“Long Live the Dead: The Cry That No One Heard”

Sadro lay on her bed, trembling and weak, her eyes red with tears.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, “where is that man who can take me to the doctor? He’s been wandering all day without worry that his wife lies sick in bed. At least bring me some water,” she called to her daughter.

Outside, the streets echoed with chants:

“Long live Akbar Khan! Long live Akbar Khan!”

Tori, her husband, was among them — riding proudly in the procession.

Sadro called out to him through her pain, but her voice was swallowed by the crowd. When her mother later called her father home, he returned only to scold.

Sadro’s eyes filled with tears. “My mother is dying,” she cried, “and you are saving the Khans!”

Tori shouted back, “Don’t talk nonsense. Khan will help us one day.”

But that day never came.

---

Sadro had been ill for months. Her hands ached, her body burned, and her sight faded. Still, Tori refused to buy medicine.

He was unemployed, but when election season came, his voice was louder than the Khan’s paid servants. In every street and market, he shouted the same words — “Long live Khan!”

Sadro was a strong woman once. She raised five children alone, milking her cow and selling what she could. But sickness had slowly drained her strength.

Neighbors advised Tori to take her to the city hospital, but she said bitterly, “If my husband cannot afford bread, how will he pay the doctor?”

That night, Tori returned home empty-handed and exhausted. The next morning, he went again to the Khan’s house, where people were gathered in celebration. The air was thick with music, laughter, and the scent of expensive perfume.

When Tori finally reached Akbar Khan, he begged, “Sir, my wife is sick. Please help me with her treatment.”

The Khan, busy with his followers, said kindly, “Here, take these two hundred rupees. Pray for me so I win the election.”

Tori’s heart swelled with gratitude. He pocketed the money and promised, “Khan, your victory is ours.”

---

Sadro’s brother, upon hearing of her worsening condition, rushed her to the hospital himself. That evening, the doctor delivered the news — the disease had spread to her bones.

When Tori returned home that night, Sadro looked at him with hollow eyes. “Tori,” she whispered, “you have shouted Khan’s name so much that your own wife’s name was forgotten. The rich drink wine in their victory; the poor die waiting for mercy.”

Days passed. The village was filled again with drums and chants — Akbar Khan had won.

But in Tori’s home, there was silence. The children sat huddled in fear as their mother’s breath grew slower.

Tori ran through the night, searching for a car, a doctor, anyone — but the streets were empty.

He even went to the Khan’s mansion, where laughter and music echoed into the early morning. The Khan was drunk on celebration, unreachable.

When the ambulance finally arrived, it was too late.

---

Neighbors gathered in the dark street.

The widow stepped out crying, “Tori is destroyed! Sadro is gone!”

Tori stood frozen, unable to speak.

As the stretcher passed, he whispered the same words that once echoed through the streets —

“Long live Akbar Khan.”

But now, they sounded like a curse.

I wrote this story as a reflection of how blind loyalty and poverty often silence the cries of the suffering. While the powerful celebrate their victories, ordinary people lose everything in silence. May this story remind us to value compassion over politics — and people over power.