The Indus.

Bhitshah, India.

The golden sands of the Indus, the golden camels and pots of gold – Sind still lay at helm of the world trade – only that the trade did not involve land or sea routes; or even the air routes any longer. It just involved Sonar signals and communication signals. The other important thing it involved was liaison. The merchants of Sind had an edge on both. Sindwanis and Latifs had become the largest communication giants in the world – both centered in Sind. Bank of Sind and Sind Financers had become the largest finance companies in the world. Sindcom and Indus had similarly become the largest retail houses in the world – both from Sind.

Bhitshah – the city of Shah Abdul Latif – the ancient ascetic had no longer remained famous just for the yearly urs, but also for its vibrant and rich upper middle class and its beautiful nightlife. The urs of the dervish was beyond any doubt still the most magnificent event in the city. Lately, Bhitshah had caught attention for a plane crash. A hijacked plane carrying a suspect and a priest from England had crashed in the outskirts of the city on the sandy bed of the Indus. Mortal remains of the dead lay scattered over an area of four kilometers. All the people on board were suspected to be dead. None of the survivors was found.

However, just in time when the plane was about to crash – one of the police guards had approached Thomas and Deborah and given them life jackets.

“Whatever the government has done with us all isn’t right” He had said slowly, handing the life jackets to them. “We all think that it would be a defeat of their purpose if you remain alive. The hijacker was promised a landing at Cairo by the government. They never told that we were doomed to die. We were backstabbed by our own people.” He had a look of grief in his eyes. “We will try to make a safe landing if possible in a few minutes, but we can’t be sure of that. So we have decided that you take these life jackets and be the first ones to drop – just in case we are not able to make a safe landing, you will remain alive.”

Thomas looked in his eyes. There was a tint of sincerity and compassion. He grabbed the life jackets and handed one over to Deborah. Just as their parachutes opened in air and they descended safely on the sands beneath, they heard a loud thud and saw smoke on the horizon. They knew that the plane had crashed.

They walked down the sands to a highway. Thomas had decided to take a lift to a known place. They didn’t know where in the world they were. As the trucks speeded by, Thomas raised a thumb. A trucker halted at some distance and shouted – “Tourist?”

Thomas nodded.

The trucker asked again: “Bhitshah?”

Thomas could not understand what he meant.

Trucker came again – “Sukkur?”

“I don’t understand.” Thomas shouted back.

The truck driver pointed a finger forward and shouted once again – “Multan?”

Deborah had heard of the city. She immediately nodded and shouted back in desperation “Multan Multan.”

Thomas looked toward her in bewilderment. They boarded the truck and started their Indian journey. Deborah looked ahead. The dry sands they had crossed had now become a blue river. She saw a huge direction board on the highway. Something was written in a strange language. Devanagari. Deborah thought to herself, but underneath – she could clearly understand the name of places written in English – BHITSHAH     SUKKUR     MULTAN     LAHORE.

She had read all this in her history. The civilization started here thousands of years back She looked to the wide blue river on their right. Then she looked toward Thomas wither wide blue eyes and said – “We are more east than we ever intended to go. That river is the Indus.” She pointed.

Thomas looked at the wide serpentine water body that oddly lay in the desert. The truck driver smiled in affirmation and said “Indus.”

They were on their new road.