On most nights, octogenarian Ali Mallah lies down on a boat anchored at the jetty in Kharochhaan, one of the tail-end settlements in the Indus delta in Sindh’s Thatta district. He has his cigarette, the water and memories of his days at Sukhi Bandar.

Ali’s gaze wanders not into the depths of the sea but across its surface, seeking something that he cannot find: a once prosperous harbour that hosted fairs and wrestling matches, bull races and kite-flying competitions. He vividly remembers walking through the markets of Sukhi Bandar — which literally translates to ‘prosperous harbour’ — that has since been swallowed by the Arabian Sea.

GOLD MARKET AND GOURDS

The memory of that harbour town is still etched in the lines of Ali’s face. As he recalls those memories, tears roll down his cheeks and disappear, just as Sukhi Bandar has, into the sea.

“Sukhi Bandar was a major commercial hub,” Ali tells Eos. “There was a thriving gold market in Sukhi Bandar, along with trade in textiles, grain and gourds,” he continues. The area was full of crops, says Ali, including those of rice, pea, chickpea, sesame and barley. “Coconut, date and olive orchards were abundant,” Ali adds.

Once a thriving harbour town, Sukhi Bandar now lies beneath the Arabian Sea. Its disappearance tells a larger story — of a delta starved of freshwater, collapsing ecosystems and communities forced to retreat

Ali doesn’t know exactly how or when Sukhi Bandar was swallowed by the sea. He is unaware of the complex web of upstream dams and shifting climate patterns that starved the delta, resulting not only in the loss of Sukhi Bandar but also the disruption of his livelihood and way of life.

“After the partition of India, I saw this city start to collapse,” says Ali. His view carries weight — Pakistani coins found among the ruins suggest the decline accelerated after Independence, even if its roots go further back.

THE UPSTREAM DECISION

Standing at the Kharochhaan jetty, it is difficult to imagine that what stretches before you — flat, saline, encroaching — was once fed by one of the great river systems of the world. The Indus delta did not surrender to the sea overnight. It was given away, slowly, upstream.

According to the late Tahir Qureshi, an environmentalist associated with the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN), the Indus delta actually started shrinking in the 1920s, with the construction of the Sukkur Barrage in 1923. “Before that, 150-million-acre feet of water reached the delta every year,” he told environmental webzine Dialogue Earth in 2019.

The downstream flow of water into the delta has decreased by 80 percent since the 1950s, as a result of irrigation canals, hydropower dams and the effects of climate change on glacial and snow melt, according to a 2018 study by the US-Pakistan Centre for Advanced Studies in Water at the Mehran University of Engineering and Technology in Jamshoro.

“It all happened because freshwater stopped reaching the delta,” says environmentalist Nasir Panhwar.

While sea-level rise plays a role globally, experts argue that, in the Indus delta, reduced freshwater flow has been the dominant factor. “The issue of sea-level rise doesn’t apply here,” Panhwar tells Eos. “The lack of freshwater is why the sea has swallowed up millions of acres of land.”

Ali has watched this happen in real time. “The fish moved further out, then the land started going, then the people,” he says, pausing to light another cigarette. “Now, there is only water where there used to be everything.”

THE MANGROVE FACTOR

There is one partial reprieve in an otherwise bleak picture. Mangrove cover across Sindh and Balochistan has increased by roughly 300 percent in under three decades, according to an IUCN report presented at COP29 — the United Nations Climate Conference — in Baku in November 2024.

But environmentalists caution that planted mangroves cannot fully compensate for the loss of freshwater and sediment that once sustained the delta naturally and kept saline seawater at bay.

Shoukat Soomro runs the Hyderabad-based Hamdam Foundation that works on mangrove plantation in the Thatta-Sujawal-Badin coastal belt. His organisation has planted around 200,000 mangrove saplings along the coastal belt of Thatta, Badin and Sujawal as part of a project with the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP). “We will plant an additional 100,000 mangroves along the Badin coast in June this year,” he tells Eos.

But Soomro is clear-eyed about the limits of what replanting can achieve. “We can’t restore the former glory of this harbour, but our efforts can secure the future of the currently inhabited islands, including Kharochhaan.”

VILLAGES SUBMERGED

Kharochhaan once comprised about 40 villages, but most have disappeared under rising seawater. According to revenue records reviewed in 2025, in Kharochhaan alone, around 400,000 acres out of 595,091 acres — or 67 percent — are under water.

The situation is similar in nearby areas, including Shah Bunder — with 518,895 acres out of 735,706 acres having been lost. Jati taluka [administrative division] in neighbouring Sujawal district fares no better: 405,000 acres out of 879,373 acres (46 percent of its land, spread across 13 of 133 dehs) now lie beneath seawater.

