Long, long ago, when time ran by the flows of the rowed kohee, you know before the clock came to monopolise, there was a young shepherd whose life was a matter of interest for the future of our land.

One day - it was during the rainy season when the cycle of living is renewed and when the rains open the soil and reveal hidden secrets - whilst tending to his sheep and goats on the plains that he stumbled across the stone.

The parris stone. The treasure. Which turns all that it touches to gold.

Forgetting his sheep and his goats and overjoyed by his good fortune he ran towards the future.

He came by our river. Since it had just been discovered by the rains it did not shine, so the shepherd decided to wash the stone in the river. Whilst washing the parris with a tenderness normally reserved for his flock, the stone regained its original nature and slipped from his grasp. Despite his pleas it did not return and was washed away by our river.

Overwhelmed by his loss he wandered saying and repeating softly to himself 'to not to wash is better than to wash'. And in that's saying his sanity departed. He stood by the riverbank reciting his fate.

Found by his parents he was brought home. Listening to his recitation which refused food or water they grew worried. They called many a people, the men of religion, the men of tradition and finally a man of medicine.

This man, this doctor, on seeing his illness said asked that he be left with him and that he will cure him of his madness. And the cost would be 100 rupees. Half to be given now and half to be given when he is cured.

The doctor took him to the city, to Lahore. For four months they lived there and the glitter and the music of the city allowed his mind to slowly forgot the stone. The doctor sent a message to the shepherds parents informing them that he was better and that they would be returning soon and that payment could be made then.

Joyous, his parents welcomed him home. And he was once more the son that they remembered.

Three days better and his mother curious of what drove the sanity away, asked him 'what did you mean not to wash is better than to wash'? And no sooner was it uttered that memory awoke and he began the chant once more. And madness descended.

Hearing this his mother cried that 'not to ask is better than to ask'. And in this recital she too lost her sanity.

It was a little later that the doctor came to claim his remaining monies. He knocked on the door. And the men of the house having came rushing out with sticks in hand and began to beat the doctor. He managed to escape but in the escape madness came visiting him too 'that fifty is better than one hundred'.

And so it is with the canal. Better than the canal was its not coming.

The gold that was to become with the canal has instead become destruction in which brothers now fight over water. The madness in search of the gold was contagious. It was a madness that clouded our imagination and rendered lifeless our stories.

Better than the canal was its not coming, was the rowed kohee.