Have You Ever Been to a morgue?
Yes, once, when we went to collect the body of a dear friend.
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.
Morgue
Morgue Have You Ever Been to a morgue?
Yes, once, when we went to collect the body of a dear friend.
He had been lost in an accident,
And his lifeless form had been sent from the Northern Areas to Karachi.
We arrived at the airport with his family to claim him,
Only to be told that his body lay in the cold storage,
Waiting among the cargo, soon to be handed over to us.
And we pondered—was he no longer our friend?
Was he now just “cargo”? A body? Merely a name on a receipt?
All of us shared the same question: what transforms a living, breathing soul into cargo?
When does a human become an object?
Is it when the mind ceases to function or when our senses fall silent?
Are we defined by our thoughts, the very essence of our being?
No pleasure, belief, or interest should hold such weight that it reduces a life to mere cargo.
He may be gone, but in our memories, he still has a home.
They say tragedy binds people together, or perhaps we are united by shared values.
In our case, we were drawn together by this very tragedy,
yet now we drift apart—he returned to us as cargo.
It is said that every subject requires a unique voice,
a particular tone that brings forth its colors.
His departure became a subject in itself, unveiling many shades before my eyes.
He was like a spark flickering in the ashes of burnt time.
His thoughts took root, intertwining the past with the present, as if he were guiding us blindfolded,
Tapping his stick against the ground,
Rousing us from our slumber.
Perhaps that was why he harbored a disdain for success—this glittering illusion that felt empty to him.
The one we received in morgue, as if he were but another piece of cargo.
***
Rain in the Umbrella
Rain in the UmbrellaI was alone in the room,
Surrounded by a creeping silence,
A long sadness,
Sticking to the walls like a lizard,
When suddenly, the light door creaked open,
And a gust of fragrance entered,
Tilting the portrait on the wall,
Where hues of melancholy were inscribed in grey.
I knew that scent—it was yours,
A waft from your passage.
Inside me, a rain began to smile, humming for a long while,
Entangling itself in my feet like ankle bells,
That rain felt like a dance,
A shower of hope
To meet you again.
Sometimes it writes poetry with its fingers
On the glass windows of my eyes,
The verses I have memorized,
The lines I hold dear.
All my days and nights seem lost somewhere,
Those I have not sought to find,
Yet you have returned,
And I know this too.
Your fragrance has permeated
My senses once more,
Like a letter that has reached me,
Delivered by the postman of moments,
Standing on the threshold of my room,
Woven into the night’s cloak,
Like the moon itself.
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