3. Heroes and Villains of the Indus Valley - The Early Indus Valley Civilization

My Name is Nabin: I am an Urban Developer in the Indus Valley Civilization

My name is Nabin, (a fictional character of what may have been what a Indus Valley Urban Planner would have been) and I was born around 2400 BC in the thriving city of Harappa, one of the crown jewels of our Indus Valley Civilization. As a child, I wandered the orderly lanes of mud-brick houses, listening to the rhythm of daily life—the sound of pottery wheels spinning, merchants calling from stalls, and carts rumbling over baked brick roads. My father was a craftsman who made intricate shell ornaments, and my mother tended our rooftop garden and helped with trade accounts. From an early age, I was fascinated not by the jewelry or the markets, but by how everything in our city fit together so precisely. I loved drawing maps in the dirt and building miniature cities with river channels using sticks and clay.

Apprenticeship and Education

At twelve, I was accepted as an apprentice to the city's chief builder, Datu. He was a stern but brilliant man who taught me the value of uniform measurements and right angles. Our civilization prized standardization. Every brick had to be the same size—7 by 14 by 28 centimeters. It allowed us to plan precisely and build quickly. I learned to survey land using a simple plumb line and leveling instruments made from string and weighted stone. We studied astronomy to align streets with the cardinal directions. I also spent years copying designs from older city plans—Mohenjo-daro’s citadel, the granaries of Lothal, and the great baths of Kalibangan. We treated these plans like sacred blueprints. Order, cleanliness, and efficiency were the pillars of our work.

Rising Through the Ranks

By the time I was thirty, I became the lead planner for a new neighborhood in the southern quadrant of Harappa. My job was to design streets, drainage systems, and public buildings. I worked closely with water engineers to ensure that each house connected to covered drains, which ran beneath the roads and emptied into larger sewers. We elevated our wells and built them at regular intervals so no resident would be far from clean water. We used kiln-fired bricks to line every sewer, ensuring they didn’t collapse. Our people valued cleanliness immensely—we even included small bathing areas in every home. My team and I laid out wide boulevards, smaller lanes, and a market plaza, all aligned with the same grid pattern that had guided our ancestors for generations.

A Focus on Public Works

While temples or palaces dominate other lands, we focused on public works. Our Great Bath was not a religious structure, but a place of communal hygiene and likely social ceremony. I helped restore it after a monsoon damaged part of the stairs. I supervised the creation of new granaries to the north of the citadel, where grain was stored in brick-walled rooms with raised wooden floors to keep pests away. We used pulleys and ramps to lift heavy loads, employing knowledge passed down orally and refined with every generation.

The Challenges We Faced

Even in such a well-ordered civilization, we faced difficulties. The river near Harappa—once dependable—began to change its course. Trade routes shifted. Droughts came more frequently, and the monsoons grew unpredictable. I remember rebuilding parts of the canal system again and again, only to see them silt up or dry out entirely. People started to leave for the east and south, searching for water and fertile land. Some of our best masons and builders vanished without a word. My final years were spent trying to adapt—building deeper wells, redirecting streets around dried riverbeds, and urging our leaders to invest in more sustainable planning. But even I could see the order unraveling.

Reflections on Our Achievements

Now, as an old man, I sit beside the dried brick path that once led to a bustling market. I watch goats wander where once our scribes, merchants, and weavers worked in harmony. But I do not despair. We built cities where none had stood. We created a way of life rooted in design, equality, and purpose. No grand kings, no massive temples, but clean streets, complex sanitation, and peaceful order. I believe one day, others will uncover our cities and marvel at what we achieved. They will see our work not as ruins, but as a blueprint of possibility. That will be my legacy—and the legacy of every Indus builder who laid a brick for the sake of the community.

My Witness to the Dawn of the Indus Civilization – Told by Nabin (Fictional Person)

Before I ever set a brick into place or traced the outline of a new city street, I grew up on the stories of my grandfather, who lived before our cities had names like Harappa or Mohenjo-daro. He spoke of a time when our people lived in modest farming villages scattered along the banks of rivers—settlements with mud huts, thatched roofs, and narrow trails instead of roads. They were peaceful and close to the land, growing barley and wheat, raising cattle and goats, and drawing water by hand from open wells. But he also remembered the hardships—floods that washed away homes, food that spoiled in the heat, and long walks to find enough water or firewood. As more families settled together, these challenges became harder to ignore. Life in those early villages was simple but fragile.

The Pull of the River and the Push of Growth

The land gave generously when the rains were right. The rivers, especially the mighty Saraswati and Indus, flooded in cycles that left behind rich silt. As agriculture improved, families could grow more than they needed to survive. And when people have more than enough grain, they begin to trade. My people began exchanging pottery, beads, and grain with other villages. Trade paths formed. Those paths turned into roads. As the number of people living in one place grew, the villages slowly expanded into larger, more permanent settlements. My grandfather helped dig the first canals, using simple tools of bone and wood. He saw neighbors start to specialize—some became potters, others carpenters, some weavers. This was the beginning of our urban way of life. The village could no longer survive without organized planning.

Why Cities Began to Rise

As more people gathered in these growing towns, new needs emerged—storage for grain, places for trade, systems to distribute water. No one person could manage it all anymore. It was during this time that the knowledge of building began to pass through generations like mine. We needed streets to move carts and people. We needed drainage so waste wouldn’t poison the water. We needed wells at regular intervals and storehouses to preserve surplus grain. These problems couldn’t be solved by scattered families. They needed planning. They needed leadership that wasn’t just about hunting or farming—but about organizing space, managing resources, and anticipating the rains and rivers. So our towns began to be shaped not just by necessity, but by design.

The Birth of Urban Thought

I believe that was the moment my people changed—not in their hearts, but in how they thought about the world. In the old days, people adjusted themselves to nature’s rhythms. But as we began building with fired brick, shaping canals, and measuring streets with cords and stones, we started adjusting nature to fit human life. It was not about control—it was about harmony. We never built to dominate the land, but to work with it more wisely. Our streets followed the winds for cool air. Our drainage systems echoed the slope of the land. Our homes opened toward courtyards for shade and peace. All of this began when we stopped moving from place to place and started choosing to stay.

How the Village Spirit Lived On

Though our cities grew large and complex, I never forgot the spirit of those villages. The sense of community. The closeness of people to their land and animals. Even in Harappa, when I planned a street or designed a bathing area, I thought of my grandfather’s hut, the shared meals, and the festivals under the stars. We may have left behind the thatched roofs and mud floors, but we did not abandon the values of simplicity, balance, and shared purpose. The Indus cities were not just stone and brick—they were the village spirit made permanent.