It has resulted in mass displacement. More than 1.2 million people have been displaced from the overall Indus delta region in the last two decades, according to a study published in March 2025 by the Islamabad-based Jinnah Institute, a think tank led by former climate change minister Sherry Rehman.

Ali does not know the figure of those displaced but he knows many of the faces from his immediate surroundings. “Everyone I grew up with has left,” he says. “Some went to Karachi. Some just went.”

WHAT REMAINS

If you start a boat journey from Kharochhaan Jetty — past the Redho and Baghaan towns in the coastal belt of Thatta district — you’ll see ruins of an island after about three hours. There, broken flags, smashed utensils, graves and crumbling walls mark what remains.

Back at the jetty in Kharochhaan, Ali Mallah finishes his cigarette and lies back on the boat. Above him, the sky is wide and indifferent. Somewhere beneath the water ahead, a market is still standing.

The writer is a researcher focusing on climate change, green economy and energy. He can be contacted at santoraisbc@aol.com

Additional input and editing by Hussain Dada

Published in Dawn, EOS, April 19th, 2026

It was a Sunday. She was 92. The place: Breach Candy Hospital in Mumbai. A voice that had enchanted millions for decades fell silent forever.

Four years earlier, on a Sunday at the same hospital, Lata Mangeshkar too had passed away at the age of 92. Now it was the turn of Asha Bhosle, her younger sister. Both left countless admirers mourning the loss.

Born in 1933 in Bombay, Asha’s journey to the top was a rocky one. For a girl who started singing at the age of 10 and was born into the Mangeshkar family, with the towering presence of Lata, life was far from smooth sailing. Asha ran away with her neighbour and personal secretary, Ganpatrao Bhosle, at 16 and became a mother by 17. Her singing career was going nowhere and her decision to marry someone deemed unfit led to strained familial relationships.

Her early years were marked by immense struggles, both personal and professional, and Asha carved her own path with quiet determination. While many of the era’s most sought-after songs went to someone else, she built a career out of every opportunity that came her way. Afraid of merely imitating her didi [sister], she sought her own identity. Few remember that she once sang in the chorus of the iconic ‘Pyar kiya tau darna kya’ in Mughal-i-Azam (1960) — a fleeting moment in a song that became timeless.

But difficult beginnings often lead to defining journeys. As Lata became the first choice for leading composers such as Naushad, Salil Chowdhury, Roshan, C. Ramachandra and Shankar-Jaikishan, Asha had to work even harder to find her own space.

Asha Bhosle, who passed away on April 12 in Mumbai, wasn’t just the singer of an era. With a career spanning over eight decades, and moving seamlessly between film music, pop, sultry cabaret numbers, ghazals, bhajans, folk and qawwali, she was not just a singer of an era. She became a voice across generations

Music composers O.P. Nayyar and S.D. Burman recognised her unique voice and gave her the platform to shine — helping her create a place in music that was entirely hers.

O.P. Nayyar never used Lata’s vocals for his films and instead relied on Asha. From ‘Maang ke saath tumhara’ (Naya Daur, 1957) to ‘Aaiye meherbaan’ (Howrah Bridge, 1958), ‘Isharon isharon mein’ (Kashmir Ki Kali, 1964) to ‘Yeh reshmi zulfoon ka andhera’ (Mere Sanam, 1965), Asha became indispensable to Nayyar’s films until 1974.

With Lata being extremely busy with many composers to cater to, S.D. Burman stopped working with her in 1957, after she reportedly refused to re-record a song. S.D. believed that composers, not singers, shaped careers — and Asha stepped in as his leading female voice. This marked a turning point in her career, with songs such as ‘Chhor do aanchal’ (Paying Guest, 1957), ‘Haal kaisa hai janab ka’ (Chalti Ka Naam Gaari, 1958), ‘Achha ji main haari’ and ‘Nazar laagi raja’ (Kala Pani, 1958) and ‘Sambhalo apna dil’ (Kala Bazaar, 1960). Asha went on to dominate much of the decade — until a new force reshaped the soundscape: R.D. Burman.

It was the era of dance numbers, cabaret and early pop, with Shammi Kapoor’s flamboyance redefining screen energy and even pushing stalwarts such as Raj Kapoor and Dilip Kumar to the sidelines. The music scene was ready for something fresh — and it came from the son of her mentor S.D. Burman.

Pancham, as R.D. Burman was fondly known, burst on to the scene with Teesri Manzil (1966). Its soundtrack didn’t just succeed — it transformed Hindi film music, capturing the restless, youthful spirit of a generation eager to embrace the possibilities of a newly independent nation. Asha married R.D. Burman in 1980, 20 years after her divorce. He was six years younger than her and the songs they created together are truly immortal.

