lore,

Courtyard blooms, unbothered by what guests say.

山居

幽居忘世华，

云落晚山斜。

鹤向三山去，

庭花任客夸。

***

In Reply to Jiaxuan’s Dying Poem, Written in the Dingmao Year

Sweet wine! yet friendships prove but pale and cold;

The flies’ loud hum doth make my former faults behold.

They rise each morn with chanticleer’s shrill cry,

And weary chase a fame that soon doth fly.

Envy not thou the old man’s tranquil state,

For tipsy, I hear the war-steed’s mournful fate.

From ashes of old fires, cold sparks remain,

And still illuminate the long river’s main.

和稼轩丁卯病中绝笔

甘醴知交淡，

喧蚊悟昨非。

汲汲随晓唱，

碌碌逐名驰。

休慕安闲叟，

微醺铁马悲。

劫灰余冷火，

犹照大江流。

***

The Glass Begonia

Its translucent blooms linger in my childish eyes,

I first knew autumn begonia, crowned in twilight’s sighs.

Thin leaves and tender boughs sustained my frugal youth,

Your soft grace alone relieved my tasteless, dreary truth.

Bright petals glow like candy, charming slender hands,

Their crimson tides pierce grief that plagues my ailing land6s.

Though scattered blooms sink deep in dusty ground, their radiance remains,

Tempered soul and hardened bone shall light my vessel’s course ahead.

玻璃脆

玻璃脆影映童眸，

始识秋棠号擅秋。

纤叶柔柯滋俭岁，

枯肠寡味赖君柔。

霓糖炫目迷兰指，

血浪惊心蚀病愁。

碎落尘泥光未烬，

淬魂砺骨耀新舟。

_________________________

Read: Descendants – Poetry from China

The post To My Overseas Poet Friends first appeared on Sindh Courier.

To be struck once by lightning in the chest,

And turn to ash.

Hailing from the Land of Morning Calm, Poet Im Sol Nae has continued her active literary career since making her debut through the monthly literary magazine JayuMunhak in 1999. She has published six collections of poetry, including The QR Code of a Leaf, Amazon, That Transit Station, The Cry of an Awakened Amazon, Hong Nyeo, and many others. In addition to her literary achievements, she has gained wide recognition as a professional poetry reciter at numerous national events organized by the Ministry of the Interior and Safety. Her literary and artistic accomplishments have been recognized through numerous honors, including the Yeongnang Literary Award, the Korean Literary Critics Association Award, the Lyric Poetry Literary Award, the 22nd Poet’s Poet Award, selection as a Sejong Excellent Book in 2014, and the 8th Buddhist Literary Writers’ Award. Poet Im Sol Nae is regarded as one of the leading artistic poets in contemporary Korea, expanding the boundaries of modern Korean poetry through her innovative fusion of poetry, recitation, music, and performance art. She currently serves as a World Ambassador of the International Academy of Ethics. Her representative works, including “Metamorphosis (羽化),” “Blue Butterfly,” “Becoming Godmother of Victoria,” “The Fireflies’ Shawshank Redemption,” “Three Souls,” “The Scarlet Light Universe” and “Sumbi Sori (Breath of the woman Diver)” have been translated and introduced in many countries around the world, including the United States, Spain, Italy, Greece, Russia, India, Nepal, Albania, Vietnam, Kyrgyzstan, and Jordan.

Living like a flame

To live like a flame,

To be struck once by lightning in the chest,

And turn to ash.

To proclaim a passion fierce as a scorching heatwave,

Only to be trapped within one’s own love,

And collapse, cooled into a bitter sorrow.

To set one’s life aside for a moment,

And gaze arrogantly upon the world.

To warm the blood

While turning into ash

That is the name of a poor wanderer.

시詩

불꽃처럼 살다

가슴팍에 번개 한 번 맞고

재가 되다

폭염같은 열정을 주장하다

제 사랑에 갇혀

비릿한 슬픔으로 폭삭 식어 내리다

목숨을 잠시 부려 두고

잘난척 세상을 쏘아보다

피를 데우면서

재가 되는일

가난한 떠돌이 이름 하나

______________________ 

Read: Our Love at this Moment

The post Living like a flame – Korean Poetry first appeared on Sindh Courier.

• The future of a young person cannot be determined by a single institution, a single punishment, or a single authority figure.

Dr. Nisar Ahmed Solangi

“Across lands and kingdoms, the Black Bull of Authority still bellows.”

During the 1980s, while pursuing our medical education, an incident occurred that profoundly shaped the lives of six young students. It not only disrupted our academic journey but also transformed my understanding of institutional power, moral leadership, and the nature of justice itself.

The incident was our rustication from Liaquat Medical College.

The Principal at the time was a renowned professor—may God grant peace to his soul. History, however, carries its own ironies. During his own student years, he had once faced a similar disciplinary action and rustication. Yet fate had been kinder to him; he and a fellow student were allowed to continue their education through a transfer to a college in another province.

Our ordeal began with a seemingly minor grievance. A practical record book belonging to one of our colleagues had been damaged, giving rise to a dispute. During the ensuing exchange, a companion who was not a student of the college discharged a firearm into the air in a moment of heightened emotion.

No one was injured.

No property was damaged.

No life was endangered.

