Dr. Mushtaque B Barq
I know I am not dead. I was carried and abandoned here, as if I were scared of death. This world is a temporary locale, and we all must eventually leave it behind. I had a firm faith in it—it wasn’t just a thought, but it was deeply rooted in my spirit: we all have to go. Where to, I cannot say, but we must go. The reality is that leaving this world behind is the only way to meet the truth. To believe is to defy logic. I, too, had surrendered my reason—the very rational faculty that evokes question and leaves one forlorn.
I only know one thing: I didn’t give up the ghost here. I was carried and abandoned in this place. Why was I left here, all alone? How long has it been—was it yesterday, or the day before? I can’t recall the exact moment. Ah, this crushing loneliness is unbearable. I was never afraid of death, knowing it to be inevitable, but I was unaware of the torment of dying. How the muscles are torn apart, the veins squeezed dry.
The entire frame is consumed by embers. I never interpreted why it was well thought out that is virtuous to appease a dying man. Just one sip could quench the thirst of an entire lifetime. I can’t recall if I was offered that last drop or not; perhaps someone came with a machine and drenched me from head to toe. I had listened to those grand speakers who themselves were oblivious to the truth. I was unaware of the torments of death, of the end of an illusion, and of the hope that gives way to a new chapter—a chapter that unfolds only after death. I can only wonder how that might look.
I only know that I didn’t die here; I was brought to this place. I died in that room, on that bed, tangled in wires, where a sizable door at the foot of the bed allowed me to view the passing shadows. When I was first moved here, I made a video call to my mother, sister, and Saleema. They, too, felt derelict and sensed the intrusive feeling of death. Tears streamed down their faces as they saw my condition, and I wept for them as well. What could I do? I was ensnared by wires and fed false hopes. The experiments reached a peak, but they were futile. If Ali Jan had still been alive, I would never have ended up like this.
I only know that I didn’t die here; I was brought to this place. They, too, have been brought here. I missed their arrival, caught up in conversation. The hall is now crowded, giving me some solace against loneliness.
“O brother, who are you? Hey, I’m talking to you. Aren’t you on my right side?”
O God, he cannot speak.
“Hey, can you hear me? Tell me, who are you?”
He seems to belong to the graveyard category, yet he’s here. No one raises their voice, as if they’ve swallowed their tongues. Maybe he’s ensnared by the wires on the bed, just like me. Is my voice reaching him, or does it die within me?
“O brother, please respond! Was your mother weeping bitterly? Do you feel the uncontrolled cascade of tears? Was your Saleema beating her chest and pulling her hair and peeling the skin off their faces?”
Silence surrounds us. Why are we kept exposed? What are we meant to do here? Now I find myself afraid of them—those to whom I surrendered my life before coming here, and my family, who clung to hope.
I only know that I didn’t die here; I was brought in a vehicle, just as he was. On one side lies their graveyard, and on this side is our burial place.
Wish they would hurry up; they keep us waiting. A seven-foot-deep grave is ready—what are they waiting for? Which scripture allows a dead man to be kept waiting?
Perhaps the mob is dispersing. Everyone has left, even our helpers, who barely managed to save themselves. They began hurling stones blindly. It’s said that neither the weather in London nor the peace in Kashmir is reliable—you never know when the crowd will be dispersed or when stones will be hurled.
The mob is blind. What can be said to them? A dead body doesn’t deserve to be met with stones. They’ve heard rumours that this infection is contagious, which is why they’re protesting. The truth is, this infection has made people all over the world homeless. But they should know, we are sealed in plastic bags where the leakage of any virus is impossible.
“O brothers, don’t throw stones; our infection cannot harm you. If anything happens, it may be due to your own sins.”
“Infection—our infection.”
“You, the oppressor, you’ve heard every word. You know everything, yet you have only deepened my sorrow.
“It does matter to us; our story has ended. Stay calm. They likely know the kind of spray they used on us—everyone fears death.”
“Now seal your mouth and hope they act quickly so that we, too, may find relief.”
We were treated gently at first, but now they drag us. Our rib cages are broken. Oh God, have I been dragged to the graveyard? My ten-foot-deep grave was ready, but at my burial site.
Oh dear, this is a graveyard, and I don’t belong to it. It seems the coffins have been switched.
But my words will not be heard. My situation is bearable, but what about the one meant for the graveyard? He is not Jesus, destined to live until judgement day. Now I am restless, wondering—will they exhume him? What then? Where will he go, and where will I? This pain will linger with me until Doomsday.
Analysis:
I am not yet dead is a story of the plight of a dead man who is the sole witness of his ill-treated burial. The situation that has been evoked in the story recalls us the agony of COVID when dead bodies were not provided the due funeral and burial rituals. The author has rectified and exposed the social and domestic fibre of the society that deprived their dear ones of the last ritual. The author has surfaced that societal trauma contributes to a culture of apathy and indifference among individuals. The story line has an undercurrent existentialism that foregrounds isolation, despair and disorder, human apathy, and above all, absurdity of life and norms that lead to alienation. The author has used an unreliable narrator who offers subjective perspective, and the author has applied it to a dead character reflecting his internal conflict who is looking ahead to be burried in the Muslim graveyard and a Christian dead man wishing his remains were laid in the Christian graveyard. The conflict is heightened when the dead bodies fail to find their due place. This type of conflict not only affects the scenario of the external world and the people who are effected but also the internal wish of the dead man to find a burial place as per the religion he has practiced throughout his life. This story in a way matches the requirements of Gothic literature that deals with themes of death, decay, and the supernatural, using the dead to explore societal fears and moral questions.
Dr..Mushtaq B.Barq is a Columnist, Poet and Fiction Writer. He is the author of “Feeble prisoner, “ Wings of Love” and many translation works are credited to the author like “ Verses Of Wahab
