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The writer is a Lahore-based academic currently associated with Forman Christian College, a chartered university
Lahore, my wounded city,
How you once wore the monsoon like a crown – draped in silver rain, alive with laughter, perfumed by eucalyptus. But now, your beauty is bruised by neglect. I mourn your lost gardens and vanished avenues and remind you – and myself – of the city you could still be.
Today, after yet another episode of cloudburst that choked the traffic all around, I couldn’t help but feel a growing sense of frustration – and even anger. We complain, blame and joke, but the truth is: we, as the custodians of the city, have failed. The gardens have been sacrificed for concrete, and rapid, unplanned suburban development has devoured green spaces, making the city more vulnerable to floods and pollution, while ambitious rainwater projects remain empty promises.
I escape into nostalgia, imagining myself in the novels of Bano Qudsia, Mustansar Hussain Tarar or Quratulain Haider. The dark clouds over Mall Road and the scent of rain-soaked eucalyptus are bittersweet reminders (Raja Gidh/Pyar Ka Pehla Shehr). Peepal and safeda shadows stretch across wet roads, their clean scent lingering in the post-rain dampness (Aag ka Darya). But your romance is now tainted by poor decisions and neglect. The beauty of monsoon remains, but underneath lies loss, longing and anger over what we’ve allowed.
I will decode the symbolism and the very specific atmospheric code associated with the eucalyptus tree. Its tall, slender white trunk contrasts dramatically against ink-black monsoon storm clouds. Unlike the heavy, earthy smell of wet mud alone – petrichor, the rain-drenched safeda introduces a cooling perfume to the breeze – a sensory marker of your major avenues: The Mall, Canal Bank and Lawrence Gardens.
A visual manifestation of similar monsoon ideas has been depicted in miniature painting centuries ago. On small pieces of polished paper (wasli), artists like Nihal Chand of Kishangarh – famed for his ethereal portrayals of Radha and Krishna amid lush, rain-soaked landscapes – and Nainsukh of the Pahari tradition, with his intimate, poetic scenes, have captured a time when storms were met with romance, devotion and wonder, not fear. The monsoon became the perfect setting for emotional and spiritual growth and the painters turned the storm into beautiful images of the same ideas found in classic literature – a world where people and nature were in harmony.
In these detailed paintings, nature and human feelings come together. Dark clouds in deep blue and gray move across the sky, while real gold leaf shines like lightning. Thin white lines show rain falling over green hills and marble buildings, with white cranes flying against dark skies and peacocks dancing. Here, the monsoon becomes a private world for lovers. Radha and Krishna sit close under one umbrella or cloak, surrounded by the rain, while classic Barahmasa poems and Ragamala paintings reflect the feelings of longing and reunion.
This is indeed a comforting escape from today’s environmental problems. In every stroke of blue and silver paint, like in Urdu poetry and prose, miniature paintings offer a glimpse of harmony. Now, the monsoon fills us with dread, not delight. How did we let this happen? Rains that once meant renewal are now harbingers of chaos – a direct result of our neglect. We’ve built over fragile land and let greed trump wisdom. Rivers spill over, flash floods destroy homes and memories are washed away. Rain, once a blessing, now reminds us of our failures. I long for when we treated the monsoon as a gift, a festivity – music, masti and pakwan, not a threat.
As we reflect on these shifting patterns, we must finally admit that our own actions – reckless urban development, the destruction of green spaces and a stubborn refusal to learn – are squarely to blame for the environmental mess we now face. The romance of Lahore’s rains is fading, replaced by the consequences of our choices. If we care for even a fragment of this city’s soul, it’s time to speak up, hold ourselves accountable and demand real change before there’s nothing left to save.
Bano
August 2026
