O Sindhu!
You are not merely a river—
You are an oath, a dream, a prayer.
You are the flow of our blood,
The promise of our land.
Nisar Banbhan, a seasoned poet and writer, based in Karachi, the capital city of Sindh shares his poetry
Hailing from Village Mir Muhammad Banbhan, Taluka Mirwah, District Khapurpur 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. Additionally, he brings a deep understanding of program development, educational advocacy, and strategic planning, having led initiatives that promote quality education and foster community empowerment. His passion for literature and education merges seamlessly, enabling him to craft impactful narratives that resonate with diverse audiences while driving meaningful change in society.
Mehran – The Soul of My Sindh
From the brow of Mount Kailash,
Cradled in arms of snow,
A dream stirred awake
With the first kiss of dawn—
A drop… shy, trembling, radiant—
As if it were the universe’s first prayer,
An innocent beginning,
An unknown journey—
My roaring river!
That drop,
Melting from the glacier’s soul,
Began to weave the thread of destiny,
The first whisper in the language of rocks,
Like the first hue of Koh-e-Noor.
It sang like a song in Ladakh’s silent valleys,
Laughed through Zanskar, hid in Shyok’s hush—
A green thread tearing through deserts,
A companion, a secret-keeper,
A silent friend drifting closer.
During the Sindhu Darshan festival,
Amid flickering lamps and floating petals,
Prayers rose like smoke,
And the river flowed—
On the rhythm of souls—
Watched for centuries.
In its flow echoes the melted past—
Where brick cities rose,
The streets of Mohenjo-Daro,
The scent of wheat, lullabies of cotton,
Sails on gentle waves,
A civilization made of water,
Dreams sculpted from soil.
This river—
Their nurturer, their vault, their art,
A cradle that rocked centuries of children.
Then it reached Sindh,
Like a mother returning home—
Sukkur’s dams, Shikarpur’s dreams,
Coconuts, sugarcane, rice,
And the farmer’s glistening brow—
A living prayer for sustenance.
This is the Mehran—
That lights lamps,
Grinds the mills,
Laughs with the children.
It breathes in Bhitai’s verses,
Echoes in Sachal’s cry,
Marches in Shah Inayat’s revolt,
And chants through Hosho’s resistance.
“Sindh breathes when the Indus surges.”
Bhittai once said—
And we all heard it—
As if every wave held a sacred chant.
But now…
This river bleeds—
Wounded again and again.
Mountains of dams are being built,
Canals—like daggers—
Pierce its veins
Without warning, without consent.
Where are those ancient pledges?
Where is that “Covenant of Water”?
Centuries of loyalty auctioned
In the markets of power.
Mehran now weeps,
As if a mother’s love has been chained.
This soil—
Kneaded by Mehran’s flow—
Now thirsts.
Crops grow only in teary eyes.
Blossoms are barren, dreams have faded.
The delta—once a melody of fish—
Is now a dirge of silence!
Salt dances where once water sang.
O you who hold power!
Mehran is not a “route”—
It is the breath of a people.
To dam it
Is to stop a heartbeat.
Did you not hear the lullaby it once hummed?
The truth it once sang?
Now it is a scream, a prayer,
A curse in the voice of the river.
We are the inheritors
With this river running through our veins.
If we stay silent,
History will mourn.
Generations will thirst.
Do not dig canals into our eyes, into our hearts—
Let Mehran flow!
Its current is our survival.
O Sindhu!
You are not merely a river—
You are an oath, a dream, a prayer.
You are the flow of our blood,
The promise of our land.
We will guard you—
As a child clutches their mother’s hand,
As a lover hides their beloved’s secrets.
Flow, Mehran, flow—
So that we may live.
You are a poem—
Woven from earth, water, prayer, pain,
And hope.
A story that beats in every heart—
A river that is a nation.
And no tyrant can destroy a nation made of water and soul.
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