The Corpse Is Alive, The Rest Lie Dead

‘How can we return home without the body?’ 

‘Please, someone, bring it down; we beg you. Oh Allah, how come your justice is like this!’ 

Two mothers weep, beating their chests in despair. The corpse has been hanging from the fourteenth floor of the under-construction Haji Rahmat Tower for three days now. Initially, the family had several demands; now, they have only one: they just want the body. They are willing to cover all burial expenses and any costs associated with retrieving the body. The grieving family comprises only the deceased’s elderly mother, an even older mother-in-law, a young widow and an infant daughter. Here lie the remnants of the corpse’s fourteen generations – an entire lineage reduced to a single man, and even he dangles lifeless now. 

Men have never endured in this family. It’s like Riders to the Sea. For those who haven’t read the play, let me explain: in it, a family is left with an old mother and her two daughters after the sea claims nine men, one by one. After so many losses, the mother falls silent. In the end, she consoles herself by saying she no longer has anyone left to pray for – finally, she can find peace because there’s no one else to lose. It’s a devastating tale, stark and unrelenting. There’s no trace of romance or suspense to lighten it. 

But my story – my story has a touch more variety. In Riders to the Sea, the sea stands as the sole villain, relentless and consuming. Here, however, we have a host of villains to contend with. At times, the characters themselves emerge as their own adversaries, while fate looms over us all, an omnipresent scapegoat for those who believe in its tyranny.  

Let us return to the story. The corpse’s father was a labourer who dug soil for a living. One day, weakened by hunger, he kept digging until suddenly he stopped, stood upright, and said, ‘My body feels hollow from hunger.’ He clutched his stomach and collapsed. A few moments later, it was all over. When his body turned blue, some speculated he had been bitten by a snake. But no snake was ever found. Still, if you wish to cast a villain, you might think of the snake. Yet, if hunger is to blame, then we must ask: who is responsible for the hunger? And in digging for that answer, there’s always the chance of uncovering a snake. In the end, it seems the blame circles back to the snake – don’t you agree? 

The brother of the corpse once dreamed of becoming a hero in Bengali cinema – a poor man’s grand delusion, no less. Someone, at some point, let slip a careless remark: ‘The boy looks like one of those Bombay heroes – like Akshay Kumar!’ Broad shoulders, chiselled face, the whole package! That planted a seed of hope, or perhaps folly, in his heart. Another friend added fuel to the fire, recounting how Akshay Kumar had risen to stardom after scrubbing dishes at a hotel. Inspired – or misled – he spent a few days smashing plates at home before vanishing from the village entirely. He never returned. His poor mother clung to the faintest hope, sitting before the television, watching film after film, trying to spot her son among the stars. Even now, she scrutinizes film posters on the streets. If a face bears even a fleeting resemblance, she gathers a crowd and asks for the name, hoping against hope. But who can be blamed for his disappearance? No one, it seems, bears that burden. Some rumours claim he fell victim to the Aggyan Party, a gang of cons who left him unconscious and penniless. Others whisper he was caught in a tragic mistake – a botched operation, a misfire by the RAB. But whispers and rumours are all they remain, and no truth has ever come to light. 

The father-in-law of the body had vanished – not to the afterlife, but across the border to India, holding another woman’s hand. He never returned. Whenever someone fell to BSF bullets at the border, the family would anxiously perk up their ears for news. Once, a body’s description matched him perfectly, but another family’s claim proved stronger and they had to let it go. 

As for the dada or the paternal grandfather of the deceased, everything known about him was hearsay. He went to Saudi Arabia and was supposed to return after a year or so but never did. The endless rumours had it that he fell in love with a Filipino woman and got caught – what followed was inevitable under Saudi law. The last update, however, was nearly twenty-five years ago: a local boy claimed to have seen him in Jeddah, working at a fruit stall, hunched with age. But when the boy approached, the man didn’t recognize him. He understood Bangla but replied in Arabic. When asked about him, his coworkers said they knew nothing. The old man, they said, would appear suddenly, work for a few days and then vanish again. 

The corpse’s wife had once carried a son in her womb, but malnourishment stole the baby away before he could bloom. All that remained between the two families now was the lifeless body. But he hadn’t always been a corpse. He had been a living, breathing man – strong and full of vigour. In Dhaka, he worked alongside construction workers, helping raise nearly fifty towering buildings that now define the city’s skyline. No one knew of his contributions to those gleaming structures, except his young wife. She knew because each building he helped construct came home with him, not as bricks or steel but as stories—layered, vivid tales he wove into their evenings. Those stories became the foundation of their life together, their humble home thriving on his words as much as his labour. 

