A Voice from the Indus Valley
The wind whips sand against the ancient, mud-brick walls. I am Anya, a weaver girl, and I am speaking to you from a time long forgotten, a time when the kingdom of Meluhha flourished. Our civilization thrived for generations along the banks of the Indus River, from around 2500 B.C. to 1900 B.C. I was born in 1925 B.C. in the bustling metropolis of Mohenjo-daro, or, Mound of the Dead, you call it now, a fitting name, I suppose.
Our city was truly a wonder, with brick-paved streets laid out in a grid pattern and sophisticated drainage systems. Embankments and canals pulsed with water diverted from the mighty Indus, nourishing the fields. Every house had its own well, bathroom, toilet and drains.
We were a people deeply connected to the land. The fertile soil yielded bountiful harvests. Skilled artisans crafted pottery, beads, and textiles, while the granaries stored the harvests of wheat, barley, sesame, mustard, pulses and millet - enough to feed the citizens but also to trade with others. Our diet also included the meats of pigs, cattle, buffalo, sheep and goat, fish as well as dairy products.
We were among the first to cultivate cotton. My days were spent at the loom, transforming the soft fibres into clothes. In the cold of winter, we used sheep's wool. The system of weights and measures were uniform throughout our civilization.
My family lived in a modest single-story house. Our wealthy neighbours had house built of fired bricks. They had copper and bronze utensils - luxuries that often made me envious. My father, a potter, created elegant vessels, storage jars, toys, and intricate figurines. My mother was a bead maker, specialised making the etched carnelian beads.
The marketplace was the heart of the city, a vibrant hub of exchange, where farmers, artisans, and merchants came together. I often went with my father to barter his exquisite wheel-thrown pottery and artworks. The crafts and jewels were made in workshops and transported to the marketplace in wooden carts. Traders from our kingdom sailed to the lands you call Mesopotamia, laden with exotic birds, animals, fish, wood, shell, ivory, precious stones and metals like gold and silver.
The small, square inscribed stone seals made of steatite, faience, and metals, you still find them scattered across the ruins of our cities, were the identification cards of our civilization. The seals depicted animals, plants, human figures and mythical creatures. Almost everyone had a seal, that had a boss at the back and a hole for a string to be worn around the neck. My husband, a scribe, spent long hours creating the symbols on seals, pottery, and tablets. Once, he gifted me an expensive gold bangle.
Death, we believed, was not an end but a transition, a journey to another realm. We buried our dead with some of the their most treasured possessions, such as pottery and jewelry, and tools that they might need in the afterlife.
Life was prosperous then. But somewhere along the way, a shadow began to creep in.
The signs were subtle at first - unusual heavy rains, prolonged floods. Our fields were washed away, our crops destroyed. During the floods, the massive platforms built on top of the older foundations would act as refugees.
There were whispers among the elders, hushed anxieties about the great flood. But we were strong people, we reminded ourselves. We had faced floods and droughts before; we would adapt. We always had. But this time it was different. This period of change began toward the end of 1900 B.C.
The cattle that grazed in our pastures began to disappear. The bustling export with Mesopotamia stopped. The granaries, which had always been full, were damaged, and much of our stored grain was ruined. All our records - our history - written on barks and cloths were washed away. It was as if the earth itself was turning against us.
My family, like many others, struggled to survive. Some spoke of seeking refugee in the hills or migrating towards unknown lands. But most of us… we were rooted here. This was our home. Generations of our ancestors lay buried in this earth. Our lives, our memories, our souls were intertwined with the dust of Mohenjo-daro, with the ebb and flow of the Indus, even when it turned against us.
Many perished from hunger. The grand structures of the city began to decay. Then, a strange and virulent plague swept through our streets, leaving the populace weak, feverish, and quick to succumb. We remained, until floodwaters and epidemic settled over us all, transforming our city into a burial ground.
We didn't vanish in a single cataclysm, dear children. There was no great invasion, no sudden fire that consumed us. We simply… faded. Like a lamp that slowly runs out of oil, our civilization flickered and dimmed, until only embers remained, and then just ashes.
A few survivors who had evacuated the city, finding their way eastward, finally reached a smaller settlement. Years later, foreign immigrants, who spoke an unknown language, arrived there. They had domesticated animals with them, who could travel long distances. Their customs of worship and culture was so different from ours. They were cremating the dead! As time passed, they married the local women. Over time, the cultures began to blend and formed the ancestry of the modern Indian population.
