Talking Dead Bodies

A military plane is flying. Late at night. Carrying 2 lieutenant colonels with 3 juniors. It crashes. Over a populated city. Over homes. Killing 13. Injuring many. Turning homes into ashes.

5 martyred.
13 dead.
12 wounded.

Media covers it. Everyone tells the names and ranks of the soldiers. No one mentions the names and jobs of the civilians. Bloody civilians!

Chief attends the funeral. Media covers it with pride. As if it’s a war. It is a war. For nationalism. Against nationalists.

‘Dushman ka mu torr dain gay!’
‘But there was no dushman up in the air.’
‘Traitor!’
‘Taak main betha tha…’

“Hey! You! Saki Nama! Bloody asshole, you didn’t speak last time, right?”

I don’t speak for those who are being spoken about by everyone sir.
I speak for mutilated dead bodies.
I speak for unidentified graves.
I speak for the farmers of Okara.
I speak for the poor against giant land mafias.
I speak for missing people.
I speak for minorities.
I speak for 444 encounters of Rao.

“You telling me you don’t give a fuck? You telling me that??”

I give selective fucks. Like you. I speak when I want to. And no, I don’t speak on every single dead body. It stinks.

“Bloody civilian!”

Bastard!

“Aye!”

5 martyred.
13 dead.
12 wounded.
220 million duffers!

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