Half the slum had been levelled to make way for the building that rose there not long ago. The corpse had worked on that construction too, lending a hand to demolish his own home so that another could be built. Back then, his daughter had just begun to speak, her tiny voice starting to take shape. Sitting on anyone’s lap in the neighbourhood – old or young – she would manage to convey in her baby words and gestures, ‘That’s my house. My father’s building it!’ When the building was finished, the corpse moved on to another. The child, growing older, began to understand something strange: they had countless homes in the city but her father could never stay in one. After all, who would build the rest if he stopped? The hunger of her father’s home was endless – it craved many houses, more than anyone else could dream of. No one in this city had so many homes as they did. The corpse understood this hunger and so did the girl. That was their bond – simple, raw and tragically profound. 

The day the corpse was born, Bangladesh turned five months old. While the body was still in the womb, his father was away at war. The sight of his mother’s swelling belly sparked whispers and speculation among the villagers. She endured it all silently, wiping her tears with the edge of her sari. When his father returned from the battlefield, he silenced every voice with a single act. Standing tall, rifle in hand, he declared, ‘This is my child, my blood. No one has the right to speak another word.’ From that moment, the gossip ceased, as if frozen by fear or shame. And yet, when the news of the body’s birth spread to the village, a few elderly women huddled together, murmuring softly, as if trying to voice something unsaid. Even then, their words remained elusive, their intent obscured. For now, their greatest concern is something more practical: will the boy’s body find a place in the soil of the village? 

The girl barely allows her aching neck to rest before straining it again, her gaze fixed on her father. The corpse’s mother clutches at anyone within reach, pleading, ‘Sir, please, make some arrangements. My boy is wasting away. In the name of Allah, just help us to let him have a handful of earth, let him rest.’ 

‘Please, sir, I beg you…’ The corpse’s mother-in-law echoes the same desperate plea to whomever she can find. 

Meanwhile, the young widow sits silently by the section of the tower where the workers descend. She waits, as though someone might still return to her, descending that very path at any moment. It seems as if she has no connection to this lifeless world, her stillness a refusal to accept its claim. 

Since the incident, the owner’s people have stopped coming around. The workers, too, have temporarily abandoned the site, their tasks left unfinished. The body, still dangling like a bat from the bamboo scaffolding, has remained untouched – ‘police complications,’ they have said. Every day, onlookers have gathered and dispersed, replaced only by the same women of different ages, silent and steady witnesses to the grotesque sight. 

Earlier, the police arrived and conducted their so-called investigation – asking this and that. Questions poured in: the relationship of the gathered women to the deceased, their ties to the region, how long the man had been working here, who else belonged to his family, what his real name was, whether they suspected anyone, and if he had been embroiled in any disputes with his peers. Necessary questions, they called them. 

The other workers had already testified: he had slipped while working on the tenth floor, plunging down to become impaled on the eighth-floor bamboo. Hearing this, the officer, his mouth busy with betel leaf, nodded with a sage-like air, murmuring, ‘I see,’ as though that single phrase answered everything. He said no more before leaving, driving off in his car back to the police station. Whatever discussions the police had with the owners had been concluded on-site; no one from the government returned afterward. 

On the first day, the deceased’s mother-in-law had gone to the station. That was the extent of it. ‘We used to scrape by somehow on his earnings. Just a little girl, she is. How are we supposed to survive here now? We’ve got no money in hand to even think of going back to the village.’ 

Hearing this, the police had said, ‘Alright, I’ll speak to Haji Rahman. We’ll make him arrange some money for you. You go, stay around. We’ll see what can be done.’ 

Three days had passed since then, and there was no word from them. This morning, the corpse’s mother goes back to the station. Now, she has just one plea: ‘Sir, just arrange for the body to be brought down. Let us take him home to our village. We won’t trouble you anymore – you’ve got plenty of work to do. Just give the order to bring him down, that’s all we ask for.’

The police officer tries to explain, ‘The body’s so high up – it’s not something we can just bring down on a whim. There’s a lot to arrange. Besides, we’ve got other responsibilities, too. And today’s weather – it’s not exactly ideal. Go now. Maybe with a bit of wind, it’ll fall on its own.’ 

