Nitish Joshi One The desert shimmered like an illusion, an expanse of white and gold stretching endlessly under the early winter sun. From above, the Rann of Kutch looked like a cracked mirror, its salt flats fragmented into wild geometries — but down here on the ground, it felt alive with movement, heat, and secret rhythms. The wind dragged dry whispers across the land as the colors of the Rann Utsav unfolded like a fever dream — turbans spinning in the breeze, mirror-work lehengas glittering, the scent of fried fafda and jaggery jalebi wafting from the festival stalls. Kabir Pathak,…