Looking Back on the Shift

Now that I am old, I can see more clearly what happened. The shift from village to city was not sudden. It was like a seed growing into a tree. It took many seasons, many hands, and many minds. But once it began, it could not be undone. We were no longer wanderers or small farmers alone. We were builders of something greater. And in those early steps—when the first bricks were set and the first street was aligned with the stars—the Indus Valley Civilization was born.

Streets of Order: How We Built the Indus Cities – Told by Nabin (Fictional Person)

When I was still a young apprentice under Master Datu, I remember walking beside him as he pointed to the edge of a growing settlement and said, “Here, Nabin, is where the road will run—straight and true.” I didn’t understand the importance at the time. But I came to see that it was not just about roads. It was about shaping a city where people could live together cleanly, safely, and peacefully. We believed a city must reflect balance—between people and nature, between private life and public needs. So we began with the streets.

The Grid That Guided Us

Every city I helped build or improve followed a grid layout. Our streets were not twisted or random like the paths of older villages. They ran straight, often aligned north to south and east to west. The main roads were wide enough for carts pulled by oxen to pass each other comfortably. From these, smaller lanes branched off, creating neat blocks of homes and workshops. This grid was more than just pleasing to the eye—it made movement efficient, allowed breezes to flow through the city, and helped water run off quickly during the monsoon. Even the spacing between homes and public wells was deliberate, allowing all families, rich or poor, access to water and fresh air.

Drains Beneath Our Feet

But the greatness of our streets was not just in what could be seen. Beneath the surface, we laid a network of brick-lined drains—carefully sloped to carry waste and rainwater out of the city. Every house had a small, covered drain that connected to a larger one beneath the street. These larger drains emptied into soak pits or channels beyond the city’s edge. I personally oversaw the laying of many such drains, ensuring the slope was just enough to carry water but not collapse the bricks. We covered them with removable stone slabs for cleaning. I cannot tell you how many times I lifted those slabs to inspect the flow. Cleanliness was a virtue among our people. We did not tolerate filth in the streets or near our homes. We planned as if health depended on it—because it did.

Public Buildings and the Heart of the City

In each city, we also set aside space for public structures. The most famous, of course, is the Great Bath of Mohenjo-daro. Though I did not build it, I once visited and studied it carefully. It is a marvel—a large tank lined with fine bricks, coated with bitumen to keep it watertight. Steps lead down into it on all sides, and it has a drain for emptying and cleaning. Many say it was used for ritual bathing, though others believe it was a place for gathering, for healing, or simply for keeping clean in a spiritual way. In Harappa, I helped plan a smaller version, not as grand, but still central to community life.

We also built granaries—massive storehouses to protect grain from moisture and pests. These were often raised on platforms with air vents to keep the harvest dry. I remember one granary near the citadel of Harappa, with its wooden floors and slotted brick walls. It could hold enough food to feed the city for weeks. It gave people peace of mind, especially during droughts or poor harvests. Trade goods—cotton, barley, sesame, even beads and shells—were also stored there, guarded and carefully accounted for. Such buildings were not private wealth—they belonged to all of us. Their presence meant that we could plan for the future, not just react to the present.

Wells, Ramps, and Everyday Wonders

Smaller structures were just as important. Public wells were everywhere, round and deep, lined with brick and built to last. I once measured a well that had served the same neighborhood for generations—it still gave sweet water. Ramps allowed carts to rise to storage platforms. Guard houses watched over gates. Platforms in the market squares gave space to speakers and elders. Every brick, every corner, had purpose.

My Pride in the City’s Bones

Sometimes visitors from other regions would stare in wonder at our cities—at the smooth streets, the silent drains, the perfect brick walls. But what they could not see was the thought behind it all. We did not build cities to glorify a ruler or tower into the sky. We built to serve the people—to make life better, cleaner, and more predictable. The city itself was our greatest monument. When I walk those streets today, even if they are worn or quiet, I still see the work of many hands, laid down with care and wisdom. It is a legacy not carved in stone, but in baked brick and thoughtful design. And I was proud to be one of its builders.

Home: Where We Lived and Laughed – Told by Nabin (Fictional Person)

When I first learned to build a home, it was not a grand building or public bath, but a simple two-room structure in a quiet corner of Harappa. My teacher handed me a brick and said, “Build not just for shelter, but for peace.” That idea stayed with me as I planned and built homes across our cities. The houses of our people were not designed for show. They were designed for life—for work, rest, family, and the flow of daily routines. And yet, each one carried a sense of thoughtfulness and dignity that made it as important as any temple or tower from distant lands.

Strong Bricks and Sturdy Foundations

We used standardized baked bricks, carefully measured and fired in kilns, to build our homes. The bricks were uniform in size—always in the same ratio: one by two by four. This let us stack them in a strong interlocking pattern. Most homes were one or two stories high, with flat roofs made of wooden beams topped with packed earth. The walls were thick, keeping the heat out during the day and holding warmth at night. We built them along the city grid, their walls lining up cleanly with the street and their back sides often sharing a wall with the next house—saving materials and creating privacy.

The Quiet Courtyard Within

From the street, our homes looked plain. They had few windows facing outward, and their doors often opened into side alleys rather than the main roads. But step inside, and you’d find a peaceful inner courtyard—open to the sky, surrounded by the rooms of the house. This courtyard was the heart of the home. Children played there, women prepared food and dried grains, and elders sat to catch the breeze in the evening. Rainwater fell into jars or was swept into small drains. It was a place of both labor and leisure. I loved walking past the homes I had built and hearing laughter echo from those courtyards.

Rooms for Rest, Work, and Worship

Most homes had two to five rooms, arranged around the central court. A large front room often served as a workspace—where looms were set up, or where traders met partners. Smaller back rooms were for sleeping. These rooms were simple—clean and uncluttered, with reed mats or low platforms for sleeping. Some homes had storage spaces built into the walls or elevated platforms to keep food and valuables safe. I saw many houses with a small raised alcove where people kept figurines, tokens, or simple altars—perhaps for daily rituals or to honor ancestors. We didn’t build elaborate shrines, but the sacred was never far from the home.

Private Bathing and Careful Drainage

One feature that made our houses different from others across the ancient world was the attention we gave to bathing and sanitation. Even modest homes had a bathing area—usually a small room with a brick or stone floor, slightly sloped to a drain. Water came from the well or storage jars and was poured carefully over the bather. The dirty water drained into a covered channel that led to the street system. This was not a luxury. It was a part of our values. Cleanliness, both of the body and the city, was a shared duty. Some larger homes even had private wells in the courtyard, while others shared one nearby.

