By Boran Mureed Baloch (A detainee held in a prison in Balochistan)
There was a body in the field—a dead body, soaked in blood. The blood was still flowing; it was fresh. A young man, about twenty-six, dressed in white cotton clothes, now drenched and stained with crimson. Dried blood had clotted on the side of his head. When Phullain saw the body, he noticed it was riddled with bullets. One had pierced the head, and others the chest. The man’s face was unrecognizable beneath the blood.
Phullain was shocked. He had never seen a dead body before in his life.
Panicked, he ran to the roadside and tried to stop passing vehicles. He thought someone might help bring the body to a hospital, or at least identify it. But no one stopped. Cars, buses, trucks—all sped past, ignoring his desperate signals.
“What’s wrong with people?” he muttered. “Why won’t they stop? Don’t they feel any humanity? At least I’m trying… shouldn’t they?”
Tears burned in his eyes. He thought he was crying, but when he touched his face, his skin was dry. “Why do I feel like this?” he whispered. Again, he tried to wave down cars, shouting and pleading, but no one responded. Fear gripped him, and his body burned as though with fever. Still, no one stopped.
Then, suddenly, he saw a woman approaching the body, holding a child. A faint hope stirred in him. As she came closer, she sent the child away and silently stood before the body. She did not cry. She only looked at it.
Phullain rushed toward her. “I was the first to see him,” he explained hurriedly. “The blood was still flowing then. I went to the roadside to stop someone, to find his family, to identify him—”
But the woman remained quiet, giving him no reply. She simply sat beside the corpse, staring. Soon, the child returned, this time with a crowd of people—men, women, and children—carrying a coffin. They gathered in a circle around the body, watching silently.
Among them, Phullain recognized his father and one of his brothers. Confused, he ran to his father. “I saw him first,” Phullain said, breathless. “The bullets… the blood… I didn’t touch him.”
His father did not answer. Instead, he knelt, touched the body, and gently wiped the blood from the young man’s face. Then, in a broken voice, he whispered, “Yes… it is him.”
The people of the colony helped his father and brother lift the body into the coffin. Phullain stared in disbelief. Turning to a familiar neighbor, he asked, “Uncle… whose body is this?”
The old man gave no reply. Silent. Avoiding his eyes.
Phullain’s voice grew heavier. “Uncle, I asked you—whose body is this?” But again, there was only emptiness. The crowd carried the coffin toward the colony, and eventually, to Phullain’s own home.
Phullain followed, tense and bewildered. Why are they bringing the body to our house?
The coffin was set down at the entrance. People began gathering. Still, no one answered his questions. He overheard two neighbors speaking quietly:
“Who killed him?” one asked.
“Still unknown,” the other replied. “Nobody knows what happened. Could it be a tribal quarrel?”
“No,” the first man said. “They’re a quiet family. No quarrels.”
“What kind of boy was he?”
“Normal. A simple man. He cared for his work, his family, nothing more. From job to home, from home to job.”
“Then who killed him? And why?”
“Not robbery. His phone, money, and belongings were still with him.”
The men fell silent. The question lingered, heavy and unanswered:
Then who killed him? And why?Phullain was watching and listening to them. He moved closer to the men, hoping they would ask him about the body, so he could say, I saw him… it’s true, his belongings were there. But the two men didn’t even notice him. Once again, he was ignored.
The body was being washed in a separate area, hidden behind curtains. Inside, Phullain’s father was giving the body its final bath.
Phullain went near two boys, neighbors of his, though he had never been close to them. He stood beside them as one asked, “Was he a rebel?”
The other boy shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. Rebels aren’t killed like this. When they die, their blood fills the air with the fragrance of tulips. People know, people feel their martyrdom. This man was quiet, a family man. Neutral. Far from such things.”
“Then a supporter, maybe? Could the state have killed him and thrown away his body?”
“I don’t think so,” the other replied. “He seemed more like a coward—someone who didn’t care about the world or its people. Always chasing money, just a workman. No, not a supporter either.”
“Could he be a traitor? To his nation, to his homeland? Maybe he worked with the intelligence of the occupying state… and then the rebels killed him?”
Again, the boy answered, “No. He was neutral. He kept to himself. Work, home, work again. A man just racing through life, like the rest of us.”
“Then who killed him? And why?”
“Still unknown. No one knows.”
Phullain stood silently beside them before asking, “Who died? Do you know him? You’re talking about the man who died—please, tell me, who is he? I was the first to see him dead!”
But there was no answer. Nobody responded. Nobody even looked at him. He was invisible for all.
Sadly, quietly, desperately, Phullain walked back into the house. His mother was weeping uncontrollably, his sisters sobbing beside her. He went to her and asked, “Who died? Why are you all crying so much? Why is the body in our home?”
His mother cried out, “Ahh, my Phullain! Ahh, my Phullain!” She repeated his name in anguish.
Phullain froze. “Amma, why are you saying my name? I am here…” He moved closer, confused. She did not answer. He tried to take her hand, but when he reached out, his hand passed through hers. Shocked, he tried again with both hands, but still—he couldn’t touch her.
Terrified, he rushed outside like a madman. The body, now washed, lay in a white coffin. The funeral had begun. People passed by, viewing it for the last time. Phullain forced his way through the crowd until he saw the face clearly. It was his own. His body.
He didn’t even know who had killed him, or how. He couldn’t understand how his soul had left his body—how it could feel, see, and yet not touch. Desperately, he tried to wake himself, to climb back inside, but nothing worked. His soul lay helpless over his lifeless body.
One by one, people came for the final look.
Phullain realized he was dead. But he still didn’t know why.
No one seemed deeply shaken. Everything carried on as if normal. Only his mother and sisters cried bitterly. His father sat in silence, grief in his eyes but no tears. His brother was busy digging the grave.
The body was lifted and carried toward the graveyard. Phullain’s soul drifted along with it. On the way, his cousin whispered to another man, “He wanted to go to Germany, to find a better job. He was serious about supporting his family. He promised himself he would earn for them.”
The man replied, “But his family wasn’t starving. His father was a laborer. Yes, they were poor, but they had a house, and enough food to eat three times a day.”
His cousin sighed. “That’s another story. The real question is—who killed him, and why?” He spoke with bitter amusement. Then he fell silent.
Phullain’s soul walked beside them, his head bowed, following his own coffin to the graveyard. Soon, the body would be buried, and his soul would be taken by angels above the sky.
After a long silence, the man said to Phullain’s cousin, “It doesn’t matter who killed him. He was already dead before his death… and now he is dead after his death.”
Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of The Balochistan Post or any of its editors.