Nazir Jahangir
It was the 1980s when my Urdu drama Saltanat (The Kingdom) was broadcast by Radio Kashmir, Srinagar. Its production was overseen by the renowned poet and former head of Radio Kashmir, Mr. Rafiq Raaz. The story is unique. When I narrated it to the celebrated Kashmiri fiction writer, the late Hriday Koul Bharti, he spontaneously remarked, “When you wrote this story, Saraswati must have been inspiring you.” Later, when I shared it with Julie Larson, an American critic and head of the story website Story Star, she commented:
“There are so many profound layers of meaning in your story that I could not possibly explore them all and do it justice. It is absurdly original, completely unexpected, and intriguingly thought-provoking in a morose and macabre kind of way. A mix of humor and horror that is a perplexingly pleasing surprise for the reader. Well done. Thank you so much for sharing.”
I believe the writers here: forget about local literature, cannot show me an example like this in world literature. If they can’t, then silence would suit them better. Except for a few individuals, I have reflected on everyone in my Urdu article series “Takhliq kya hai, Tanqeed kya hai”? (What is Creativity, What is Criticism?), revealing their capabilities. Some sit on dry land, yet would drown in even a handful of water if they tried to wade through it. Awards are no measure of literary talent or creative prowess; they often have other manipulations behind them. Now, a new trend seems to be emerging here. If you want favors from someone, you present them with a shawl under the guise of intellectual respect. Garlands are no longer a symbol of regard or love; they have become reminders: ‘Keep me in mind, I have favors to ask of you.’ How absurd!
My series of Urdu articles, “Takhliq kya hai, Tanqeed kya hai”?, has exposed even those who make grand claims. So for now, show me a story that matches this one; we can discuss the others later.
I do not boast or brag. This is neither arrogance nor self-promotion. May Allah protect me from the curse of pride. I mention this only in gratitude for Allah’s blessings, and I say humbly that while I am an ordinary human being, my stories are indeed extraordinary.
“Proclaim the blessings of your Lord.”
Naturally, I admire my stories.
— Nazir Jahangir)
Hello, World!
I am the spirit of a cadaver, now lying in the mortuary of your medical college. Once, I was a living, breathing soul, until I met my end in battle. In life, I had no one—no family to claim me, no loved one to mourn my loss. After death, I was labeled as an “unclaimed body,” placed among the rows of cadavers here. But I was not always a nameless corpse. I had a name. I was Izhar.
Now, I wish to share my story with the world, for death has taught me one undeniable truth: we are all unclaimed in the end. If that weren’t so, why would bodies be buried, burned, or left forgotten in cold mortuaries? Whether we are lowered into the ground or reduced to ashes, the result is the same—after death, we belong to no one. The living may claim ownership of us in life, but in death, we are all abandoned. If we were truly claimed, we would still be with them, alive in their hearts, not left behind in silence.
I wanted the world to know my story—my tragic existence. As a spirit, I sought out Nazir Jahangir, hoping he could pen my tale in his unique style, to reveal who I truly was. I am the same Izhar whose lifeless body now rests in the mortuary of your medical college. I want the world to remember me, and I want Nargis, too, not to be forgotten. And above all, I want society to mourn its role in pushing me to this fate—the society that left me to rot, both in life and death.
I asked Nazir Jahangir to shape my life into a story, to speak of me and the forgotten souls who end up here, in the place between existence and oblivion. I remain, somewhere and nowhere, watching closely as my story unfolds.
From the silence of the unclaimed,
I am,
Izhar
Kingdom of Cadavers
“Suicide is the only solution,” Izhar’s thoughts circled this grim conclusion. Life, with its relentless torment and unforgiving hardships, had finally drained him. Despair had seized his heart, leaving no room for hope, only an overwhelming desire to escape.
Even his wife, Nargis, had abandoned him, returning to her parents’ home. Poverty had shackled him, reducing him to a state where he depended on others even for a meal. How could he have fulfilled Nargis’s desires in such a condition? She couldn’t bear the weight of their poverty and, in her helplessness, walked away. Her departure shattered the last thread holding Izhar to life.
He had tried countless times to reason with himself, searching for an alternative to death, but his mind had run out of answers. On the day he left home to end his life, he found himself wrestling with uncertainty. “Where am I going?” The question echoed in his mind, and he realized that even his final decision was incomplete. “Every plan needs preparation,” he muttered, “and suicide is no different.” A bitter smile crept onto his lips. “This world is so cruel that even dying isn’t easy.”
As he made his way back home, he fought the wave of despair, guilt gnawing at him. But he reassured himself, “Who speaks the truth these days? Why should I be the only Harishchandra to honor a promise in this age of deceit?”
At home, famished and worn out, he took a few sips of water and collapsed onto his broken bed. Thoughts swirled in his head: Thoughts—the last refuge of the helpless. In a world where no one has time for your pain, all you have are your thoughts to cling to.
He was unemployed, and with each passing day, hope eroded. He told himself that things might improve, that this suffering was temporary. But hunger wasn’t something that words could appease. It demanded food, and he had none. All he could do was endure the cruel remarks from those around him, swallowing their taunts like bitter pills.
