Sindhi Beenoon : The Essence Of The Soul
Gratitude and Courtesy To Saaeen Jamali
"Moonkh-e Doongar-u Dorind-a aayo, Kechi Kech wancgan." (Kechis leave for Kech, I am left alone to wander in the rocks).
What is Sindh? Where is Sindh? These are some of the reactions one gets when he starts talking about Sindh, for rightly so, not many people know about this beautiful land of beautiful
people, that once was an Empire and a cradle of all civilisations...click that existed about 6000 to 7000 years ago. This civilization - the Indus Valley Civilization - the authenticity and evidence of which is found at Moenjadaro...click (the Mound of the Dead), about 350 kilometres North of Karachi, near Larkana, birth place of another son of Sindh:
Zulfikar Ali Bhutto...click, open the long and chequered history of mankind. Here civilised people lived in spacious houses with extraordinary drainage system, at a time when the rest of the world was in darkness and people still lived in the bush or on trees.
I am proud to be a son of that mother of civilisations - Sindh - and glad and honoured to be here to tell the story, in due humility, of this old, feeble, forlorn mother, victim of natural disasters, raped by the marauding, barbaric, uncivilised, and uncouth people of far and near,
and abandoned by her very own children - the children that she loved, reared and raised, and protected in the warmth of her bosom. This mother gave to her children the most efficacious river, the Sindhu or the Mehran, on the banks of which flourished some of the
most beautiful and richest cities and ports in the world, from where Sindhi merchants traded goods to and from other ancient civilsations - the Inca, Messopotamia, Sumeria, and the Great Chinese civilizations. It is here that international trade and maritime enterprise
first originated and developed.
This mother Sindh, also gave her children the most irrigable alluvial soil on Earth, where all kinds of grain grew, providing abundant food for her children and rest of the world. Under the shade and protection of the warm bosom of mother Sindh, lived its
energetic, resourceful, kind, humble and hospitable children, in peace, progress and harmony.
As I write this piece in the cosy comfort of my house in peaceful island-city of Singapore, I hear Naru Bhagat sing on my tape recorder : "Ka'at-u qariban-i jay aggian katium-i keenaki, cha'a budhaya'an?" (I weaved not the web before the Loved One, what am I to say?)
The mother Sindh provided everything in abundance - even love. So much love was oozing from her soul that having showered the torrents of love and adulation on her children, she still had a tremendous capacity and quantity of love left, which she progressively and regularly showered
upon the children of other lands, other places, other worlds, and other cultures. They came to trouble her, torture her, and torment her. They trespassed into the peaceful lives of her children. They teased, tempted, trivialised and trode mercillesly over her children. Yet, this epitome of motherhood,
this ocean of love, this graceful mother of mothers, this prologue of the history of civilizations, this land of mine - my mother land, my fatherland, Sindh - opened her warm heart and soul to all who came.
They came from everywhere - east, west, north, south, everywhere! From North came the Aryans, Alexander, Mongols, and Moghuls. From South came the British, the Portuguese, and the Arabs in boats, dhows and ships. From West came the Persians, the Greeks, Arghuns, and Targhuns. From East came the Mohajirs, the Biharis, the Delhiwalas, the beetlenut-chewing individuals of Hindustan - shirtless, shinless and shelterless. They ravaged,
they plundered, they raped the grand old lady and tore her children...click apart from the warmth of her bosom. They manipulated, brainwashed and obscenely seduced her children - through beetlenut, Urdu (the language of the harems of Sultans, Rajas and Maharajas), and through the sari-clad belles - with naked stomach and belly, showing a pulsating midriff, a quivering belly-button, and an inviting gait with an open lascivious smile, and lustful twinkling of the eyes.
They threw the grand old lady, the mother who mothered them just like she mothered her own children, who loved and opened her heart, mind and soul to them, just as she did for her own children. Yes, they threw her - knocked senseless, dazed and bewildered - in a dark bottomless dungeon of despair, drudgery and death. The love is stunned, the beauty is gone, warm bosom is warm no more, the mother is dead! Long live treachery, ingratitude, lust and infidelity!
During one of my regular visits to Sindh to see my folks, in December 1994, whilst driving down the Superhighway, from Karachi to Hyderabad, to visit my nephew and to attend the Parents' Day function at my old Alma Mater, the Cadet College, Petaro, I saw a body - wrapped in dust and smoke, generated by countless 'super' vehicles driven by the 'super' people - on the side of the Superhighway. I asked my brother, who was driving,
to stop for a while. In scorching heat the body lay - no sound, no movement. An elederly lady, with dishevelled grey hair, eyes - a bottomless pit - deep, sunk, half-open. I can see years of toil, sacrifices, and love burried deep in there. Her bosom - open, cold, empty, and pathetic vaccum. She was in tatters. Her face - muddy, wrinkled, and yet, calm and serene.
I can read countless questions and queries on that troubled, yet, beautiful face. Beside her, scattered all over was a crumpled heap of her only possesions - few old clothes, perhaps, the legacy of the past, and a murky, shrivelled photograph. There, beside her, was her 'kisto' (a begging-bowl) - empty, teasing and tormenting my vary soul! I looked at the photograph and
saw a very beautiful lady - a typical Sindhi lady, dressed in Sindhi costume with a 'rao' (sindhi head covering) made of 'ajrak', white shirt with Sindhi 'burth' (designs and patterns) and the shalwar made of 'sussi' (the Sindhi home-spun cloth). Four handsome children - three boys and a pretty girl - fresh, smiling, innocent faces, oblivious of tomorrow, living only for
that moment with their beloved parents. And a man - tall, robust, and handsome with proud moustache, a 'patko' (turban) wrapped around his head, and an 'ajrak' (a type of Sindhi shawl) hanging around his broad shoulders, and a Sindhi moccasin-like shoes in his feet - her husband.
