Cities and towns, those who pulse with human dreams, who carry laughter, blood, breath, and burden, are summoned to speak.
By Abdullah Usman Morai | Sweden
Prologue – When Cities Speak and the Sky Listens
Once a year, when the moon is full and the winds fall silent, a miracle unfolds above the Earth. High in the atmosphere, beyond the clouds and noise of human life, a circle of light appears—Gaia’s Echo. It is not visible to satellites or pilots. Only cities and towns, those who pulse with human dreams, who carry laughter, blood, breath, and burden, are summoned to speak.
This year, twelve places came, one from each inhabited region of the Earth. They carried voices of their people—their hopes, their scars, their longings. The council was not of leaders or elites, but of streets and homes, of birds and schoolyards, of footpaths and garbage bins, temples and train stations. They gathered to reflect and to warn.
Chapter 1: The Arrival
One by one, they appeared on Gaia’s platform of clouds. First came Cape Town, with salt in his voice and sun-dust in his robe. Then Kyoto, ancient and composed, bowing deeply. Barcelona followed, humming street music and smelling of fresh bread and protest. Vancouver glided in on a wind-chariot of green.
Buenos Aires stepped in late, laughing despite his limp. Melbourne was solemn, with wildfire ash in his hem. Nuuk, quietest of all, emerged from a mist, holding ice like memory. Then came two voices from South Asia: Lahore, wearing poetry and scars, and Dhaka, cloaked in resilience and river songs.
The rest included Kigali from Rwanda, Christchurch from New Zealand, and San José, the tech-smart and coffee-scented city of Costa Rica: twelve voices, one sky.
Chapter 2: Introductions in the Wind
“I am Cape Town,” said the first, “where beauty and poverty hold hands tightly. My children fetch water from tanks while yachts dance in the harbor.”
“Kyoto,” came the gentle reply, “I remember the whispers of bamboo and the silence of temples. But now I lose myself in neon.”
“Barcelona,” grinned a vibrant voice. “I march with women and artists. But even I fear what happens when my youth cannot afford my streets.”
Vancouver chimed in: “I am green, yes. I recycle, I cycle. But I am also cold for the poor. They sleep under my wealth.”
Then Lahore stepped forward. “I carry centuries of poetry and partition. I host weddings in palaces and funerals in broken hospitals. My youth is angry, and my air is sick.”
“Dhaka,” said another, firm yet kind. “My rickshaws sing, but my rivers cry. I sew the clothes of the world while my workers faint from heat.”
Each city bowed to the next. There was no competition here, only shared longing.
Chapter 3: The State of Basic Needs
Cape Town began: “Let us speak of basics. Of clean water, stable electricity, and homes with dignity. I ration water like gold. Rural folks trek miles for a drop. Yet rain pours and runs into sewers.”
“In Dhaka,” he replied, “our water is brown, but our people adapt. We drink resilience. But why must survival taste like struggle?”
Lahore raised his hand. “Power outages are part of my rhythm. The Internet comes and goes like a monsoon. And food, oh, it gets dearer every Eid.”
Barcelona added, “My shelves are full, but my people skip meals to pay rent.”
“We all fail,” said Nuuk softly, “if even one child goes to bed thirsty.”
Chapter 4: Paths and Places
Kyoto stood, folding his sleeves. “Planning must serve the soul. Paths must welcome the elderly and the toddler. Trees must shade both lovers and the lonely.”
“I build walkways,” said Melbourne, “but forget to slow down. My parks bloom, yet my people scroll through them.”
Dhaka laughed. “We walk because we must. Sidewalks are dreams. Rickshaws compete with buses and pedestrians. Yet somehow, we reach.”
“Lahore here,” he added, “our old city breathes through alleyways, but our new roads choke on cars.”
Cape Town nodded. “Transport isn’t just movement; it is dignity. A mother shouldn’t risk safety just to reach a clinic.”
Chapter 5: The Crisis of Housing and Homelessness
Buenos Aires sighed. “Landlords worship gold. My people build shanties, then pray the rain forgets them.”
Vancouver agreed. “My skyline gleams. Yet tents bloom in my parks. Shelter should not be a lottery.”
“In Dhaka,” he said, “we build up, up, up. Yet the poor sleep beside the construction sites.”
“And Lahore,” he added, “we sell gated dreams, but ignore the street dwellers who built them.”
Kyoto whispered, “A home is a quiet heart. Not just bricks.”
Chapter 6: Food, Jobs, and Despair
Cape Town stood again. “Food, even basic lentils, betrays the poor. Unemployment breeds hunger and crime.”