The afternoon gives way to night, and the air turns still. The police haven’t lied – there have been faint clouds in the sky. A sudden gust may have risen but it hasn’t. It isn’t the storm’s fault; in winter, such fleeting clouds rarely summon it at will. There is order in everything, and it doesn’t bend to human convenience. Still, it is just as well – if it wasn’t winter, the stench of the corpse would make it unbearable to linger here. The blood has darkened into clotted blackness. From one bamboo post to another, it has trickled down, pooling into the earth below. The mother of the corpse is sitting there, guarding that spot, babbling in a delirium of grief: ‘My vibrant boy! My innocent boy! What fate is this, O God? What sin brought this punishment? Why, O Allah, did you take such a fresh, young life and leave behind a half-dead woman like me?’ 

Weeping endlessly and starving, the people below are little more than corpses themselves. Who could guess, in just a few days, that the young girl – barely out of childhood – now looks not twenty but forty? Whenever her little sibling gets some trinket or treat from the street, she carefully divides it among her ma, dadi and nani (mother’s mother) before taking a bite herself. Her nani strokes her head, tears streaming and whispers, ‘Your father won’t be back, you cursed child. Why didn’t you just die in the womb? Why couldn’t death have taken me before I lived to see this? If I’d gone, maybe you wretches would’ve been spared.’ 

‘Does anyone truly live when another dies, Nani?’ the little girl retorts with the wisdom of an old soul trapped in a child’s frame. 

‘They do, child, they do. The poor only find peace when death takes them.’ Nani’s voice breaks, merging with her sobs. 

It’s been four days. The arrangements were supposed to take place this afternoon. Meanwhile, at the airport, the body of a prominent industrialist and former minister has arrived from abroad. Despite the efforts of doctors from both home and abroad, his life could not be saved. Their bodies will be taken along this very road. The route is under tight security. Over the next two days, funeral prayers will be held in various locations and only after the nation has paid its respects will he be laid to rest. The capital’s police and administration are consumed with countless responsibilities surrounding the event. 

Somewhere along the ascent to the upper floors, the widow of the deceased has rested her head and fallen into a deep, unintended sleep. The child’s neck is now stiff and aching from looking up. Two elderly women, hunched together like stray dogs seeking warmth, shiver as the cold wave persists, expected to linger for several more days. They long only to return home – or perhaps nowhere at all. Thoughts of the corpse no longer trouble them. 

I could have ended the story right here. In fact, I intended to. But then a young man intervened. His name is Md. Abdul Goni, a name that feels oddly antiquated for someone his age. In this country, there are barely any people who haven’t heard the name of Abdul Goni nowadays. Abdul Goni is the son of a former rickshaw-puller, Mir Akkas Ali, who now drives an auto-rickshaw. They live in Mirpur. If needed, I could even provide their house number but I don’t see the point. Goni is currently studying political science at Mirpur Bangla College. Academically, he is neither particularly good nor remarkably bad. ‘No teacher has ever described him as average, though. But he’s a devout soul,’ his secondary school teacher of religious studies once remarked over Skype on a television talk show. 

You must be wondering: how does Abdul Goni fit into a story about a corpse? He does because, in this part of the tale, he is the protagonist. That day, Abdul Goni was returning from the Mirpur Zoo, in high spirits after a date. The girl’s name? Let’s leave that alone. Some privacy should be respected. Goni had taken an auto-rickshaw on the way there but decided to return by Leguna, a longer version of an auto-rickshaw. First, though, he felt the need to lighten himself. That was when he walked up to the hanging corpse and stood beneath it. In the midst of relieving himself, he glanced upward absentmindedly. Something dangled there! A few crows perched on it, cawing raucously. A foul stench had been wafting to his nose for a while now. Without overthinking, he zipped up, pulled out the Symphony smartphone he had recently bought from a pickpocket, and snapped a few pictures. He even managed a selfie, capturing his face with the dangling object in the frame. The photo wasn’t that great, but it would do. 

The idea struck him in the cramped chaos of the Leguna ride. Taking out his phone again, he opened Facebook and uploaded the image with a dramatic caption, written in Bangla in Roman script: Hairey shohor! Ekta lash jhule ache, othocho karo kono mathabetha nai, bechara! (Oh, this city! A body hangs here, yet no one cares. Poor soul!)  Moments later, inspiration struck again. He edited the post and re-uploaded it, this time with an even more poignant caption: Amra boli shobvota toiri hoy mojurer ghamey, ekhon dekchi mojurer lashey! (We say this so-called civilization is built on the sweat of labourers, and now we see it resting on their corpses!)  