A man from the adjacent road-side restaurant - there are countless such thatched restaurants, or hotels (as they call them) along the highway - came towards us, and
started blurting out in half-Urdu (the national language of the country) and half-Pashtu (the language of the far, far away land of Pashtunistan), "Sahib," he used a filthy abusive word, "she is a Sindhi beggar woman. She is not yet dead. How can she die when I give her food to eat?" he said, giggling and slapping his chest. "Her husband is in Saudi Arabia and never comes back, her daughter is a 'rundi' (a prostitute) and a mistress
of a Sindhi Vadera ( he told us his name as well), one of her sons is a pimp for his sister, another one was very pretty, so pretty that he was liked and fancied by a lorry driver and he took him along with him in his truck to Peshawar (the capital of that far, far away land of Pushtoonistan). He has not been seen since. The other son is a thief, robber, beggar and addict. He lives in some 'makan' with 'mawalees.' They have beaten her,
took all her possesions and left her at my hotel to die. I have taken pity on this woman and provided her with some food. During daytime she sleeps by the roadside, begging from the passing-by cars of the rich Sindhi Vaderas, but none stops, and at night.....," he paused and took out a tiny receptacle, from the folds of his murky shalwar (loose baggy trousers). Looking at the mirror on the lid of the receptacle, he, scratched his moustache
with his dirty long-nailed fingers, opened the lid and pinched out something that looked greenish, pale, pasty stuff and thrust his huge fingers into his mouth, planting the stuff somewhere between his filthy brownish-yellow teeth. My brother later told me that the stuff is known as 'naswar' - a drug, which is used by people from that far away land, for 'kicks', thrill and stimulation, keeping them 'high' under the euphoric effect caused by
the drug. He continued with a sheepish grin, arrogant show of body gestures, and that obscene mock in his eyes, "At night, she entertains and comforts my brother truck and lorry drivers, you know what I mean."
At this instance, somebody shouted for him from the hotel and he abruptly turned and started to walk back to his hotel.
Yes, I knew precisely what he meant. It is for that reason, that he gives her the crumbs and the left overs of the steady stream of the truck and lorry drivers from the far, far away lands of Pushtoonistan and Punjab - his brothers. Yes, he gives her food! How can she die?
As I stood there transfixed another noisy lorry trudged by, one of the hundreds that kept on zooming past with 'high' drivers from the far, far away lands, and young 'pretty' Sindhi boys as their 'kleanders' (as they call them), leaving behind a suffocating pall of dust and smoke, which was so unceremoniously and ignominiously enveloping the body lying in front of me.
Lying motionless in front of me was not just a frail, aged, sickly lady, but a mother. And that mother, looked like my own mother, like any other mother that I had ever known. As I stood there - mesmerised, frozen, paralysed, with a huge lump in my throat and tears in my eyes which refused to fall, I heard the deep resonant voice of Fakir Abdul Ghafoor's on my brother's car radio singing:
Suddenly, that mother was transformed into mother Sindh. The love is stunned, the beauty is gone, warm bosom is warm no more, the mother is dead! Long live treachery, ingratitude and infidelity! Yes, long live treachery, ingratitude and infidelity!
I took out my wallet, touched a hundred rupee note (no, too little), then a five hundred note (no, too little), finally took out a thousand rupee note, and holding it in my shaking hands, I approached the body, put the money in her frail hand, and said, "Ammar-i, du'a kajain-i" (mother, wish me well and pray for me). As I bent, she opened her eyes, looked at me, and said, "Abba, Allah waddee umir-i ddiyya-ee"
(My child, may Allah give you long life). There was love in her eyes and sincerity in her voice. The same love and sincerity that I used to find in my own mother. And I gave her only a thousand rupee note for that love and sincerity! As I started to walk back to my brother's car, I heard Shah Bhittai...click whispering in my ears, "Heff-u tanheen khey hoi, watun-u
janheen wisariyo" (Shame on those, who forget and foresake their motherland!).
To Sindh : A Poem by Prof. G.M. Mehkri
In the ruins in Sindh, here, there, all over the land,
From Moenjodaro, Ranikot, Amri, Thatta, Amerkot,
Bhambore, Nagar Parker,
Is heard a melody, always in the silvery moon,
In the soft silence of the silvery sands,
In the ever so gentle teasing breeze,
Rises that melody, like,
The long single tinkle of a far-off silver bell,
A melody it is, not a shriek, not a lament,
Not a cry, not a moan, no, not a groan, but a melody,
A whisper of hope, a promise of joy,
A kiss of love, a touch of faith,
A whisper? From me, your mother?
I am your Sindh. Here in the ruins, but no ruin I,
Witness to the glories gone by,
But I am here, in you, "My sons, my daughters, in you I dwell",
With you around "With your love for me, With your faith in me",
With you hope in me and mine wholly in you,
My sons and daughters, "How can I, Sindh, a ruin be,
My children?", I am Sindh, I am Marvi, I am Saussi, and Sohni me,
Round the globe you take my name, my children,
You sing my songs, my name, my children,
You sing my songs, my name my fame, "Mother Sindh" you say, as you cry for me,
In your heart I am the song, in your ears I am the music,
How can I then a ruin be?
I am alive in you,
I am the sparkle in your children's eyes, smile on their lips am I,
In the ever so softly melting, melting, melting nights,
A whisper ever so sweetly urging, urging, urging,
Awake now, awake and arise and see my face in,
The light, in the golden glory of the rising Sun.
..........From "The Ruins in Sindh" by Prof. G.M. Mekri
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