“I feed the world,” said Dhaka, “through garment exports. But I can’t feed my own with fairness.”
Buenos Aires snorted. “We print money. And the price of milk changes by lunch.”
Lahore raised a finger. “Youth line up for jobs that don’t exist. Degrees pile up. Dreams shrink.”
Kyoto added gently, “Work should offer meaning, not just bread.”
Chapter 7: Health, Safety, and the Invisible
Barcelona began. “My hospitals heal, yes. But mental wounds bleed silently. We must treat the mind, too.”
“In Cape Town,” he added, “gangs offer more safety than the police in some areas. Children learn to duck bullets before they read.”
Dhaka sighed. “My women give birth on rickshaw rides. Yet we have skyscrapers.”
Lahore said, “Women fear walking after sunset. Even men fear justice won’t come.”
Melbourne shared, “I built ramps and quiet rooms. But not enough. Still, people with disabilities wait in shadows.”
Chapter 8: Rights and Realities
Kyoto said, “Tradition can be a warm cloak or a suffocating rope.”
“We march for women,” said Barcelona, “and yet their wages are still whispers.”
Dhaka added, “Children stitch footballs they never kick.”
Lahore, with a tear: “Our men too cry, though we teach them not to.”
Vancouver nodded. “Rights are not for some. They are for all. Even the forgotten.”
Chapter 9: War, Fear, and Flight
Nuuk finally spoke: “Even the ice remembers war. Bombs echo longer than bells.”
Buenos Aires added, “Injustice fuels rebellion. Then bullets follow.”
Lahore looked at Dhaka, old wounds surfacing. “We were one, then not. And still, our youth pay the price.”
“Brain drain,” said Dhaka, “is a silent war. We export our best minds. But who stays to heal us?”
Kyoto bowed. “Peace isn’t the absence of war. It’s the presence of justice.”
Chapter 10: Technology and Trust
Melbourne said, “We connect faster, but trust slower. AI, data, all serve the few.”
“In Vancouver,” he added, “we track calories but ignore starving neighbors.”
“In Dhaka,” he smiled, “we use apps to find fish, yet fear electricity cuts.”
“Lahore,” he sighed, “our youth dream in code, but our walls crumble.”
Barcelona added, “Let not tech replace touch.”
Chapter 11: The Soul of the City
Kyoto spoke: “Spirituality isn’t religion alone. It’s connection—to earth, self, others.”
Cape Town nodded. “Ubuntu—I am because we are.”
Dhaka added, “Our poorest still share their last meal. That is spirit.”
“We must build cities with room for gardens and prayer mats, for dance and silence.”
Chapter 12: Sustainability and the Future
Melbourne raised his arm. “Fires eat my forests. We cannot plan tomorrow with yesterday’s greed.”
Nuuk added, “I melt. Not from warmth but neglect.”
Kyoto said, “Plant trees not for shade today, but for poems tomorrow.”
Lahore added, “Rooftop gardens. Birds nests. Let cities become forests with schools.”
Chapter 13: The Declaration of Gaia’s Echo
They joined hands. Twelve cities. Twelve hearts. One planet.
They drafted a message. It floated down to Earth as glowing stardust, whispered into the ears of mayors, ministers, and mothers:
“Plan not for your reign, but for the roots of the unborn. Build not just with cement, but with compassion. Let no bird be homeless, no child unheard. Give each person a path to walk, a bench to rest, a voice to sing, and a reason to stay.”
The wind carried it to every continent.
Some heard. Some changed. Others forgot.
But Gaia remembered. And once a year, she listens again.
Epilogue
That night, under the stars, Lahore and Dhaka walked side by side. Not as rivals, not as nations. But as siblings who remember the river, the pain, the poetry, and the possibility.
And the sky, for a moment, felt whole.
Read: Voices from the Fruit Basket
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Abdullah Soomro, penname Abdullah Usman Morai, hailing from Moro town of Sindh, province of Pakistan, is based in Stockholm Sweden. Currently he is working as Groundwater Engineer in Stockholm Sweden. He did BE (Agriculture) from Sindh Agriculture University Tando Jam and MSc water systems technology from KTH Stockholm Sweden as well as MSc Management from Stockholm University. Beside this he also did masters in journalism and economics from Shah Abdul Latif University Khairpur Mirs, Sindh. He is author of a travelogue book named ‘Musafatoon’. His second book is in process. He writes articles from time to time. A frequent traveler, he also does podcast on YouTube with channel name: VASJE Podcast.