These include ‘O haseena zulfon wali’ and ‘O mere sona re’ (Teesri Manzil, 1966), ‘Piya tu ab tau aaja’ (Caravan, 1971), ‘Jaan-i-jaan dhoondta phir raha’ (Jawani Deewani, 1972), ‘Keh doon tumhain’ (Deewar, 1975), and ‘Do lafzon ki hai’ (The Great Gambler, 1979). They went on to deliver evergreen classics such as ‘Mera kuchh saaman’ (Ijaazat, 1987), ‘Tum se mil ke’ (Parinda, 1989), ‘Baadal jo barsay’ (Gardish, 1993) and ‘Chhor ke na jana’ (Gang, 2000).

What distinguished Asha was not merely her range, but an instinctive versatility and a willingness to experiment. She moved seamlessly from film music to pop, from sultry cabaret numbers to deeply expressive ghazals, from bhajans [religious hymns]and classical compositions to folk and qawwali— inhabiting each style with equal ease.

Singing in over 20 languages, she transformed her voice into something far greater than merely popular — it became unmistakably universal. Whether it was for Bollywood sirens such as Waheeda Rehman or Helen, Sadhana or Poonam, Asha Parekh or Aruna Irani, Sharmila Tagore or Farah, she possessed a rare ability to express each persona through her voice.

While Lata largely stayed rooted in her established style, Asha chose to lend her voice to every new face that emerged, helping shape entire careers. From Dream Girl Hema Malini — with songs such as ‘Zindagi aik safar hai’ (Andaz, 1971) and ‘O saathi chal’ (Seeta Aur Geeta, 1972) — to the mesmerising Zeenat Aman — through ‘Dumm maaro dumm’ (Hare Rama Hare Krishna, 1971) and ‘Chura liya hai tum ne jo dil ko’ (Yaadon Ki Barat, 1973) — Asha’s voice became inseparable from their screen presence.

From the glamorous Parveen Babi — with ‘Pyaar karnay walay’ (Shaan, 1980) and ‘Jawani janeman’ (Namak Halal, 1982) — to the effervescent Sridevi — in ‘Taki o taki’ (Himmatwala, 1983) and ‘Guru guru aa jao guru’ (Waqt Ki Awaaz, 1988) — she was not merely singing songs but defining cinematic identities.

Even Rekha and Dimple Kapadia owed much of their second innings to Asha. For Rekha, it was the spirited tracks from Khoobsurat (1980)— ‘Sunn sunn sunn didi’ and ‘Inquilab zindabad’ — as well as the haunting ghazals of Umrao Jaan (1981), such as ‘Inn aankhon ki masti’ and ‘Dil cheez kya hai’, that revitalised Rekha’s career after her ‘split’ from superstar Amitabh Bachchan.

Similarly, Dimple Kapadia’s reinvention, following her separation from her superstar husband Rajesh Khanna, carried deeper emotional resonance through Asha’s songs in films such as Manzil Manzil (1984), Aitebaar,Saagar and Lava (1985).

Eight decades is not just a career, it’s a legacy. And Asha built hers note by note. She sang for films, albums and stages across languages, collecting along the way an enviable list of honours: two National Film Awards, multiple BFJA (Bengal Film Journalists Awards) and Maharashtra State Film Awards, and nine Filmfare trophies — including a Lifetime Achievement Award and a record seven wins as Best Female Playback Singer. Her voice even reached global platforms, earning two Grammy nominations.

With the rise of singers such as Alka Yagnik and Kavita Krishnamurthy in the mid-1980s, Lata became more selective, no longer signing everything that came her way. Asha seized the moment, giving singers half her age a serious run for their money. Between 1995 and 2004, she remained unstoppable, delivering hits in iconic films that defined the generation, such as Rangeela, Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge (1995), Aar Ya Paar (1997), Taal (1999), Kaho Naa…Pyaar Hai (2000), Lagaan, Pyaar Tu Ne Kya Kiya (2001), Company, Mere Yaar Ki Shaadi Hai (2002) and Bewafaa (2005).

She even ventured into acting with the feature film Mai (2013), marking her on-screen debut alongside a comeback performance by her real-life niece, actress Padmini Kolhapure.

As for the media-created rivalry between the siblings, Asha often took it upon herself to dispel any such notions and set the record straight. They may never have been equal — Lata Mangeshkar remained the towering benchmark, while Asha spent years in her shadow — yet, Asha carved a space entirely her own, through remarkable versatility, moving effortlessly across genres, moods and styles in a way few could match.

And in the end, there was a quiet, poetic symmetry — death treated them alike, as both passed away at the same place, on the same day of the week and at the same age, as if destiny chose to blur the distinctions that life had drawn.

The writer is a vintage cinema enthusiast. He can be reached at suhaybalavi@gmail.com

Published in Dawn, ICON, April 19th, 2026