Rooftops and the Rhythm of Life

Roofs were not just for shelter. We used them as living spaces. During hot months, people slept under the stars on the roof, or dried fish, grains, and herbs in the sun. From the rooftops, one could see the layout of the entire city—the lanes, the courtyards, the wells, and the watch towers at the edge. I used to climb up to check roof integrity and ended up staying longer, watching the smoke curl from clay ovens and listening to the gentle hum of life below.

Each Home a World of Its Own

Though many homes shared the same materials and basic shape, no two homes were quite the same. Some had extra rooms for extended family. Others had steps leading up to a second floor or ladders to roof storage. In wealthier districts, the bricks were more carefully finished and the rooms larger. But every home had the same basic grace—an inward focus, a place to bathe, a place to cook, a courtyard for light and breath. These were not just shelters. They were living spaces designed with the rhythms of the day and the dignity of the family in mind.

My Hands in Every Wall

As an urban developer, I was proudest not of the public baths or the great roads, but of the homes. Each one represented safety, stability, and a way of life built on care and balance. When I walk the quiet ruins of Harappa now, I can still trace the outlines of those homes and remember the hands that helped build them. I can still feel the warmth of the hearth, the splash of water in the bathing room, the quiet whisper of a mother telling her child a story in the shade of the courtyard. That is where our civilization truly lived.

The Beating Heart of the City: Our Markets and Trade – Told by Nabin

I remember the first time I stepped into the main market of Harappa. I was no more than eight, clinging to my father’s hand, eyes wide at the sounds and colors swirling around me. Merchants shouted prices over the clatter of carts, the smell of roasted barley and sesame seeds filled the air, and beads of every color sparkled in the sun. That day, I understood that a city’s soul does not live only in its walls and wells—but in its people, and in the exchange of goods, stories, and ideas.

The Structure of Our Local Marketplace

In the cities I helped design, space was always reserved for a market district. These were not grand plazas, but carefully organized open spaces along major roads—often near the citadel or a large public well. Stalls were laid out in neat rows. Some were permanent stone or brick structures, others temporary wooden setups shaded by cloth. We paved the roads between them with flat bricks so that carts could pass without sinking in the dust or mud. Drainage channels ran along the edges so waste and rainwater could be swept away, keeping the market clean.

Each section of the marketplace often specialized in different goods. There was an area for grain and legumes, another for pottery and tools, one for cloth and dyed fabrics, and another for jewelry and figurines. I used to spend hours watching merchants weigh goods on balance scales, sometimes using standardized cubical stones as measures. Everything had its place, and every trade had its rhythm.

What We Traded Among Ourselves

The farmers brought their barley, wheat, sesame, and pulses. Fishermen brought dried fish from the rivers. Potters offered storage jars, bowls, and painted dishes. Artisans sold bangles of shell and terracotta, and seal-makers displayed finely carved stamps used for marking goods and records. Cloth merchants brought bolts of cotton—our people may have been the first to spin and weave that plant into clothing. Even in distant villages, people knew the names of the Harappan dyes—indigo, madder, and turmeric. Our trades were honest, and our weights just. Overseers watched the market to ensure fairness, but most of us needed no reminder. Trust was a kind of wealth in itself.

Trade with Other Cities

Beyond Harappa, we traded with Mohenjo-daro, Lothal, Kalibangan, and dozens of other city-states. Roads and river routes bound us together. Boats loaded with goods floated downstream on the Indus and its tributaries. Caravans of bullock carts followed hardened roads linking settlements across great distances. I oversaw several rest stops along these roads, with wells and shaded areas for travelers. Our seals, found across distant cities, show how far our networks stretched. Each city had something special—Mohenjo-daro with its finely crafted tools, Lothal with its beads and port access, Dholavira with its beautiful stonework and reservoirs.

We didn’t compete. We connected. Each city added strength to the civilization as a whole, like stones in a well-built arch.

Trade Beyond Our Borders

What still amazes me are the stories from merchants who traveled beyond the mountains or followed the rivers to foreign lands. From the east, goods arrived that hinted at early cultures in what would later become the Ganges valley. But it was the west that brought truly exotic goods—lapis lazuli from what we called Meluhha, far beyond the high passes, where the mountains touched the sky. Copper came from the distant lands of Magan and Dilmun, along the coast of the great salt sea, where people traded in ships with curved sails. I once held a small jar from Mesopotamia—its clay and shape unlike anything I had ever seen. It smelled of frankincense.

In return, we gave them beads, cotton, pottery, and foodstuffs. And we gave them something else: proof that a peaceful, ordered society could thrive without great armies or towering kings.

The Marketplace as a Meeting Place

What I loved most about the marketplace was not the trade itself—but what it created. It was a place where people gathered, where ideas passed as freely as grain. A potter from Kalibangan might teach a new pattern. A traveler from Lothal might share a tale of a storm at sea. Children darted between stalls, old women haggled over lentils, and musicians played flutes carved from bone. In the evenings, families returned home with their baskets full and their spirits lifted.

A Legacy Still Carried on the Wind

Even now, when I walk the empty lanes of the old market, I can still hear the murmur of that life. Though the people have gone, the bricks remain—the paths we laid, the drains we built, the open spaces we carved into the city’s heart. Trade gave our cities breath. It gave our people a reason to come together in peace, to plan, to build, to dream. And it gave me, a humble urban developer, the privilege of shaping not just walls—but the very rhythm of daily life.

The Script of Shadows: Our Silent Words – Told by Nabin (Fictional Person)

There is something I must tell you, something that lingers in my mind like a breath held too long. Throughout my years as a builder, a planner of roads and walls, I often came across small objects—stone seals, shards of pottery, bits of copper plates. Many bore markings. Tiny, sharp lines and curves, symbols so familiar to us that we hardly thought to explain them. We called them signs of record, marks of ownership, but they were more. They were our words—etched not in sound, but in silence.

The Language Without Voice

You may ask, “Nabin, what did your people speak?” And I would answer, “We spoke many tongues—of trade, of family, of prayer.” But what we wrote, what we carved into seal and shell and copper, that was different. It was a script known to our scribes, merchants, and seal-bearers, passed from hand to hand like a sacred rhythm. It was not taught openly, nor spoken aloud. It was known, and yet hidden. A script of short lines, loops, and animal signs. A fish, a tree, a circle with lines—each had its meaning, though not all were meant for common ears.

