The year is 1857. The air hangs heavy with the scent of jasmine and the dust of the Punjab, a land of five rivers now under the iron fist of the British Raj. Emerald fields, nourished by the life-giving waters of the Indus and its tributaries, stretch as far as the eye can see, a deceptive tranquility masking the simmering discontent that festers beneath the surface. The sun beats down mercilessly upon the backs of farmers toiling in the fields, their sweat mingling with the soil that once belonged solely to them, now claimed by an empire an ocean away.

Villages, once vibrant hubs of community and tradition, now bear the scars of colonial rule. The rhythmic beat of the dhol, the soulful melodies of folk songs, are often overshadowed by the marching boots of British soldiers, a constant reminder of their subjugated status. The laughter of children playing in the streets is tinged with a hint of fear, their innocent eyes witnessing the casual brutality of their oppressors. The weight of taxation, the erosion of their customs, and the blatant disregard for their way of life have sown seeds of resentment that threaten to erupt into a storm.