Cholistan — Where Rivers Dream and Dust Dances
From Emerald green to desert dust.
The sun smites the Cholistan, a cruel hammer forging the dust into an endless sea. In its depths, Rahim stands, a weathered monument to forgotten rains. He closes his eyes, and the wind whispers secrets — not of dust devils, but of a verdant kingdom lost.
He remembers the Hakra, its lifeblood coursing through the land, nurturing emerald forests that drank the monsoon’s tears. This wasn’t a wasteland but a symphony of leaves and laughter, where the Harappans, children of the river, built cities that kissed the sky. Ganweriwal, a jewel sparkling with wealth, echoed with trade and the murmur of life.
But the melody faltered. Thirsty eyes coveted the land, axes bit into ancient trunks, and crops replaced leaves. The forests became heat islands, their cooling song replaced by the furnace’s roar and whirling sands. The monsoon, confused by the altered canvas, rained in fury, not grace. Floods carved scars, and the thirsty earth…
