Hijr: Letter One

In these thoughts to my soul,

I know not what to write, yet I shall, for these ears are drawn towards your home.

It is the most foreign of lands that we call our home, where I and everyone who left the citadel have settled. A million graces of the heavens that before innumerable gnashes sheared away our desire to walk further, we found this sweet-smelling land by the Sarasvati, a river so full of life and plentiful. Although an envelope of sadness always wraps around our cotton, the conviction keeps the lamp burning.

By the grace of Lord Pashupatinath, I wish good health and happiness for you. Wish that is all I can muster for now, as I am well aware of how torn your heart must be, shattered into uncountable pieces of glass. Such is your grief, I know, your liveliness parched as a desert. We came with nothing, broke apart with nothing and slept with nothing; a bouquet of memories is all we have to share with our graves.

The sunset is strange, just like the day I had left and you stood by the Bath; your doe eyes, resplendent with the hues of setting dusk. Not a word escaped your lips, but I heard your sob, and you mine. That sunset continues to haunt me despite all these years. The gravel and silt from the hills have settled under the river, but my anguish has built a fort around my heart. Under the moonlight, when all fires have been extinguished and all speeches have been hushed, I sit in silence, watching the path towards you.

Oh! If only I could scribble in the wind. There aren't enough stones to inscribe my words for you. So, I shall keep it short.

The mornings begin differently than at the citadel. We have cows that I graze in the riverine pastures. The foreigners haven't yet discovered the beauty of this land, and we dare not dwell too far. We never knew the feeling of being imprisoned in freedom. Maybe we have to move again, or our grave will be dug on these very lands in the years to come. But, for now, our stocks are plentiful, the baths are brimming, the kiln is busy baking the bricks, and the priests mellow the fears of our kin.

In the past tide, waves of joy spread over our settlement as our boats returned with wealth and piles of riches from the sea lands. We rose from destitution, but know not how long we can sustain; the houses are lit with dances by the Bath, and we celebrate as we did at the citadel. We again found our appetite for jewellery, and the old potter's son now carves mesmerising pieces as lavish gifts.

All the world's wealth is in our thriving new settlement, yet there is a void. We are adorned in dazzling metal jewellery and cotton attire, but the poverty of our happiness wreaks havoc in our sleep. I hear the younger ones cry out with nightmares, and men spend the night watching the roads while elders patiently wait to be carried to the mound. We have everything, yet nothing.

And I? As the endless streams meet the sea, our streams will confluence in the sea of eternity. That shall be our home, where our souls shall light the night, and days will be spent in the cold embraces of our decaying selves.

I shall end here, for I fear a word more will burden you. I shall scatter the stone tablets on the way I took to leave you behind. I am glad that our trade led us to the Egyptian friends whose writing on tablets fascinated me. In the tenebrosity of this detachment, may my words illuminate your way to mine!

The ever-destitute in your memory,

𑀳𑀺𑀦𑁆𑀤𑀯𑀺

The Pashupatinath seal reveals a form of Shiva with a headgear surrounded by animals, indicating an overlord or God of the civilisation. As Indus Valley scriptures are yet to be deciphered, it is very difficult to understand the culture solely based on archaeological findings and assumptions.

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RAABTA

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