The Seals and Their Silence

I remember clearly one afternoon in Mohenjo-daro, when I helped repair a storage building near the upper city. A merchant came to me, frustrated over a dispute. He handed me a seal—a small, square piece of stone with the carving of a bull and five characters beneath. He said, “This proves it’s mine.” I turned it in my hand, admiring the careful craft, the pressure carved evenly, the lines sharp but flowing. I could not read it fully. Few could. The scribes trained for years in the merchant halls, and even they spoke of layers of meaning. A single symbol could speak of weight, of value, of a name, or a place.

We stamped these signs onto bundles of goods, onto pots of grain, onto slips of copper traded across the sea. The seals traveled to Meluhha, to Dilmun, to the courts of foreign kings. But only we could read them. And even among us, some said the full knowledge was held by a few—perhaps a council, or a secret society of scribes. I was never invited, though I stood close enough to see the guarded glances.

What Did They Mean?

That is the mystery, isn’t it? The words lie before us, carved into stone that will not rot, inked on pottery that still glows in the light of fire. And yet, they do not speak. Some believe it was a script for trade—simple lists of goods and names. Others say it was spiritual, a code of blessings and omens. I once met a woman, a priestess of the sacred river cult, who told me the script was a map of the stars, read during ritual bathing. She showed me a seal carved with a fish, a seven-pointed sign, and the rising sun. “It speaks of rebirth,” she whispered. But how could I know for certain?

The Secret That Withheld Its Voice

We never carved long texts on walls, never built monuments covered in script like the kings of Egypt or Sumer. Our words stayed small—on seals, tokens, and rare tablets. Perhaps that was by design. Perhaps the knowledge was not meant to be shouted from stone but held close, passed quietly between those who needed to know. Or perhaps the great books of our civilization were written on cloth, on palm leaves, on soft bark—materials long lost to time. I wonder often if a great archive once stood in a hall now buried beneath river silt.

A Legacy Unread

Now, all that remains are scattered signs. A unicorn on one seal, an elephant on another, script wrapped around a circle like a serpent eating its tail. They speak, but not to us—not yet. I believe someday, long after I am gone, someone will find the key. A broken tablet paired with a forgotten tongue. A trader’s inventory next to its translation. And then, our cities will speak again. You will hear our laughter, our debates, our prayers. You will know us not only by our drains and streets—but by our thoughts.

Until Then, We Wait in Stone

So I leave this memory with you. Not in ink, not in code, but in voice. Our script was not a secret of pride—it was a bond, a silent covenant among builders, traders, priests, and dreamers. It held our knowledge, our rituals, our records. But it also held our mystery.

And until that mystery is solved, we remain half-known—alive in the ruins, silent in the words.

Sacred That Walked Among Us: Faith and Mystery in the Indus – Told by Nabin

I still remember the first time I held one of the sacred figurines in my hand. I was no more than fifteen, helping an elder clear debris from a storage house near the edge of Harappa. Beneath a loose brick, we found a small clay figure—round hips, gentle curves, a necklace of tiny impressions circling her chest. The elder wiped it clean and said softly, “She is the Mother.” No further explanation was given. I did not ask for one. I simply understood, as we all did, that some things spoke in silence, and not all meaning came from words.

Signs of Belief in Common Things

Our cities never rose up in golden temples or mountain-sized ziggurats, but still, the sacred was woven into our daily lives. In homes and workshops, in courtyards and wells, we found signs of a belief both personal and shared. Figurines of women—sometimes seated, sometimes standing—appeared in houses across the cities. Some had elaborate headdresses or pointed hats. Others held animals or rested on thrones. Some say they represented a goddess of fertility or the earth, the giver of life and growth. Others believe they were ancestors, or spirits of the home. I cannot say for sure. But they were shaped with care and placed with intent. They were not toys.

The Seals of Power and Symbol

Our seals—oh, the seals! I handled hundreds over the years, mostly as identifiers of trade or approval for storage. But beyond their practical use, they were full of meaning. Carved into stone, they carried figures of animals—bulls with high horns, elephants, tigers, crocodiles, birds, and above all, the unicorn. That mythical creature, always facing right, with a single curved horn and a calm gaze, appeared more often than any real animal. What did it mean? Was it a symbol of power, purity, or something divine? We do not know. We also saw men seated in yogic posture, surrounded by wild beasts—what some now call the horned deity, perhaps a lord of animals, or a figure of meditation and control. The script carved alongside these images is still unread. It keeps its secrets well.

Sacred Animals and Spirit Messengers

To the untrained eye, an animal is just an animal. But for us, each creature was more than form and motion—it carried deeper significance. The bull, strong and steady, likely stood for life-force and endurance. The elephant, wise and slow, may have symbolized memory and guidance. The unicorn—though never seen in the flesh—might have represented balance between worlds. I knew many who whispered blessings to birds before travel, or traced symbols in grain before planting. We did not pray as others do, loudly or in grand processions. Our religion, if it can be called that, lived in gesture, in symbol, in a quiet reverence.

Rituals of Water and Light

Water was sacred to us. Every home had a place for washing, every public building a drain for purification. The Great Bath of Mohenjo-daro, which I once visited and studied, was not just a structure—it was a space of transition. You descended into it clean, emerged different. Perhaps renewed. Perhaps forgiven. We built it with layers of bitumen, brick, and mystery. At dusk, families lit oil lamps and placed them near doorways or wells. It was not just light against darkness. It was a gesture of offering, of remembrance. And when a child was born, or a season changed, or a loved one passed on, simple rituals followed—pouring water, scattering blossoms, or placing a figurine in a shaded corner.

Temples Without Walls

Unlike the temples of Egypt or Mesopotamia, ours were not massive or marked. Sacred spaces lived inside homes, near trees, or beside flowing water. I helped construct a raised platform once—simple brick, ringed with terracotta pipes. It may have been a shrine. Or it may have been a place for community gathering. No sign marked it. But people came and went with quiet reverence. That was our way. No need to build the sky into a building. The sacred was already here.

Mystery Carried Through Time

And now, so many centuries later, you who study our ruins still wonder what we believed. You hold our seals, our figurines, our empty baths, and you ask, “What gods did they worship?” But perhaps we did not worship as you imagine. Perhaps we did not fear gods but honored the world itself—its patterns, its forces, its balances. We left no commandments. No sacred book. No voice from a mountain. We left symbols. Fragments of a faith lived more than spoken.

