In the Court of Time: A Mother, a Black Robe, the Land of Sindh — A Lament, A Trial
By: Raja Zahid Akhtar Khanzada
(A literary tribute inspired by the poem “ڪارو ڪوٽ” by Adi Noor ul Huda Shah)
Scene:
It is the court of Time. Silent, dignified, stretched from eternity to eternity.
There is no judge — or perhaps there is, but he does not speak.
A mother stands in the witness box, weary, wounded, draped in centuries of silence.
She is wearing a black coat.
Today, she is her own lawyer.
There are no tears in her eyes, no complaints on her lips — only a centuries-old case in the stillness.
A plea rising from the womb of a five-thousand-year-old civilization.
Mother (breaking the silence, her voice burdened with centuries of fatigue):
“My name is Sindh. My history spans at least five thousand years —
a history woven with the fall of thrones, the flow of rivers,
the weight of chains, and the light of spiritual knowledge.
My land has been a symbol of knowledge, civilization, poetry, resistance, and spirituality.”
Mother (speaking softly):
“Today I stand alone, but not bowed.
The first blow against me was struck in 1500 BCE,
when the Aryans attacked my ancient civilization — Mohenjo-Daro and Harappa.
These invasions led to the decline of that glorious culture.
A river gave birth to the civilization.
By its banks, Mohenjo-Daro flourished —
where the first grinding stone turned, the first grain was milled,
where for the first time, a woman balanced a pot on her head
and water became the symbol of life.
I am the land with the crown of Mohenjo-Daro’s soil on my forehead,
and with the heartbeat of Harappan culture still alive in my chest.
I am a mother — wounded, yet with head held high; alone, yet unbowed.”
She spreads her old files on the courtroom floor —
the soil of Mohenjo-Daro, ruins of Harappa,
poetry of Sachal, melodies of Latif,
tales of anguish, portraits of sacrifice.
She begins her story of sorrow and says:
“The first attack against me happened in 1500 BCE,
when the Aryans struck my chest.
Those invasions buried Mohenjo-Daro and Harappa into the dust.”
Then in the 6th century BCE,
the Achaemenid Empire set foot on my land.
Darius I, King of Persia, came and tore pieces of my body,
merging them into his empire.
In 326 BCE, Alexander the Great, King of Macedonia,
came with his army to fight my son, Raja Porus.
The skies of Sindh echoed with galloping hooves and the glint of swords.
My sons resisted, but history carved this moment into my chest.
In 711 CE, in the name of Islam, Arab forces invaded.
Muhammad Bin Qasim came, defeated my son Raja Dahir,
and made me a part of the Umayyad Caliphate.
This was the first organized Islamic invasion upon me.
Then from the 11th to 13th centuries,
Mahmud of Ghazni, Shahabuddin Ghori,
and successive sultans attacked my land, ruled over me,
and divided me again and again.
The terrifying shadow of Genghis Khan —
though he never reached my courtyard,
his Mongol invaders reached my northern regions,
burned my villages to ashes, orphaned my children.
In 1398 came Timur the Lame.
His bloody invasions destroyed many of my regions.
The road to Delhi was paved through my wounds.
Then came the Arghuns, Tarkhans, and the Mughals.
From the 17th to the 19th centuries, my own sons —
the Kalhoras and Talpurs — rose.
They gave me identity, autonomy,
and filled my lap with the fragrance of culture, literature, and honor.
That was a time when I was not just a land,
but a living civilization — sovereign and dignified.
But then came 1843…
The army of British imperialism advanced toward me.
Sir Charles Napier waged war on my sons.
Heroes like Hosh Muhammad Sheedi raised the slogan:
“Marsoon marsoon, Sindh na desoon!”
(“We shall die, but never give up Sindh!”)
That cry is forever etched into the heart of history.
And yet, even today, there are countless questions in my eyes…
Who were the true culprits behind my wounds?
And who will stand witness to my truth?
And not only history will bear witness to me —
my sons will too, I know this…
When Genghis Khan’s horses thundered over civilizations and roared across my soil,
I saw that devastation with my own eyes.
How many shrines turned to dust, how many villages turned to ash —
but not a single tear fell from my eyes,
for I was a mother — a mountain of patience.
When Hulagu Khan drowned books in rivers,
when the ink of knowledge turned into blood and dissolved into waters — even then…
I did not let the flame of knowledge extinguish.
That light still survives in the hem of my garment,
a light that has traveled across centuries.
I know — the faces of the invaders kept changing:
sometimes they came with the sword,
sometimes in the name of destiny,
sometimes behind the veil of religion —
but their intent never changed.
The judge of time stares at her in astonishment.
Mother Earth (raising her head, in a resonant voice):
“Now that time has taken such a turn, I myself have risen…
I’ve come to fight my own case!”
Then from the mother’s lips escaped the cry: “Hai re ghora re!” (Alas, the horse!)
She turned to the court of time and asked:
“Do you know from where this phrase is tied to my history?”
