And I returned to counting raindrops, 

As I still do now, 

This is the 22nd rain since that call.

Nisar Banbhan, a seasoned poet and writer, based in Karachi, the capital city of Sindh shares his poetry   

Hailing from Village Mir Muhammad Banbhan, Taluka Mirwah, District Khapurpur and based in Karachi, the capital of Sindh, Nisar Banbhan is a seasoned professional with nearly 25 years of multifaceted experience, encompassing 3 years in journalism and over two decades of service in a public sector organization. His extensive expertise spans content creation, scriptwriting, screenwriting, lyrics, poetry, and storytelling across multiple languages, including Sindhi, Urdu, and English. Nisar has honed his skills in writing articles, columns, and short stories, contributing to various national and regional media outlets. Additionally, he brings a deep understanding of program development, educational advocacy, and strategic planning, having led initiatives that promote quality education and foster community empowerment. His passion for literature and education merges seamlessly, enabling him to craft impactful narratives that resonate with diverse audiences while driving meaningful change in society.

Image courtesy: PxHeere

Phone Call and Counting Raindrops 

The phone rang, and I stood in the gallery, 

An unknown number blinking on the screen. 

An unwanted call—but then the voice caught me, 

The voice I had been seeking through the years, frozen in time. 

“I’m gone,” she said, without a pause.

“What were you doing?” 

“I had a call,” 

“I was counting,” 

She whispered softly. 

“Counting what?” 

“Raindrops.” 

“What?” I asked, disbelief lacing my voice, 

“Why are you mad?”

In a gentle yet faintly irritated tone, she replied, 

“What else should I do? After years of silence, 

How else should I endure?” 

The weight of his question buried me, 

My silence, heavy as dust, settled between us.

“Why don’t you speak? Why are you silent?” 

Her voice rose, impatient, 

Why? 

Wrapped in weariness, like an old prayer whispered too often, 

I sighed. 

“Nothing.”

“I’m coming to you next month, what do you say?” 

She commanded, as if the decision had been made long ago. 

Her words were like the moon crumbling into dust, 

Falling upon me in fragments, suffocating. 

The winds clouded, my breath quickened, 

I stood wordless, as if stripped of everything. 

“When?” 

I barely whispered, lost in disbelief.

“Why do you ask in such a tone? 

Do you not want me to come?” 

Her voice echoed like someone searching for lost meaning. 

“No, it’s not that… I…” 

My words stumbled, broken, as if dragged from the depths of the sea.

“Where will you keep it?” she asked, 

Softness lining her voice with light affection. 

“Will I keep it?” I echoed, lost in the question. 

“Yes, where will you hold it? You seem distant, still unchanged. 

But, truth be told, I like your simplicity— 

You are, after all, my best friend.” 

“Friends?” I whispered, 

Falling into the river of old pain.

“I’ll hang up now. 

Take care of yourself. 

When I come, I’ll fix everything about you— 

Mark my words.” 

The call ended, abruptly. 

And I returned to counting raindrops, 

As I still do now, 

This is the 22nd rain since that call.

***

I have lived 

Through the sorrows of loss, 

A shadow touches me, 

Whispering the meaning of separation. 

* * *

I try to compose your love 

From the keychain lying 

On the table of memories. 

* * *

Seeing you smile, 

My life becomes an identity card, 

A fleeting proof of existence. 

* * *

Why does it feel 

As if I still stand, a refugee, 

At the border of childhood? 

* * *

There are quiet voices 

I long to hear, 

Playing softly in the stereo of my soul. 

* * *

A traveler, yearning to see you, 

Sits at the window seat 

On the train of quest. 

* * *

Do not search my eyes— 

You will find only dry, half-burnt dreams 

And leaves drenched in the dust of forgotten tears. 

* * *

My poems, tied to the wings of birds, 

Now seek the weariness 

Behind tired eyes. 

* * *

Image courtesy: Pixabay

Endless loneliness 

Has found its home 

In the folds of your postal address. 

* * *

I still walk blindfolded, 

The band of separation stitched 

With the threads of loyalty. 

* * *

The spells of your poisonous ways 

Have yet to break, 

Lingering like a curse. 

* * *

I have become 

An old museum of your memories, 

Entering the stages of becoming 

An archetype of lost loves.

________________ 

Published under International Cooperation with "Sindh Courier"