Independent Report
By Zeenat Iqbal Hussain
Very little has been written about the ancient coastal communities of Lyari — the resilient Makranis — whose name originates from the Makran coast of Sindh and Balochistan. Stretching nearly 1,000 kilometers along the Gulf of Oman, from Cape Al-Kuh in Iran to Lasbela near Karachi, this coastline has long linked cultures, histories, and livelihoods. It forms the southwestern edge of Pakistan, where land meets the vast Arabian Sea.
This is the story of one such coastal village.
Children ride bareback camels along the sand, staring at the endless sea. Fishermen, like city dwellers scanning their morning newspapers, study the sky and the knots of drying nets — silently deciding whether the weather will allow them to sail for the day’s catch. The air is thick with the smell of oil-stained tides and decaying sea life, while music — a blend of African, Middle Eastern, and South Asian rhythms — drifts across the shoreline.
The beach resembles a gallery of forgotten objects: broken shells like old fishermen’s discarded toenails, sand-soaked crabs, a single missing shoe, a rusted toy, the shattered plank of a doomed boat. Each carries a story, washed, sterilised, and preserved by salt and iodine. At night, the lighthouse shrinks into a tiny glimmer against the cliffs and the vastness of the sky.
Villagers snack on dates as visitors struggle to teach their children how to swim. Women in billowing shalwar kameezes hesitate at the water’s edge — their attire a gentle barrier between land and sea.
Among the villagers lived a solitary man — agile, sharp-eared, youthful in spirit. With no household responsibilities, he spent his nights perched on a wall, listening to the ocean breathe.
One moonlit evening, long after ten, black clouds drifted across the sky. A sudden gust of wind carried a faint, urgent sound. His brow tightened. He hurried to a neighbour’s mud-hut, pounding on the door. When a sleepy man appeared, the villager pointed toward the horizon, speaking in the Makrani dialect: a boat was in trouble.
They alerted the others. Descended from African seafarers — Med fishermen and Kora sailors — the men knew the unwritten laws of maritime rescue. Tradition promised that half the value of a saved vessel belonged to its rescuers, but danger always overshadowed reward.
Women gathered on the beach, watching their husbands appear and disappear between towering waves until the boat vanished into darkness. The sea — open to all, merciful to none — offered no guarantees.
Battling the surf, the men shifted their weight to steady the boat as saltwater drenched them. Suddenly, a dark shape rose on a wave and crashed toward them — a man. They pulled him aboard, barely conscious. There was no vessel to salvage, no prize to claim. Still, they rowed back to shore without disappointment.
Villagers rushed forward, competing to host the stranger, believing hospitality a blessing. A doctor from Karachi examined him. When asked his name, the man whispered only one word: “Mahganj.” He had suffered traumatic shock and temporary memory loss.
The village priest, also a council elder, was summoned. Hearing the name, he remembered a girl registered at the mosque eighteen years earlier. Soon, the story surfaced — the rescued man belonged to her village, and they had been destined to marry.
Mahganj, the granddaughter of the village tailor, arrived. Her presence stirred fragments of memory. A therapist was called from the city. Slowly, the man began recalling moments, places, and emotions — love proving the strongest anchor.
His memory returned. They married. And together, they built the peaceful life the sea had once nearly taken away.
