“What is your favorite song, Dadi (grandmother)?”

I recall asking this question as my younger self. She smiled, her wrinkled hands resting gently on her lap, and then she began to sing.  “Munhji piyari Sindho, o sonhari Sindho”
(meaning: “My beloved Sindhu, O golden Sindhu”).

It was in Sindhi, a language that was hers and hers alone. I didn’t understand the words, but I understood the feeling. And in almost every story she told and every song she hummed, there was always mention of a river.

My grandmother wasn’t highly educated. She only spoke Sindhi, even after we moved from Sindh to Karachi. Urdu slowly crept into her world, but she never let go of her roots. She would talk in Sindhi even if people didn’t understand her, and though it sometimes upset others, she didn’t mind. It was who she was, and I admired her for it.

One evening, while I was coloring in my school notebook, she sat beside me, trying to make sense of what I was doing. She couldn’t read the words, but her eyes followed every stroke of my pencil. Then suddenly, she pointed at a picture of water and whispered, “Sindhu Daryah, the Indus River.” Her finger trembled, her eyes shone, and in that moment, I understood that this was more than a river to her.

I thought she was asking me what the picture was, so I told her: “Dadi, that’s a river.” She repeated it back in broken English. That small word “river” became the first and last English word she ever learned. Just three days later, she passed away. She was buried in her village in Sindh, near the very river she had loved all her life.

Years later, while visiting her home, I found a letter she had written in Sindhi. In it, she remembered her own childhood. As a little girl, she once asked her mother,

“Ammi, where does this water come from? The water that makes the land green, grows the crops, and makes the rain flow?” Her mother smiled and replied, “All of this comes from the River Indus.”

For my grandmother, the Indus was more than just a flowing river. It was love, identity, and survival. In her day, the river was generous. It enriched fields with fertility, fed families, and became an integral part of every story, every prayer, and every celebration. The Indus was not just a river; it was the heartbeat of a people. Now, standing in the present, I see a very different Indus. The same river my grandmother adored is slowly dying.

The Indus once carried abundance across the length of Pakistan, but now it struggles. Climate change is melting the glaciers that feed it. Deforestation has stripped its banks of strength, and factories pour waste into its waters. Unchecked usage has drained it, and political disputes over its flow keep Pakistan’s future hanging by a thread.

This river sustains most of Pakistan’s agriculture and provides water to the majority of its people, but each passing year, it seems weaker. Farmers complain of low harvests, animals suffer from thirst, and villages that once thrived along its banks are fading into silence. When I look at the Indus today, it feels like watching an old friend wither away. Where my grandmother once saw a river overflowing with life, I now see one gasping for survival.

Yet, the tragedy goes beyond human needs. 

The Indus River is also home to one of the world’s rarest mammals: the Sukkur blind dolphin, locally called “Bhulan.” This unique creature, found only in the Indus, is nearly extinct. Once abundant, their numbers have dwindled drastically, surviving only in isolated stretches of the river. The survival of the dolphins is directly tied to the health of the Indus, if they disappear, it will be a signal that the river itself has died. But the Indus is not without hope. 

Pakistan’s irrigation system, built on the Indus, is one of the most extensive and well-planned in the world. With dams, barrages, and canals stretching across the country, it has the potential to ensure food security for generations. If managed properly, it could protect Sindh from devastating floods and guarantee that the province never faces crippling water shortages. Unfortunately, mismanagement, corruption, and negligence have turned this blessing into a looming disaster.

The Indus is also the river of civilizations. It nurtured Mohenjo-Daro and Harappa thousands of years ago, laying the foundation of culture, trade, and life in South Asia. Even today, nearly 65% of Pakistan’s population depends directly on it, and about 90% of the country’s food supply is sustained through its waters. Without it, the land that gave birth to civilizations would itself crumble into ruin.

If we continue on this path, the future of Pakistan will be written in drought and despair. Imagine fields once green with wheat and rice turning into cracked earth. Imagine farmers leaving their lands, carrying hunger and heartbreak into already crowded cities. Imagine taps running dry in Karachi and Hyderabad, where millions depend on a river that may no longer reach them. It is not just about water: Without the Indus, our economy, our agriculture, and our very survival would collapse. The river that cradled civilizations like Mohenjo-Daro and Harappa could vanish, leaving behind nothing but ruins and regret.

The funeral of the Indus River would not only mean the death of a river. It would mean the death of a nation’s soul.  Yet, I cannot end this story only in despair, because my grandmother never saw the river that way. For her, the Indus was a companion, a true giver of life. She believed in its eternal strength, and maybe that is what we need to hold on to today, the belief that it can be saved if we care enough.

We do not need complicated words to understand the truth. If we waste less, plant more, and treat the river with the respect it deserves, it will give back as it always has. If leaders act with vision and people act with responsibility, the Indus can be revived.

The task is not simple, but neither is the love this land carries for the river. That love has lived through songs, stories, and generations. It has lived through my grandmother’s devotion, through her last English word, “river.”

The Indus is not just water. It is history, memory, and survival. My grandmother’s life began and ended with it, and so will ours if we do not protect it. But I believe there is still time: Time to change, to act, to fight for the river that has always fought for us. Because as long as the Indus flows, so does Pakistan.