The Sacred in the Everyday

I, Nabin the builder, was no priest. But in every wall I raised, every drain I laid, I worked with reverence. I believed the world was sacred because it gave and took in equal measure. And so did we. We built not to reach the heavens, but to live well upon the earth. Our faith was a circle—seen in the wheel, the seal, the bath, and the setting sun.

And though the words are lost and the gods unnamed, I believe our silence still speaks. To those who listen not with ears—but with wonder.

A Day in the Dust and Light: Life Among the Bricks – Told by Nabin

In the early light of morning, before the sun had warmed the bricks, the city slowly stirred to life. Roosters crowed, oxen shifted in their pens, and smoke began to curl from clay ovens. I would rise early, as did most in Harappa. The streets were still cool, the scent of wet earth rising from the courtyards. A woman might be sweeping the front of her home with a reed broom, clearing away the dust from the night. A child might be sent to the neighborhood well with a clay pot, careful not to spill a drop. The day began not with rush, but with rhythm.

The Household and Its Heart

Each home had its own tempo. In the courtyard, women ground grain on stone slabs, while children helped knead dough or fanned small cooking fires. Men prepared for work—some with baskets slung over their shoulders heading to the market, others with tools in hand, ready for labor in workshops or at construction sites. Many worked from their own homes—potters shaping wet clay on spinning wheels, bead-makers chipping stone into tiny jewels, weavers spinning cotton into thread. I visited hundreds of homes as a builder, and in each I found not luxury, but purposeful simplicity. Life was clean, ordered, and close to the ground.

Midday in the Marketplace

By late morning, the streets had filled with life. Merchants called out their goods—grains, spices, cloth, fish, and tools. Donkeys and bullocks carried loads between workshops and storehouses. Scribes seated on shaded platforms recorded transactions using seals and tokens. I loved the market’s hum, its quiet agreements and shared greetings. It was a place where everyone met—traders from nearby villages, craftsmen from the alleys, and elders who came just to listen. Even children had their role, running errands, fetching items, or watching with wide eyes.

Work and the City’s Pulse

Most people worked near their homes or just beyond them. The cities were designed for ease—no one had to travel far. I spent my days walking the lanes, checking the conditions of drains, helping oversee repairs to walls or roads. Workers gathered in teams, mixing mortar, laying bricks, or clearing silt from sewers. It was hard work, but the city moved together, like a living body. We didn’t separate castes as other cultures would come to do. Labor was respected. Skill was honored. A potter or a brickmaker was no less important than a merchant or scribe.

Bathing and Cleansing

Before meals or after work, many stopped to wash. Bathing areas were simple—raised platforms with sloped floors, connected to the drains. Cleanliness was not only about comfort—it was part of our culture, our belief. A man returned from the fields would wash his feet and hands before entering his home. A woman preparing food would cleanse her tools and body first. In the evenings, some homes lit small oil lamps near their bathing areas. Light and water—both were sacred to us in quiet, daily ways.

Meals and Rest

Meals were taken in the courtyard or atop flat rooftops under the open sky. Rice, barley cakes, lentils, and vegetables made up the main meals, often seasoned with sesame or mustard. Fish was dried and salted, and meat, though less common, was prepared for special days. I’ve eaten with farmers, artisans, and scribes alike—always seated on mats, sharing from shared bowls. After meals, people rested. Children played in the shade, elders told stories, and neighbors exchanged news across low walls.

Evening and Reflection

As the sun sank low, the city slowed again. Lamps were lit. The sounds of animals bedding down filled the streets. Some families offered small prayers or placed offerings near their doorways. Others sat quietly, weaving, carving, or talking. I often took that time to walk the rooftops and observe the city from above. The grid of streets, the flicker of hearths, the sound of laughter and distant singing—it was a city alive not with noise, but with life.

A Life Without Grandeur, but Full of Meaning

We had no monuments to gods or kings, but our days were not small. We lived with purpose, with rhythm, with care. From the farmer harvesting sesame in the morning sun, to the bead-maker polishing lapis by firelight, each person knew their part in the city’s song. That was our greatness—not in what we built, but in how we lived. With balance, with peace, with a quiet dignity that endures even in the ruins.

And I, Nabin the builder, carry that memory still. Not as a dream, but as a truth laid brick by brick in the hearts of our people.

The Balance of Our People: Order Without Thrones – Told by Nabin

When people from distant lands ask me who ruled over us, I tell them a truth they find difficult to believe: we had no kings who raised stone statues to themselves, no emperors who demanded temples of gold, no slaves chained to plows or dragged through city gates. We lived by another kind of order—quiet, communal, practical. Yes, there were those with more influence, more goods, more seals carved with their family mark. But they walked the same streets, fetched water from the same wells, and bathed in the same shared courtyards. Ours was not a society without difference—but a society without domination.

The Elders and Organizers

At the top of our structure were the elders, seal-bearers, and master craftsmen—men and women who earned their place through skill, memory, and service. They led our councils, managed trade, and oversaw granaries and water systems. I often worked with them as a builder, discussing new neighborhoods or repairs to the market streets. They spoke with calm authority, not the loud voice of command. They lived in larger homes, yes, with finer pottery or better-crafted jewelry—but not behind palace walls. Their homes were part of the city, open and present.

The Skilled and the Makers

Beneath them were the artisans and skilled workers—potters, bead-makers, weavers, masons, and metalworkers. These people were the lifeblood of our cities. They worked in courtyards, workshops, and sometimes their very homes, crafting the goods that filled our markets and traveled downriver to distant shores. I admired these people most. Their hands shaped the city just as much as mine did, and often with more beauty. Some were well-known beyond their blocks—especially the seal-carvers and dye-makers. They did not bow to any overlord. They were respected by their work.

The Farmers and Laborers

Outside the city and along its edges lived the farmers, herders, and those who moved goods by cart or riverboat. They were many, and they were vital. They grew the barley and wheat, herded cattle, brought fish from the rivers and dates from the trees. Their work fed us all. I often visited the granaries to inspect the storerooms, and I saw firsthand the fairness of distribution during lean seasons. No one starved while others feasted. The laborers who built walls, swept drains, or unloaded goods were not invisible. They were seen, paid, and part of the same shared order.

Women in the Weave of Life

Women were not silent shadows in our society. They worked as traders, potters, textile-makers, and sometimes even scribes. I knew a woman who ran a large textile stall near the south well of Harappa. Her ledgers were cleaner than most, and her decisions shaped the cloth trade for the entire district. In homes, women controlled the rhythm of daily life—food, hygiene, instruction of children, and the small household shrines. Their knowledge of plants, medicine, and tradition gave them power that needed no title.