The neighbors would eye him with a mixture of pity and disdain. “How long will you keep wandering around empty-handed?” he asked himself this question too, but there was never an answer—only a heavy, suffocating silence.
When the night deepened and the world slept, Izhar lay awake, tormented by his own existence. “Am I living life, or is life living me?” The question stung him, for it confirmed his fears that he had fallen far behind in the race of life. The battle he fought was internal, one that no one else could see.
He had become invisible to the world, his struggles unnoticed. Bitterness had taken root in his heart, spreading like a poison. “Maybe there’s no place for me in this world,” he thought. “Maybe I was never meant to be part of it.”
In the midst of this darkness, Izhar encountered a spiritual elder, a Buzurg, and poured out his heart, tears flowing uncontrollably. The elder, moved by his plight, arranged a job for him at a medical college as the ‘Mortuary In-charge’—the caretaker of the dead.
Izhar, grateful for the chance, saw this job as a lifeline. His hunger would at least be satisfied. With his appointment letter in hand, he rushed to Nargis, eager to share the good news. She listened intently, curiosity sparking in her eyes.
“What kind of job is it?” she asked. “I’m the mortuary in-charge at a medical college,” he replied. “What does that mean?” she pressed. “Well… it’s like being a storekeeper, but for the dead,” he said, unsure of how else to describe it.
A glimmer of hope lit Nargis’s face. “A storekeeper, huh?” she mused. “There’s money in that! In our neighborhood, a boy working as a storekeeper in the construction department became wealthy, selling cement and iron rods on the side. He bought a big house, a car… Our fortunes will change too.”
Her imagination took flight, weaving fantasies of luxury—gold bangles on her wrists, pearls around her neck, and diamond earrings sparkling in her ears. In her mind, she ascended the stairs of a grand bungalow, with a luxury car waiting in the driveway. She soared above her drab reality, lost in her dreams.
But dreams, like fragile bubbles, burst upon contact with reality. After a few months of contentment, the glow in Nargis’s eyes began to fade. Izhar brought home only his salary, and with it, a meager existence. She longed for more—the life of luxury she had imagined.
Her frustration grew, eating away at her like termites devouring wood. The hunger of the stomach was satisfied, but the hunger of her dreams remained insatiable. Each night, when her bare wrists reminded her of the gold bangles she had dreamed of, she grew restless. The absence of luxury haunted her, keeping her awake.
Finally, her patience snapped. One evening, when Izhar handed over his salary as usual, Nargis exploded.
“What is this?” she snarled, waving the money in front of him. “These pieces of paper won’t fulfill my dreams! We need real money—millions, not this pittance!”
Izhar, collecting the scattered notes, asked in desperation, “What more do you want? We have food, clothes, a roof over our heads. I’m doing the best I can. What else can I do? Should I steal?”
“Yes! Steal! Rob!” she shouted. “I didn’t marry you to live like this. You’re a storekeeper, aren’t you? Others are getting rich from their stores. Why can’t you?”
Izhar stared at her, stunned. “I don’t deal in cement and iron rods, Nargis. I manage corpses. Do you want me to sell the dead?”
“Yes! Sell them if you have to!” she screamed, slamming the door behind her as she stormed out.
That night, Izhar’s mind was consumed by her words. Sell the corpses… Sell the corpses… The phrase echoed relentlessly in his head, pounding against his skull.
The next morning, he returned home with a large sack. He dropped it at Nargis’s feet.
“What’s in this?” she asked, suspicious.
“Open it and see,” he replied, his voice eerily calm.
With trembling hands, Nargis untied the sack. She gasped, recoiling in horror.
Inside was a severed human leg.
Izhar’s laugh rang out, cold and mocking. “Didn’t you say to sell the corpses? Well, here’s your chance. Take it to the market, see what you can get for it. Hands, feet, heads—whatever you want, I’ll bring them to you.”
Nargis fled in terror, never to return.
After that day, something snapped in Izhar. He began spending his nights locked in the mortuary, arranging the corpses as if they were his subjects. He would place them on chairs, men, women, children—all seated like an audience before him. Then, seated on a high table, he would gaze at them with a hatred born from years of humiliation and suffering.
In his madness, he saw the faces of those who had wronged him—the heartless officer who had mocked his hunger, the policeman who had forced him from his home, the bureaucrat who had denied him even a menial job. Each corpse became a stand-in for the tormentors of his past, and in a frenzy, he would beat them with his belt until exhaustion overtook him.
One night, standing before his silent audience, Izhar addressed them, his voice thick with rage and bitterness:
“Listen to me! I am the madman who is the wisest among you. I am the king of this kingdom of corpses! You are my subjects, my slaves. I rule over you, and none can defy me!”
His laughter echoed through the cold room as he declared his dominion over the dead, the last remnants of a shattered life.
“I am your king, the absolute ruler! Even if I flay your skin, no one can stop me!” (He laughs again)
“I am the dictator! You, lifeless beings, you who lie here in silence, you are my subjects! You must follow my commands!”
Izhar’s madness deepened, and in the dead silence of the mortuary, his words echoed against the cold, lifeless walls. The corpses before him seemed like an audience trapped in eternal stillness, helpless against his madness.