Then she answered it herself:
“This is the cry of my centuries-long oppression,
a lament born each time the Aryans, Arabs, Mughals, or the British
mounted their horses and attacked me.
At the sound of hooves, my weak children, daughters, and mothers would tremble in fear —
because the one on the horse was never just a rider,
he was the harbinger of tyranny, looting, ruin of homes, and dishonor.
In that moment, this phrase became a signal —
a shockwave of society, a new onslaught upon civilization.”
But today… this phrase is not for an outsider!
(Silence. Even the whisper of wind stops in the courtroom.)
She continues her testimony:
“I am the same mother from whose womb emerged the Sufis —
I gave birth to Shah Latif, Sachal Sarmast, Shaikh Ayaz —
who taught the language of love, who connected humans to one another,
who gave me the complete stature of ‘Mother’, and remained loyal to truth.
I bore sons like Raja Dahir who resisted Muhammad Bin Qasim.
From my womb came Hosh Mohammad Sheedi,
who bared his chest before British guns and declared:
‘We shall die, but never give up Sindh!’”
She said:
“I am the one who faced the repeated invasions of Arghuns, Tarkhans, Mughals, Kalhoras, and the British —
but every time, sons like Doolo, Doodo, Dilawar, and Ghulam Shah Kalhoro
answered every chain with a new battle cry!”
She spoke again:
“Then the British left. Pakistan came.
But my fate was still shackled.
Ayub Khan came — he sold off my rivers.
No one asked, no one spoke —
all that mattered was for Punjab’s fields to stay green.
And in return, the sword of Chashma Link Canal was struck across my chest.
It was illegal…
but in the dictionary of power, arguments don’t matter — only force wins.”
“My jugular vein… my River Indus…
Once the source of life, now turned into thirst.
The same river beside which my son Latif sang,
beneath whose shade Sachal sang the song of unity —
that very river is now breathing its last.
And with it… so is my soul.
The pulse of my being has begun to fade.”
“On the bandage of one arm lies Badin —
where once the fragrance of rice floated in the breeze —
today that arm suffers the gangrene of waterlogging and salinity.
Thatta — once adorned like a bride’s forehead on the banks of the Indus —
now watches as the sea silently steals the earth from beneath her feet.”
“My heart…
Hyderabad, Tando Allahyar and the entire division —
where once life flowed through water —
now saline water rises from the ground.
If these canals aren’t stopped,
if my river doesn’t flow again —
tomorrow, the sea’s poison will reach even Karachi’s feet.
Already, many of my fingers have been swallowed by the sea…
and now, that poison runs quietly through my veins.”
**“Badin, Thatta…
And now even the children of Hyderabad Division
can no longer draw sweet water from me…
And the worst of all is this:
That the fate of my existence
has been sealed in the Presidential Palace in the name of ‘Green Energy’.
A decree has been passed to draw six canals from my very own river.
My fertile lands have been handed over to corporate farming companies…
And all this was not done by a foreign enemy —
it was done by my own sons!”
**“But today… I will not stay silent.
Today, instead of blood, a cry flows in my veins.
I ask you:
Am I not the same mother who gave you birth?
Who taught your lips to speak?
Who grew grain to feed your hunger?
Who gave you your name, your identity, your recognition?”
The same ones whom I voted to place the crown of Sindh upon their heads,
whom I accepted as the heirs of Zulfikar Ali Bhutto…
Today that very People’s Party, intoxicated with power,
has laid the blood in my veins upon the bargaining table!”
**Yet they still claim, outwardly, to love me.
The mother says:
“Today’s rulers, blind in the lust for power,
have already decided to treat me worse
than the assaults of Hulagu and Genghis Khan.
The only difference is — the invaders once came from outside.
Today’s invaders rise from within my own home!”
She continues:
“They did everything…
And I remained silent.
I gave them power,
I gave them votes,
I gave them respect…”
Then she herself asked:
“But what did you give me in return?
Today, my womb has been sold.
How am I supposed to bear this?”
She said:
“I said nothing when palaces were built…
when motorcades worth millions paraded…
when lands were sold,
when schools were shut down,
when hospitals turned to ruins —
even then, the mother stayed silent.”
**“But today…
when a son, drunk on the wine of power,
has mortgaged his own mother into the hands of others —
how can I stay silent?”
“That is why…
When they sold my land, my river, my existence —
I knew I had to come to the court of time…
because now, my very being is sinking —
and with me, all life will sink too.”
Mother Earth bowed her head in sorrow and said:
“The children whom I raised against my chest, whom I gave birth to from my womb, today they are the ones who have bargained the blood that flows in the veins of my existence.
This is not water… this is my blood.
The guarantee of my breaths, the survival of my generations—
the same water that nourished crops for centuries,
that gave life to Hoshu Sheedi on the battlefield—
today, a plan has been made to put a lock on that water.”
The mother addresses the Court of Time:
“A mother is asking her disobedient children through you—
did I not settle you for thousands of years upon my shores?
Did I ever leave you thirsty?
Then why today are canals being carved through my chest?
Why is my blood being poured into the cups of others?”