Burial in Simplicity

And when we passed from this life, we were laid to rest with modest care. Our burials were simple pits, often lined with brick, sometimes marked with a few pots, tools, or ornaments. No golden masks, no pyramids, no temples filled with wealth for the afterlife. Even the most respected among us were buried with quiet dignity. I helped build a burial ground on the western side of the city once—neatly arranged, cleanly maintained. Each person, regardless of their work or rank, was given a place. Some were buried with beads or shells, perhaps gifts from family. But there were no tombs meant to awe the heavens.

A Structure Built on Balance

So, yes, there was structure. There were elders and novices, experts and learners, those with more and those with less. But the ladder of our society had wide steps and no sharp peaks. No single person towered so high that others could not reach them. We believed in harmony more than hierarchy. In fairness over fear. That is why our cities were clean, why our drains were swept, why our homes did not turn inward in suspicion. We trusted the system because we all helped build it.

A Legacy Without Crowns

When I hear tales of other civilizations—of kings buried beneath mountains of treasure, of slaves beaten to build monuments—I do not envy them. We left no golden tombs. But we left cities that breathed with equality, streets that welcomed all, and homes that honored every role. That, to me, is a greater monument than any statue. And though my name may be forgotten, the walls I built remain. Not for one ruler, but for all who walked these streets. That was our greatness. That was our way.

Across Rivers and Roads: Our Bonds Beyond the Walls  – Told by Nabin

Though I was born in Harappa, I never saw my home city as a world in itself. From the time I was old enough to carry a measuring cord and run errands for my master, I heard the names of other cities spoken with familiarity and pride—Mohenjo-daro, Lothal, Dholavira, Kalibangan. These were not rivals, but siblings. They rose from the same soil, bathed in the same river waters, and followed the same principles of order, cleanliness, and civic care. When I first traveled to Mohenjo-daro to study the Great Bath, I did not feel like a stranger. The bricks beneath my feet followed the same rhythm as those I’d laid in Harappa. The streets, the drains, the courtyards—all built by hands that thought as ours did. Our cities were many, but our vision was one.

Trade as Thread Between Stones

The most constant interaction among our cities was trade. Carts groaned under the weight of cotton, beads, pottery, metal tools, and grain as they moved from one center to the next. Boats drifted down the Indus and its tributaries, their cargoes bound for Lothal’s dockyards or the central storehouses of Dholavira. I once helped design a rest station halfway between Harappa and a smaller village—it had a covered well, brick-lined platforms, and shaded areas where traders could sleep. That project taught me something deeper: our cities did not compete for wealth—they flowed it between one another like blood through veins. Each city had its specialty. Lothal gave us finely drilled beads. Mohenjo-daro mastered the art of seal-carving. Dholavira, with its water tanks and white stone, inspired awe in all who visited. And Harappa—we gave structure, grain, and the steadiness of the northern plain.

Shared Practices and Common Measure

It wasn’t just goods we shared—it was knowledge. We used the same standard weights, the same brick proportions, and the same types of seals. When I visited Kalibangan, a city farther east, I found their streets aligned just like ours. Their drainage mirrored ours in slope and spacing. Even their bathing areas and well covers followed designs we knew. There was no central ruler to command this. It was a shared tradition—an unspoken agreement between builders, planners, and leaders. We met at market stalls, at granary steps, at riverside loading points. And there, ideas moved as freely as goods.

Beyond the Indus: Our Reach to Distant Lands

But our connections did not end at the borders of the valley. From the port of Lothal and the western passes, traders ventured far beyond our rivers. They returned with tales of strange cities across the desert, of black stone from the mountains of Meluhha, of copper from Magan, and of boats with square sails from Dilmun. I once saw a jar of foreign design—coarser clay, painted with strange animals. It had come from Mesopotamia. We found our seals there too, far from home, buried in foreign ruins. These were not conquests. They were conversations made of trade, gesture, and mutual curiosity.

Language of the Seal and the Gesture

We did not speak the same words as those in Mesopotamia or Elam, but trade finds its own language. Our seals—marked with animals, symbols, and script—spoke for us. I remember watching a Lothal trader explain a shipment of beads using only a seal and a gesture, and the foreign merchant nodded in understanding. Where language failed, custom carried the message. In this way, we extended our influence not with soldiers or priests, but with weights, wheels, and wisdom.

A Web, Not a Chain

I believe what made us strong was not control, but connection. We did not bind other cities beneath us—we built alongside them. If one region faced drought, others sent grain. If one road was flooded, another route was opened. We were not isolated points, but a web of lives, markets, and wells tied together by trust. When I worked on a large grain platform near the river, I carved into the wall a small symbol—a circle with four points—my own way of honoring the unity of the four great cities I had walked within. I believed then, and still do, that no one city stood above the rest. Together, we were the Indus.

Echoes Across the Valley

Even now, when I walk the silent ruins and place my hand on the bricks, I remember the stories shared between travelers, the laughter over shared meals in faraway guest houses, the feeling of brotherhood in cities whose names I knew before ever setting foot within them. We were not one city, but one civilization—many centers, many voices, one vision.

And though the world may forget our names, the bonds we built still echo through time, carried by every seal, every road, and every measure laid in trust.

My Name is Ashan: Voice of the River: My Life as a Leader of the Indus

My name is Ashan. (a fictional character of what may have been what a Indus Valley Leader would have been) I was born on the banks of the Saraswati, before it grew thin and silent. In those early days, our people lived in close-knit villages made of mud and thatch. We farmed the fertile floodplains, sowed barley and wheat by hand, and learned the rhythms of water and sun. My father was a scribe, a man of measured words and calm thoughts. My mother oversaw the household, skilled in herbs and cloth. I was raised not with grandeur, but with duty. My path was shaped not by ambition, but by the needs of others.

Called to Lead by Service

There was no crown placed upon my head. No sacred ritual marked my rise. I became a leader the way one becomes an elder—through action, consistency, and the trust of neighbors. When a monsoon threatened our grain stores, I gathered farmers to raise the walls. When a disease crept through the lower lanes, I called the healers and cleared the wells. At first, I was simply a voice among others. But over time, more turned to me—not for command, but for counsel. I led not from above, but from the center, where all voices could be heard.

The Council of the City

As our village grew into a city, we formed a council. We met in a brick hall on the citadel’s edge, seated on low stone benches. There were ten of us—traders, builders, priests, artisans, and elders. We did not vote as others do today. We spoke until agreement emerged. Each voice held weight. My role was to guide the flow, to keep the talk focused, and to ensure every hand at the table felt steady. Decisions were made with care—where to dig the next well, how to divide the harvest during drought, when to trade and when to hold back. We were the caretakers of order.