Centuries passed, eons maybe. And then, you came. You, with your strange tools and curious eyes, digging into the earth, uncovering the bones of our city and the remnants of our lives. You marvel at our city planning, our seals, our art. You call us the Harappan civilization, a lost world, a mystery.
This blog post is a work of fiction. Part of it was generated using AI.
Our city was truly a wonder, with brick-paved streets laid out in a grid pattern and sophisticated drainage systems. Embankments and canals pulsed with water diverted from the mighty Indus, nourishing the fields. Every house had its own well, bathroom, toilet and drains.
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| Life in the Indus Valley - Ron Embleton |
We were a people deeply connected to the land. The fertile soil yielded bountiful harvests. Skilled artisans crafted pottery, beads, and textiles, while the granaries stored the harvests of wheat, barley, sesame, mustard, pulses and millet - enough to feed the citizens but also to trade with others. Our diet also included the meats of pigs, cattle, buffalo, sheep and goat, fish as well as dairy products.
We were among the first to cultivate cotton. My days were spent at the loom, transforming the soft fibres into clothes. In the cold of winter, we used sheep's wool. The system of weights and measures were uniform throughout our civilization.
My family lived in a modest single-story house. Our wealthy neighbours had house built of fired bricks. They had copper and bronze utensils - luxuries that often made me envious. My father, a potter, created elegant vessels, storage jars, toys, and intricate figurines. My mother was a bead maker, specialised making the etched carnelian beads.
The marketplace was the heart of the city, a vibrant hub of exchange, where farmers, artisans, and merchants came together. I often went with my father to barter his exquisite wheel-thrown pottery and artworks. The crafts and jewels were made in workshops and transported to the marketplace in wooden carts. Traders from our kingdom sailed to the lands you call Mesopotamia, laden with exotic birds, animals, fish, wood, shell, ivory, precious stones and metals like gold and silver.
The small, square inscribed stone seals made of steatite, faience, and metals, you still find them scattered across the ruins of our cities, were the identification cards of our civilization. The seals depicted animals, plants, human figures and mythical creatures. Almost everyone had a seal, that had a boss at the back and a hole for a string to be worn around the neck. My husband, a scribe, spent long hours creating the symbols on seals, pottery, and tablets. Once, he gifted me an expensive gold bangle.
Death, we believed, was not an end but a transition, a journey to another realm. We buried our dead with some of the their most treasured possessions, such as pottery and jewelry, and tools that they might need in the afterlife.
Life was prosperous then. But somewhere along the way, a shadow began to creep in.
The signs were subtle at first - unusual heavy rains, prolonged floods. Our fields were washed away, our crops destroyed. During the floods, the massive platforms built on top of the older foundations would act as refugees.
There were whispers among the elders, hushed anxieties about the great flood. But we were strong people, we reminded ourselves. We had faced floods and droughts before; we would adapt. We always had. But this time it was different. This period of change began toward the end of 1900 B.C.
The cattle that grazed in our pastures began to disappear. The bustling export with Mesopotamia stopped. The granaries, which had always been full, were damaged, and much of our stored grain was ruined. All our records - our history - written on barks and cloths were washed away. It was as if the earth itself was turning against us.
My family, like many others, struggled to survive. Some spoke of seeking refugee in the hills or migrating towards unknown lands. But most of us… we were rooted here. This was our home. Generations of our ancestors lay buried in this earth. Our lives, our memories, our souls were intertwined with the dust of Mohenjo-daro, with the ebb and flow of the Indus, even when it turned against us.
Many perished from hunger. The grand structures of the city began to decay. Then, a strange and virulent plague swept through our streets, leaving the populace weak, feverish, and quick to succumb. We remained, until floodwaters and epidemic settled over us all, transforming our city into a burial ground.
We didn't vanish in a single cataclysm, dear children. There was no great invasion, no sudden fire that consumed us. We simply… faded. Like a lamp that slowly runs out of oil, our civilization flickered and dimmed, until only embers remained, and then just ashes.
A few survivors who had evacuated the city, finding their way eastward, finally reached a smaller settlement. Years later, foreign immigrants, who spoke an unknown language, arrived there. They had domesticated animals with them, who could travel long distances. Their customs of worship and culture was so different from ours. They were cremating the dead! As time passed, they married the local women. Over time, the cultures began to blend and formed the ancestry of the modern Indian population.
Centuries passed, eons maybe. And then, you came. You, with your strange tools and curious eyes, digging into the earth, uncovering the bones of our city and the remnants of our lives. You marvel at our city planning, our seals, our art. You call us the Harappan civilization, a lost world, a mystery.
This blog post is a work of fiction. Part of it was generated using AI.
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