But there was no end to the torment brewing in his mind. His thoughts spiraled, twisted, and entwined like a snake coiling around its prey, squeezing tighter with each moment.
Each corpse represented someone from his painful past—the indifferent officer, the heartless landlord, the ruthless policeman, and now… even Nargis. In his distorted mind, she, too, became one of the lifeless bodies in the mortuary, a symbol of betrayal, of shattered dreams. Izhar was no longer just a mortuary worker; he was a ruler—a twisted, vengeful ruler in the “Kingdom of the Dead.”
He began addressing the corpses again, pacing in front of them as if he were a king walking amongst his subjects. “You all failed me!” he shouted, his voice breaking the eerie silence. “You—all of you—failed me when I needed you most. Now, you sit here, powerless, and I… I am your master!”
His eyes then locked onto the corpse in the center, a young woman whose face was still faintly preserved. In that moment, the image of Nargis overwhelmed him, and he felt his heart pound furiously. He imagined her standing before him, with the same cold eyes that had judged him for his failures, the same scornful voice demanding more than he could ever provide.
“Is this what you wanted, Nargis?” he yelled at the corpse. “Look at me! Look at what you’ve turned me into. A man with nothing! A man left to rot among the dead! You left me when I needed you most. I could have given you the world, but instead, you pushed me into this grave of loneliness.”
Suddenly, he grabbed the corpse’s arm, his grip tightening as if he were trying to get a response. “Speak!” he commanded, shaking the lifeless body violently. “Tell me now, is this what you wanted? Tell me, Nargis!”
But there was only silence.
In that moment, something snapped inside him. He began to laugh uncontrollably, a laugh that echoed through the cold walls of the mortuary. His madness had reached its peak, and the boundary between reality and his delusions shattered completely.
He released the corpse’s arm and fell to his knees, exhausted, his laughter slowly turning into sobs. The tears he had held back for so long now flowed freely, mingling with the madness that had consumed him. He sobbed like a child, lost in his own torment, his body shaking with the weight of all he had endured.
For hours, Izhar remained there, kneeling in the mortuary, surrounded by the dead, until exhaustion finally overtook him, and he collapsed onto the floor.
Days passed, and Izhar’s condition worsened. His colleagues at the medical college began to notice his erratic behavior. Whispers spread through the halls—rumors of the mortuary worker who had lost his mind, who spoke to the corpses as if they were alive, who called himself their king.
One day, after hearing the disturbing rumors, the college administration decided to investigate. When they arrived at the mortuary, they found the door locked from the inside. They knocked, but there was no response.
After several attempts, they forced the door open, and what they saw inside left them speechless.
The mortuary was in complete disarray. Corpses were seated on chairs, as if attending some macabre gathering. Izhar sat in the center, slumped over the table, muttering to himself. His eyes were hollow, his face gaunt, and his once neat appearance had turned ragged and wild. He was a shadow of the man he used to be.
They rushed to him, shaking him to bring him back to his senses, but Izhar was lost in his delusions. He continued to mumble incoherently, calling himself the king of the dead, repeating the words over and over: “This is my kingdom… the kingdom of cadavers…”
Realizing the severity of his condition, they called for medical help, and Izhar was taken away, admitted to a psychiatric ward. His mind had fractured under the weight of his despair and bitterness, and now he lived in a world of his own creation—a world where he ruled over the dead, where he was the king of cadavers.
Epilogue:
Izhar’s descent into madness continued until one day, without a trace, he vanished from the streets he once haunted. No one noticed his absence. His name, his presence, had long faded from the memories of the living. Days stretched into weeks, yet there was no sign of him. He was as forgotten in life as the corpses that filled the mortuary.
One evening, the silence in the mortuary was broken by the sound of heavy footsteps. A group of workers entered, dragging the lifeless body of a man found in an alley, covered in dirt and decay. His clothes were torn, his face barely recognizable. They dropped him onto the cold slab with the same indifference they showed to all the unclaimed dead.
As the workers prepared to tag the body, one of them hesitated. There was something oddly familiar about the man. Upon closer inspection, they realized who he was. It was Izhar—the same man who used to work among the corpses, the one who had once vented his anger on the silent bodies of the dead.
Now, he was just another cadaver, added to the very collection of unclaimed bodies he had once tormented. His stiff limbs lay motionless, surrounded by the same cadavers he had beaten in frustration. The irony was inescapable. In death, he had become no different from them—a lifeless, forgotten shell.
The workers barely spared him a second glance. To them, he was just another body to process, another nameless figure to join the others in the mass grave. They tagged him, wrapped him in plastic, and piled him with the rest of the corpses.
Izhar, who had spent his life raging against his misfortunes, who had lost everything and everyone, was now nothing more than another unclaimed dead. He had become a part of the Kingdom of Cadavers, his existence erased, his story ending in silence.
In the end, there were no tears, no prayers, no remembrance. Izhar had joined the very ranks he once despised. The mortuary doors closed behind him, and the world continued, indifferent to the man who had finally found his place among the dead.
Nazir Jahangir is a noted journalist