Justice in the Streets

We had no need for prisons or chains. When disputes arose, they came to the courtyard of the council. I sat with the two parties, listened to their words, and examined the seals and weights. Often, justice was restoration—returning what was lost, mending what was broken. There were no public punishments. Shame came not from decree, but from the eyes of one’s neighbors. It kept our people honest, and our markets clean. The greatest strength of a city is not its walls, but the fairness of its dealings.

Guided by Ritual, Not Rule

Though I carried authority, I never claimed divine favor. We did not see our leaders as gods or prophets. Instead, I walked the sacred paths with the rest—bathing before sunrise, lighting lamps at dusk, offering grain to the fire and water to the tree. Our beliefs lived in gestures, not temples. We honored the Great Mother, the river’s spirit, and the silent animals whose forms we stamped into seals. In my home, a small figurine stood beside the hearth, a reminder that even those who lead must bow to the eternal balance.

In Times of Drought and Doubt

There were seasons of fear. Once, the rivers failed to rise, and the grain browned in the field. We rationed, we shared, we dug deeper wells. Another time, merchants returned from the coast with tales of violence beyond the sea. I met with other leaders from distant cities—Lothal, Dholavira, Kalibangan—and we agreed to safeguard our trade with shared escorts and open storehouses. No city stood alone. We were a chain of settlements, bound not by conquest, but by trust.

Preparing for What Comes After

When my beard turned white and my steps grew slower, I began to guide others into roles I once held. I taught a younger man, Jarel, how to read the tone of a dispute before it turned sour. I taught a young woman, Mita, how to organize a grain ledger and command the respect of a market crowd. I stepped back gradually, as the river steps back from the floodplain, leaving behind fertile ground. Leadership, I always said, is not a flame to guard jealously. It is a torch to pass on.

My Name in Clay

There is no statue of me. No great tomb. My name was pressed once into a seal, carved with a bull and four signs. That seal stamped agreements, marked the corners of storehouses, and once, was found in a distant land. That is enough. My legacy lives not in monuments, but in the streets that remain aligned, in the wells that still hold water, in the fairness whispered about when people speak of the old days.

I was Ashan, chosen not to rule, but to serve. And that, in the cities of the Indus, was the highest form of power we ever knew.

The Hidden Hand of Order: How We Governed - Told by Ashan (Fictional Indus Leader)

My name is Ashan, chosen to lead not by birthright, but by the weight of time and the voice of the people. In our land—Harappa and the cities beyond—we did not raise kings above the rest. We had no golden thrones, no palaces walled off from the breath of the streets. Our leadership was not a crown but a calling, earned by trust and shaped through service. In the Indus, to lead was to listen, to mend, to balance. We had no need for warlords or temples of rule, for our strength came not from command, but from consensus.

The Circle of the Council

Each city, whether large like Mohenjo-daro or modest like Rakhigarhi, had its own council. Ours in Harappa met in a plain brick hall on the citadel's edge. There were no thrones, only benches shaped into a circle. We gathered as equals—elders, merchants, artisans, record-keepers, and water overseers. Some had held their place for decades; others, newly chosen by the neighborhoods they served. We did not govern with force but with presence. Every voice was heard. Decisions rose slowly, as river water rises—patient, inevitable, and clear.

Duties Divided, Not Hoarded

Our system was not one of command from a single mouth, but of many hands at work. The granary supervisors managed food stores and saw to fair distribution. The scribes recorded trades, births, and boundaries using our script of signs and seals. The builders like Nabin oversaw repairs, drains, and the planning of new quarters. Each role was sacred, not in ritual, but in responsibility. If a well dried, the water overseer was sought. If a quarrel broke in the market, the elder of that district stepped in. I, as the appointed leader, coordinated—never dictated.

Justice Without Chains

Justice was not a tool of punishment, but of restoration. If two men disputed a boundary, they came to us. If a pot was broken in trade or a seal misused, the council listened, questioned, and settled the matter. We had no prisons. The shame of the community was punishment enough. I once saw a scribe publicly correct a mistake on his tablet before the market crowd. No anger, no exile—only correction. This was our way. Fairness was not enforced by fear, but upheld by example.

Cities United by Shared Practice

Though I lived in Harappa, I often met with leaders from other cities—Dholavira, Lothal, even distant Sutkagan Dor. There was no emperor over us. Each city governed itself, yet our principles were shared. The bricks we laid, the measurements we used, the seals we carved—they spoke a common tongue. And in that shared language of design and custom, we held unity. I recall a meeting in Lothal, where we debated water distribution between cities facing drought. No threats were made, no borders shifted. We agreed by understanding, and help was given.

Selection and Transition

Leaders were not chosen in secret. When my time came, I was invited to the council after years of work in the grain stores and as a speaker in community gatherings. When my body grew tired and the lines in my face deepened, I called forth three young leaders from among the artisans and scribes, watched them for seasons, and recommended one to take my seat. The council confirmed him, not with ceremony, but with silence and nods. It was not about title, but readiness.

The Strength in Stillness

Other lands may build loud governments with war drums and decrees carved into stone. We ruled in stillness. Our governance was not felt in the hand, but in the smoothness of city life—the timely cleaning of drains, the steady weight of grain in the stores, the calm order of the market. People did not fear the council. They trusted it. And that trust was our greatest authority.

I Led, So That Others Could Live Well

I kept no seal with my name alone. I held no staff that marked me above others. My voice was one among many, yet it often began the conversation. I led, not to be seen, but to make sure others were heard. That was our way. In a land where rivers shaped cities and silence held meaning, leadership was a current—not a crown. And I, Ashan, followed its course with care.

A Circle, Not a Pyramid: The Order of Our People - Told by Ashan (Fictional Indus Leader)

A Life Without Thrones

I was never crowned. I wore no ring of rule, no chain of office. My name is Ashan, and I was chosen to lead not by divine blood or conquest, but by the steady work of many seasons and the trust of those who watched me serve. In our cities—Harappa, Mohenjo-daro, Dholavira—there were no kings raised above the rest. No palaces cut from mountain stone. No armies gathered in courtyards. The highest stood only slightly taller than the rest, and even that height was earned, not given. We lived in balance, not under command.