The post spread like wildfire, shared by nearly everyone on Abdul Goni’s friend list, and then beyond. Online news portals, springing up like mushrooms after rain, picked it up. Some directly reused his photo and caption. By three in the afternoon, the image had started to snowball. By seven that evening, the spot beneath, above, and around the body was crowded with cameras. Live telecasts began on TV channels. Journalists, eager to sweeten their reports with drama, descended on the scene. The incident went viral in seconds, spilling beyond national borders. Even the international media’s regional sections picked up the story – not about the body itself, but about the frenzy it had stirred across the country. One outlet captioned their image: ‘A hanging body; the entire country after it.’ Another went for a sly double entendre: ‘Bangladesh is hanging with a body.’ 

The mother, wife, and mother-in-law of the deceased were returning home. They were at the Goalanda ferry-ghat when they heard the news on a television in a small tea stall. For a moment, they were paralyzed with uncertainty – should they continue onward or turn back? Neither direction was an option, as their pockets were nearly empty. Within moments, the all-seeing eyes of the journalists found them. The nation watched live from the ferry terminal as their thin, withered faces filled the screen. They spoke hesitantly, as though burdened by guilt for some unknown crimes. 

Meanwhile, on television talk shows, Abdul Goni had become the unlikely hero of the moment. Channels began hailing him as the saviour of the incident. Goni claimed that when efforts to bring down the body began, he started receiving threats from an unnamed quarter. In response, the police had assured him that they would arrange for his security. 

The body’s mother, wife, daughter and mother-in-law have been brought back to Dhaka. At 2 a.m., in the presence of police and RAB officials, Fire Service personnel recover the body. Since the afternoon, TV channels and Facebook live streams have been running non-stop. Some media outlets have stationed themselves at the gate of the building owner’s residence. Eventually, the government arranges for the burial of the body. The whole thing was telecast live for the people of the country. 

The following day, fragments of leftist student groups, human rights organizations, and a section of labour unions take to the streets to voice the family’s demands. Intellectuals have dissected the incident on talk shows, analyzing it down to the last detail, linking it to similar past events and weaving historical narratives. Television channels have invited the women of the deceased’s family to their studios. With powdered faces, they weep in front of the cameras. Whether their grief is genuine or forced is unclear. Once, their cries were unheard; now, the entire nation is listening. But to ensure their sorrow appears authentic, precautions have been taken. Scripts have been memorized and rehearsed before the cameras start rolling. Each channel has followed its own script, driven by its own agenda. The family, unaware of the broader motives, settles for the cash handed to them. The government even announces the gift of two goats as compensation. 

Since the building belongs to a leader of the ruling party, the opposition party begins strategizing. They have convened multiple meetings to decide whether this could become a springboard for an anti-government movement. In official statements, they have declared this administration ‘a government of murderers, unfit to serve the people.’ The opposition has accused the ruling party of orchestrating the calculated killings of labourers and warned that the regime’s downfall is inevitable. If the government refuses to step down voluntarily, they threaten an indefinite wave of strikes. Meanwhile, the ruling party claims that the opposition is behind this brutal and inhuman murder. They allege that, in an attempt to halt the country’s progress and development, the opposition orchestrated the killing by bribing workers. The people, they declare, will never again tolerate such a ruthless, power-hungry political group in office. A committee has been formed to investigate the matter, and they vow that the culprits will soon be unmasked. 

Let us now return to Abdul Goni. He is both elated and uneasy. In his hands is an iPhone 16 Pro Max, and he has gifted the same model to his lover. He has figured out how to make money from Facebook. All it takes is one or two viral videos. Then there’s no need to study and toil like a fool in pursuit of a job. He spends his days roaming around in CNG auto-rickshaws and whenever he spots a building under construction, he pulls out his phone and starts looking for something to film. But caution is his constant companion; anonymous threats reach him every so often. These days, he introduces himself as an online activist and content creator, a title that seems to have been subtly stitched to his name by unknown hands. These days, he also has to make the occasional comment on various protest movements. 

I want to end this tale by recounting the final state of the victim’s family. They are now back in their ancestral home, stripped of everything, teetering on the brink of destitution. Whatever little wealth they had was stolen when assailants stormed into their house. At gunpoint, the victim’s wife was subjected to brutal violence – gang rape. The remaining three women were deemed unworthy of the same violence, leaving the assailants bitterly disappointed as they departed the scene. None of these horrors, however, have made their way into public knowledge. The so-called assailants, wielding an unseen power, have erased the rest of the family’s story from existence.