Yet the sound of that gunshot awakened the machinery of institutional authority, and swift punitive action followed, just to please big bosses of the time.

None of us had any prior record of misconduct. Senior faculty members, departmental heads, and respected figures from society attempted to mediate and resolve the matter amicably. Their efforts, however, proved futile. However, in order to please higher ups of those days, the Principal remained unwavering, and all six of us were rusticated.

During those difficult days, when our educational and professional futures hung in uncertainty, the most profound guidance I received came not from institutions, professors, or administrators, but from my father.

When I returned to my village burdened with disappointment and anxiety, my father met me with a rare combination of empathy, courage, and wisdom. He understood my suffering. He gave me complete freedom to change my career if the environment became unbearable. Yet at the same time, he urged me to remain steadfast in the defiance of truth, justice, and the rights of the oppressed.

Invoking the eternal example of Imam Hussain (peace be upon him), he reminded me that the path of truth often demands sacrifice, but ultimately becomes the foundation upon which human dignity rests.

His compassion and moral clarity stood in striking contrast to the rigidity and punitive spirit of the college administration.

His words also raise a timeless question:

If our children find themselves trapped in an unbearable environment, do we possess the wisdom and courage to help them choose a different path, rather than forcing them to endure suffering for the sake of convention?

When the matter reached the High Court of Sindh, the fragility of the administration’s decision became evident. The Court granted me a stay order, observing that there was neither a police report nor a public complaint, and that the individual responsible for the firing was not even a student of the institution.

Under judicial scrutiny, the administration eventually withdrew the rustication orders against the other five students, provided they offered formal apologies.

“There is an old saying that courts do not speak; their judgments speak for them”.

“One cannot help but wonder whether that wisdom still holds true in our own times”.

Yet even after judicial intervention, the pressure did not entirely cease. Attempts were allegedly made to influence examination outcomes in order to ensure my academic failure.

What prevented such efforts from succeeding was the integrity of a number of my professors. Their commitment to professional ethics, intellectual honesty, and principled conduct proved stronger than administrative pressure. Because they refused to compromise their conscience, I was able to complete my medical education.

Years later, life presented a remarkable irony.

The same former Principal had become Secretary of the Health Department. At an academic cum public gathering, while criticizing the medical profession and younger doctors, he referred to our decades-old rustication as well as frequent visits of junior doctors to his secretariat as an example.

Rather than allowing the moment to pass in silence, I chose to clarify the truth.

Addressing the gathering, I posed a simple yet fundamental question:

What is the true meaning of a mentorship and leadership?

I argued that the responsibility of a leader, mentor, teacher, or an administrator is not to “wield authority” as a weapon against those entrusted to their care. Rather, leadership should resemble parenthood: guiding, encouraging, nurturing, and viewing mistakes not as grounds for punishment but as opportunities for growth and learning.

Yet what can one say?

Even today, across institutions and nations the “Black Bull of Authority” continues to roam, feared and obeyed, often unchecked.

This story is therefore more than a personal memory. It is an invitation to reflect upon the essence of leadership and mentorship itself.

Whether within the corridors of a medical college, the offices of public institutions, or the chambers of government, authority acquires legitimacy only when tempered by justice, compassion, patience, and humanity.

The foundations of my professional and ethical philosophy were not laid by textbooks or official titles. They were laid by my father’s wisdom.

I remain convinced that leadership does not emerge suddenly when one acquires power. The seeds of leadership are planted much earlier—in childhood during formative years and beyond —through the moral guidance of parents, the mentorship of teachers, and the companionship of principled colleagues.

Perhaps the most remarkable aspect of this story is what became of the six young students once deemed unworthy of remaining in medical school.

Time did not turn us into symbols of failure.

Quite the opposite.

Each of us eventually achieved distinction in our respective fields. Some became renowned medical specialists. Others rose to serve as national secretary level, senior administrators, and the directors-general. Some built successful businesses, while others went on to contribute their expertise within the United Nations and other international organizations.

The lesson is both simple and profound:

The future of a young person cannot be determined by a single institution, a single punishment, or a single authority figure.

When an individual possesses courage, moral conviction, and access to enlightened guidance, even adversity can become a staircase leading toward achievement.

These reflections are offered as a humble tribute to my late father, whose wisdom, compassion, and moral courage remain the guiding light of my thoughts and actions.

And yet, despite all that history teaches us, one reality remains stubbornly familiar:

Across lands and kingdoms, the Black Bull of Authority still bellows.

Read: Lessons from the Indus Valley Civilization

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Dr. Nisar Ahmed Ali Nawaz Solangi is a distinguished Public Health Specialist with over 28 years of experience in primary healthcare, health management, and policy development. Throughout his career, he has served in leadership capacities, He holds MBBS from the University of Sindh and a Master of Public Health from Griffith University, Australia. He is a dedicated polymath committed to the intersection of ancient civilization and emerging technology. He is deeply engaged in the study of the Indus Valley Civilization—focusing on its maritime history, trade networks, and egalitarian governance. Currently based in Saudi Arabia, Dr. Solangi is a tireless advocate for the digital preservation and global dissemination of the Sindhi language and culture. He is actively involved in pioneering initiatives on social media” Our Digital World”. By bridging the gap between historical heritage and digital innovation, he aims to create a new paradigm for cultural representation in the AI era.

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