High in the sacred lands of Tibet, where the air is thin and the sky whispers to mountains, the Indus stirs from slumber
The body parts of the Indus speak because the author personifies the river as a human
By Abdullah Usman Morai | Sweden
- The Awakening in the Sky
High in the sacred lands of Tibet, where the air is thin and the sky whispers to mountains, the Indus stirs from slumber. He is ancient — older than any kingdom, wiser than any sage. His head rests upon the cold pillow of Mount Kailash, his eyes blinking open by Lake Manasarovar.
“Another cycle begins,” he murmurs, as streams trickle into being, forming the early thoughts of water. The glaciers hum old lullabies. The head sends a signal to the rest of the body.
“Awaken, my limbs. Let’s carry life again.”
The message rushes downward — through his face in Ladakh, across his throat in Kohistan, and towards his chest.
- The Voice of the River
In the neck’s narrow gorge, the water squeezes through tight valleys, roaring like the voice of a prophet. The river coughs slightly — gravel and glacial dust in his throat.
“Always this pressure,” the neck says. “But it’s how we find form.”
Below, in the chest of Attock, tributaries arrive — Swat, Kabul, Soan — like faithful friends gathering for a purpose. The heart swells. The lungs fill. The chest breathes.
“We are strong again,” says the heart. “Let us feed the belly.”
And so, the river flows down into Punjab.
- The Belly’s Generosity
In Mianwali, Taunsa, and Multan, the Indus becomes full-bodied. This is his belly, where fields stretch wide like skin, soaking in the gifts of the river.
The intestines — Jhelum, Ravi, Sutlej, Chenab — branch out like digestive organs, turning water into wheat, rice, sugarcane.
“Look how they depend on us,” the belly smiles. “We are their abundance, their feast.”
But beneath the belly, the legs tremble.
- The Cracking Knees of Sindh
In Sukkur, Larkana, Dadu, Moro, and Nawabshah, the river slows. He can feel it in his knees and calves — dry patches, sand cracking like old skin.
His legs whisper, barely audible.
“Brother above,” say the legs, “we are weak. The water does not reach us.”
The feet — Thatta, Keti Bunder, the Indus Delta — are in worse shape. They are fractured, salty, eroded by the sea creeping in.
“We are the final step in the journey,” the feet weep, “and we are forgotten.”
From his great heart in Punjab, the river listens. He speaks to himself.
“What good is a strong mind, chest, and belly… if my legs are broken and my feet cannot walk?”
- The Conversation of Pain
The body speaks — not in words, but in feelings.
- The brain knows.
- The lungs feel heavy.
- The arms — the canal systems — are stiff, overworked, sometimes stolen from.
- The legs scream silently, unable to bear the pressure of old civilizations, mismanaged barrages, and political neglect.
At night, the body of the river lies still — like an old man who once ran across empires but now limps through dust.
“Does anyone hear my pain?” the Indus wonders.
- The Keeper Nations
But not all is lost.
From Tibet to Sindh, there are guardians — some visible, some secret.
- In Tibet, monks whisper prayers near his source.
- In Gilgit-Baltistan, villagers build small walls to protect his purity.
- In Punjab, farmers speak to him with reverence before harvesting.
- In Sindh, elders sit near his dry bed, telling tales of his glory, their faces wet with more tears than water.
There are engineers, activists, students, and dreamers across the nation who study him, clean him, and fight for his revival. But they are few, scattered like lost antibodies in a sick body.
“Who among the rulers will become my healer?” the river wonders.
“Who among the people will become my spine?”
- The Floods Come
Then came the monsoon of 2022, then 2025 — sudden, angry, and overwhelming.
From the skies above, the rain slammed down as if nature remembered its oldest river and wanted to revive him with a kiss or a slap.
For a few weeks, the Indus felt young again.
- His legs surged with force, flooding fields and streets.
- His feet tasted fresh water after decades of salt.
- The Delta danced, fish returned, birds flew over the forgotten wetlands.
“I’m alive again!” the Indus cried joyfully.
“Look at me! I am the same mighty river that once cradled Mohenjo-daro!”
But then he paused.
He remembered that floods — though reviving — also bring destruction, especially when not planned for.
“Will they prepare for me, or only fear me?” he thought.
Because once the floodwater leaves, the body remembers pain.
- Afraid of Dry Days Again
Now, the Indus lives with a bittersweet feeling. He is thankful for the flood’s arrival — like an old man who drank a full glass of water after years of thirst.
But he is afraid, too.
“Will I go back to being dry and cracked? Will they store me in dams and forget my Delta again?”
The legs shiver.
The feet whisper:
“They cheered when we flooded, but they did not rebuild us. They needed the drama, not the healing.”
- A Body in Need of Balance
The Indus body speaks again — this time to the nations.
To Tibet:
“Protect my head. Guard my glaciers. They are melting faster than memory.”
To Gilgit-Baltistan:
“You are my eyes. Watch the skies. Watch the snow. Warn me when danger comes.”
To Khyber Pakhtunkhwa:
“My throat runs through you. Don’t let greed choke me with concrete.”
To Punjab:
“My heart beats with your crops. Share my blood with fairness.”
To Sindh:
“My legs and feet, I owe you everything. You are my ending — my touch with the ocean. I am sorry I’ve become dry here. It is not my will — it is the negligence of those who control my flow.”
- Will the Body Heal?
The question floats from glacier to delta:
Can a river’s body heal?
It will require new decisions, new doctors, and new myths.
- Politicians must become physiotherapists — unblocking the arteries of the river.
- People must become guardians, not just consumers.
- Farmers must use less water, with more wisdom.
- Engineers must respect nature, not dominate it.
- Children must be taught river stories, not just dam diagrams.
And above all:
The Indus must be treated like a living being. Not a resource. Not a project. Not a tap. But a being.
- The River’s Dream
At night, the Indus dreams.
He sees himself standing tall, full of water, with:
- A mind at peace,
- A throat singing,
- A heart pumping evenly,
- Legs firm,
- And feet planted gracefully in the sea.
Birds return. Fish leap. Children bathe in his waters. Crops grow. The Delta is green again. The body is whole.
And he whispers to himself:
“This is what I was meant to be. A body of life. A river of unity.”
- A Message to the Nation
If a nation cannot take care of the legs and feet of its river,
It will not stand for long.
If the Delta dies,
The heart will rot,
The lungs will clog,
The mind will freeze,
And the body will collapse.
But if you heal the feet,
The whole body will dance.
Closing Words: The Oath of the River
“I am Sindhu — the river who gave his name to your land.
I am not your servant. I am your ancestor.
You drink from my veins. You plant in my belly. You sail on my back.
Now it is time for you to take care of me.”
Let the body flow. Let the body breathe. Let the body speak. Let the body live.
Read: A Plea for the Majestic Indus
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Abdullah Soomro, penname Abdullah Usman Morai, hailing from Moro town of Sindh, province of Pakistan, is based in Stockholm Sweden. Currently he is working as Groundwater Engineer in Stockholm Sweden. He did BE (Agriculture) from Sindh Agriculture University Tando Jam and MSc water systems technology from KTH Stockholm Sweden as well as MSc Management from Stockholm University. Beside this he also did masters in journalism and economics from Shah Abdul Latif University Khairpur Mirs, Sindh. He is author of a travelogue book named ‘Musafatoon’. His second book is in process. He writes articles from time to time. A frequent traveler, he also does podcast on YouTube with channel name: VASJE Podcast.