(She moves forward, without looking at the judge.)
“O Judge of Time!
My testimony is my history.
My witnesses are the poetry and instrument of Latif,
the song of Sachal,
the roar of Hoshu Sheedi,
the resistance of Raja Dahir,
the ideological resilience of G. M. Syed,
the people’s consciousness of Rasool Bux Palijo,
and the democratic vision of Bhutto.”
“But my criminals?
They are the very ones whom I nursed with my milk…
the same ones who today tear at my breast and burn my being as fuel for someone else’s furnace.”
The mother’s eyes well up.
She says: “Today, the soul of my Hoshu Sheedi
is questioning the flowing waves beneath Sukkur’s bridges—
did I say ‘Marsoon Marsoon Sindh na desoon’
so that my mother could be sold?”
**“That is why today I stand in court myself…
I have tested lawyers,
I have pleaded,
I have begged,
I have prayed—
but no answer came from anywhere.
Now I will speak myself,
argue myself,
testify myself—
and at my back stands history.
History that will testify:
whoever sold me,
was never safe again.”**
“Today, Sindh’s poets, intellectuals, and youth
have all come to testify in court for their mother.
Sachal’s soul screams from the skies,
Latif’s instrument trembles,
Hoshu Sheedi raises a hand from his grave and roars:
Where are my heirs?
The land is drowning!”
“Those whom we gave honor, land, position—
today those very sons, intoxicated by power,
have mortgaged their mother away.
The sea keeps advancing every day,
the land keeps retreating—
and everyone is silent,
as if this land is merely a matter of statistics,
not a living, breathing being.”
(A long moment of silence. The judge’s chair seems empty.)
The mother—tired, wounded,
but resolute—says:
“I am wounded,
the briny water of the river has become poison
and reached my heart and liver…
but I am still alive!
As long as my sons,
my truth,
my history,
and Latif’s poetry live—
I will live on!”
(No tears fall from the mother’s eyes.
Perhaps they dried centuries ago.)
“Today, all of you listen—
O witnesses of time!
I, the Mother Earth,
do not forgive you.
Not those sons
who sacrificed my body on the altar of the state’s convenience,
not those intellectuals
who buried my story by calling it ‘regionalism’,
not those courts
who declared the plea of my children’s mother as ‘inadmissible’.”
(She looks toward the judge, a lightning spark in her eyes.)
**She says:
“If speaking the truth is rebellion,
then I am a rebel.
If remembering history is a sin,
then I am a sinner.
But remember—
this land will continue to speak.
My bricks will testify,
my river will cry out,
and every Sindhi child who speaks the truth
will rise with a new case on my behalf.
How much will you suppress?
The voice of a mother?”**
(A deep silence falls over the courtroom.)
The court is quiet.
The judge is lost in the papers.
Then he lifts his head, fixes his gaze on the mother and speaks:
“Listen!”
This verdict does not belong to the court alone—
it belongs to all of you.
Will you
who once played in your mother’s lap—
listen to her screams?
Or stand with those who sold her?
Remember
history is witness:
Whoever sells their mother,
is never safe
neither in the heart,
nor on this earth.
Verdict reserved.
NOTE:
Today’s Sindh stands once again in the court of history, bearing witness to its truth — with a wounded heart, a thirsty land, and the iron grip of power clenched over the pulse of its river.
The decision to extract six new canals from the Indus River is no longer merely a matter of water distribution — it is now an assault on the living soul of this land, on its breath, its generations, and its identity.
In this very context, Sindh’s renowned writer and symbol of intellectual resistance, Syed Noorul Huda Shah, has raised a voice of protest through her poetic lament — a cry that is not merely a poem, but a tapestry of centuries of pain, struggle, and mourning.
In this poem, the land of Sindh is personified as a mother standing in the court of time, raising questions, calling upon history as her witness, and demanding justice from her very own children.
Answering this call, senior Sindhi journalist Raja Zahid Akhtar Khanzada, based in the United States, picked up his pen from the depths of his heart and gave voice to the pain that now rises as a sigh from the soul of this motherland. This editorial marks the first thread in this ongoing series — presenting the lament of the land, the trial of history, and the plea for truth by the mother herself.
Indeed, this is the metrical English translation of Noorul Huda Shah’s poem “ڪارو ڪوٽ” (The Black Coat):
(The Black Coat) by Noorul Huda Shah
Look!
Today, my land
(my exhausted, weary land
wounded, burdened,
walking barefoot for centuries
still breathing, but broken)
Stands in the court of time
Wearing a black coat
Fighting the battle for its survival
Alone, as its own lawyer.
The judge of time stares in wonder,
And asks:
“Are you the same land?
The one brought here in chains,
With no witnesses
To speak of the injustice done to you?”
Yes, I am that very land!
Sometimes,
Certain lands reach a point
Where they must rise on their own,
Put on the black coat,
And argue their case in the court of time.
And in that moment,
Every inhabitant of that land
Becomes its witness.
I am that land.
( Noorul Huda Shah)
