Echoes of the Dying City

Lahore had always breathed with a rhythm of its own. Long before waste and smoke claimed it, Lahore was a city of pride, whispered histories, gardens, and bustling markets. Its brown and red buildings stood warm under the sun, carrying stories in their bricks. Old streets of Lahore, filled with colors and shaded by trees. The air was light enough to breathe deeply. People walked without fear of the sky above them. The city felt alive, not tired.

At the feet of Lahore, Ravi flowed, wide, gentle, and generous. It moved like a long silver line, giving life to gardens of Lahore, water to its fields, and peace to the people. Children played on its banks, families gathered near its flow, and poets found their words in its waves. The Ravi did not carry poison then; it carried songs, stories, and the reflection of a city that still knew how to live. But as centuries passed, Lahore grew dense and crowded, choked with people, buildings and factories. Ravi, that once reflected the beauty of city became burdened, carrying the weight of urbanization, waste and above all, neglect.

He was not a bad man — at least, that’s what he told himself.

It’s a story about Suleiman, who is a businessman and a man accustomed to control, money and power. Being the father of only one daughter, Ayesha, he was ambitious to give her the best life and a rich future, but maybe not a clean one. He owned one of the biggest pesticide factories in Lahore, His products promised golden harvest, made crops grow taller, greener, and insects die faster. Trucks came in long lines, carrying chemicals out and money back in. Suleiman bank balance kept growing, and with it, his confidence also.

Among those who added to the suffering of the city of hearts, Suleiman’s Industry stood out. Pipes from the factory stretched into Ravi, pouring chemical sludge day and night, as it meant to carry all the wastes for the nation. He watched the water darken and the air thicken, yet no shame, no regret, no concern. Installing air purifier filters and wastewater management would have cost money, which he refused to spend. What did he care, about the future? But he was a man living for today, and tomorrow was someone else problem. After all, who was going to live in the future. At least not him. And for his only daughter, money would be enough. His work was getting done, and nothing else mattered, whether he was killing Ravi or the people.

One night, after a long day of supervising production and counting profits, Suleiman returned home late. The sky was thick with smog, and even the streetlights struggled to pierce the haze. He turned on the TV. The screen was filled with grim headlines;

“Lahore air quality index hits hazardous levels – AQI recorded above 500, with PM2.5, more than 60 times higher than WHO safety limits…. Health warning issued as Lahore ranks among the most polluted cities, residents urged to avoid outdoor activity” ….

He switched off the TV, as he did not care. Sleep came quickly, and with, a nightmare that would change, not everything but him.

Suleiman drifted into slumber, felt a strange pull, lightness, just as his soul leaving his body. He was no longer lying on the bed. He looked down his own body, pale, hands frozen on the bed. His heart was pounding, not in his chest, but somewhere else. His soul left him, weightless, untethered. He rose into the night. Spread beneath him, haze and smog, faint streetlights like dying stars. A swirling darkness enveloped him, spinning faster and faster, pulling him away from 2026 to somewhere in future, just as he travelled through time into the future. He stepped into a city, a city he knows, Lahore — dead Lahore.

The air was thick, smog was black, dense enough to burn through, even his soul. The streets were crowded and coughing, masked creatures everywhere. Children sold bottles of oxygen on street corners, their faces were grey and pale, with dust and disease. Buildings sagged under the weight of pollution. Even sunlight seemed afraid to touch the ground.

And Ravi, his Ravi, flowed at the city’s heart, … is now black, poisoned, and horrifying. Dead fish floated, with green poisoned layers on the river’s surface. Ravi no more carried life, but death. Suleiman realized, he was in Lahore, in the future, he wasn’t supposed to be a part of. He walked, through each step felt heavy, as if the air resisted him. Hospitals were terrifying, overflowed with people gasping for air, suffering from disease caused by poisoned smoke and water. Lungs eaten

away by poison. Every hour a new death. And then he saw her, — his daughter, Ayesha. She lay pale and weak on the bed, coughing blood. His chest tightened; his legs gave way beneath him. His heart, or what remained of it.. ached.

“Papa” … she whispered.

“I am here, my daughter, you will be fine,” he urged, gripping her hands. “I, … can’t breathe” she coughed violently.

“No! don’t leave me,” tears blurred his vision.

Suleiman collapsed onto a nearby bed. His chest burned, lungs tight, vision fading. Machines screamed …. And then silence. Him, weightless and powerless, witnessing every fading breath of his daughter. Before he could even draw comfort of her last breath, his soul’s eyes, turned to himself. Older, frail, gasping for every breath. His soul watched, paralyzed with terror, as his future self was dying, His chest heaved once, twice and then still. Monitors went silent. 27 November, 2050…. Suleiman died.

The hospital walls dissolved into darkness. He felt himself falling, pulled through a spinning void. Every sound, every cough, every scream echoed in his mind. Then, he gasped. He woke up on his bed. It’s still 2026. His eyes open, chest rose. The fan above him, spun lazily. Outside, Lahore was still alive. He saw his future; he didn’t care about. He saw a dystopian Lahore, a city with great suffering. He touched his face with trembling hands. “It was… all real”. His daughter’s dead face, dying city, black, poisoned river, suffering people all burned his mind. The lesson was clear.

By morning, he stood beside his factory. For the first time, shame and fear drove him, his actions. “Install air filters, treat the waste. No excuses” he commanded.

Suleiman never forgot the nightmare. The city had shown him what neglect could cost; what greed could destroy. His soul had seen death, of him and his daughter. He picked up a pen, not for counting profits but to write a letter to a department, for making a change, the Punjab Environmental Protection Agency. He urged them to make policies for filtered factories, proper wastewater treatment, and stricter pollution control measures. He wrote with sincerity. As he sealed the envelope, he looked at the sky, still heavy with smog, but hope stirred in his heart. He knew that one action, however small, could ripple outward. A changed Suleiman was a change for the city, for Ravi and for the generations to come. The Future of Lahore could still be green and city’s lungs would heal, if only people chose to act.

Suleiman is however, a fictional character. But the reality he represents is not. Suleiman’s story reflects the choices being made every day, by policy makers, industrialists, and even individuals alike. The consequences of those choices are already awakening. Lahore is consistently ranked among the world’s most polluted cities. Air quality frequently reaches “unhealthy” or “hazardous” levels (AQI often over 300–400). If thIS condition persists, Lahore’s future in 2050 will not be shaped by imagination but by terrible reality. Lahore is ours; Pakistan is ours, and it is responsibility of every individual of Pakistan to be honest stewards of the future we shape.

The views expressed in this article are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of The Opinion Desk.