The Elders and Councils

The people looked to elders for guidance—those who had long watched the rhythm of seed and harvest, water and drought. I sat among a council of such elders, each respected in their own craft or trade. The master potter, the chief scribe, the grain overseer, the healer of the northern quarter—we each had a voice. No one ruled over the others. When a decision was needed, we spoke, we listened, and we agreed. I may have spoken first more often, but my words weighed no more than another’s when measured against the good of the people. We did not rule from high towers. We ruled from open halls and shaded courtyards, among the people whose lives we shaped.

The Artisans and the Makers

Below the elders stood the artisans—the bead-makers, copper-smiths, weavers, and potters. These were the builders of our culture. Their hands shaped more than tools; they shaped the spirit of our cities. Many of them lived modestly, yet their skill earned them respect and fair trade. I recall a woman named Tiri, a spinner of cotton, whose thread was so fine it was sought by traders from three cities. She led no council, but her voice in the market was listened to as closely as my own. Skill, not birth, gave a person their standing.

The Farmers and Carriers

Then there were the farmers, herders, and laborers. They woke with the sun, tilled the land, hauled bricks, and filled the granaries. They held no seals, no council seats, but they were no less honored. Without their hands, our cities would be only empty shells. Each family received grain in times of plenty and drought alike. Wells and streets were shared by all. I knew many by name. I walked among them not as a ruler, but as a fellow steward. When the drains clogged, we cleared them together. When the harvest failed, we rationed together.

The Place of Women

Women lived across all levels of our life. They owned property, led businesses, and carried deep knowledge of medicine and ritual. My own mother kept the accounts of three granaries in the eastern district before I was even old enough to sweep a floor. Her wisdom taught me more about leadership than any council meeting ever could. In homes, they passed down stories and skills. In the market, they negotiated with strength. In civic life, they advised decisions both quiet and wide-reaching. They were not hidden. They were foundational.

Burials Without Glory

When I am gone, I will not be buried beneath a golden tomb. None of us will. We are laid to rest in simple brick-lined graves, with perhaps a few pots, a bead necklace, or a favorite tool. The body returns to the earth, as it should. I have stood over the graves of elders and farmers alike, and I could not tell which was which by the offerings. That is our way. No man is buried with more than he carried in life. There are no pyramids on our horizon. No hoarded treasures for the next world. Only memory, and the legacy of deeds.

Balance as the Highest Order

Some say a society without kings must be weak. I say it is stronger than any built on fear. We were not equal in every possession, but we were equal in worth. The artisan’s hands, the farmer’s back, the healer’s touch—all part of one body, moving with purpose. Our cities stood not because of a throne, but because of shared trust and fair labor.

My Place Among Them

I led not to be remembered, but to ensure others could live well. I built no monument to myself. My name is etched in no stone. But I see my legacy in the well-water drawn at dawn, in the grain fairly weighed, in the child learning letters beside the hearth. That is enough. That is everything.

We built a civilization not with crowns, but with care. And that, in time, will be the gold that endures.

Threads of Clay and River: Our Ties Across the Land - Told by Ashan (Fictional Indus Leader)

From the earliest seasons of my youth, I knew of other cities—Mohenjo-daro with its vast baths and central granary, Lothal on the edge of the salt sea with its trade ships and bead-makers, Dholavira nestled between stone and salt, where water was captured like gold. These places were not stories. They were partners. We shared more than goods—we shared vision. A city in the Indus was not made in isolation. Our streets curved with the same wisdom, our bricks fit the same measure, and our thoughts flowed in the same patterns. We were many cities, but one civilization.

Caravans and River Routes

Each season, when the rivers flowed strong and the dust softened under the carts, our traders left Harappa in long caravans. I often watched them depart from the eastern gate—oxen packed with jars of grain, cotton cloth, polished pottery, and beads strung in intricate designs. They traveled south to Mohenjo-daro, where they exchanged goods with coastal merchants, or northwest to Dholavira, where stone and copper waited. Others followed the river itself, drifting gently past villages and fields until they reached Lothal’s port, where ships—flat-bottomed and sturdy—waited to cross the gulf. These were not dangerous journeys. They were trusted paths, traveled again and again like the veins of a living body.

Councils Across Distance

When the floods came strong or the seasons turned harsh, we sent word to each other. I myself visited Dholavira once, called to speak with other leaders about the weakening flow of the Saraswati. We sat not in a throne room, but in a plain stone hall, seated on mats, surrounded by charts of the land. There were no oaths of allegiance, no threats of conquest. Only shared plans—how to dig deeper wells, how to reroute trade when crops failed, how to ensure no city stood hungry. Each leader brought knowledge, not pride. Each city gave what it could. That was the way of the Indus.

Common Seals and Shared Speech

We may have spoken in many local tongues, but when it came to writing, we shared a common hand. Our seals—those small, carved tokens of identity and transaction—spoke the same language, even when our voices did not. A seal from Harappa was honored in Kalibangan. A mark from Lothal held meaning in the storerooms of Mohenjo-daro. These symbols carried trust across stone and water. I once received a shipment of grain from the south, marked with the seal of a merchant I had never met. I accepted it without question. His mark was as good as his word.

Ties Beyond the Valley

But our world stretched even farther than the river. Through Lothal and Sutkagan Dor, we sent goods beyond the sea to distant lands—Dilmun, Magan, and Meluhha. Foreign traders came bearing copper, lapis lazuli, incense, and tales of cities with sky-high towers and bronze-clad kings. Some of them came up the river routes, carrying gifts and curiosity. They walked our streets in wonder, remarking on the cleanliness, the peace, the harmony without armies. I welcomed several such visitors to our council house. They asked, “Who rules you?” and I answered, “We are ruled by measure and trust.”

Crisis and Cooperation

Not all days were peaceful. There were years when the rivers failed us, when carts returned empty and jars cracked in the heat. During those times, our bonds were tested. I remember a year when Kalibangan faced fire and flood in the same season. Grain was short, and the people feared hunger. Our council gathered quickly, and I stood before the elders and said, “If they fall, we all fall.” We opened our granaries and sent supplies downriver. Weeks later, they sent back not just grain, but gifts—beads, woven mats, and a seal carved with a new design: a tree with roots that touched many cities. It still rests in my home.

The Unseen Ties That Remain

Even now, as the cities grow silent and the seals are buried in soil, I believe those ties endure. The bricks may crumble, the wells may dry, but the idea—that cities could cooperate, not conquer—remains a light in the dark. Our greatness was not measured in gold or war, but in shared planning, shared symbols, and shared survival.

I was Ashan, a leader not over others, but among them. And my city was only one voice in the wide, wise chorus of the Indus.