The room was small, lit only by a flickering lantern hanging from a rusty nail. The shadows on the wall moved like restless ghosts. A man sat tied to a chair, ropes digging into his wrists, his face pale with panic.
Across from him, another man sat cross-legged on the floor. His palms struck together in slow rhythm.
Tak… tak… tak.
And then, he began to sing.
His voice was deep, trembling with centuries of grief.
Qawwali:
"Jo mitti mein so gaye, unki sadaa sun le,
Jinke sapne adhoore rahe, unka gham chun le,
Jo aansuon se likhte the, kahani har raat,
Unhi ke geet hai ye, unhi ka hai yeh saath…"
The man in the chair shuddered, straining against the ropes.
Man (in English): "What the hell are you doing? Why have you tied me up? Untie me right now!"
The qawwal ignored him, swaying gently, his hands clapping faster, the song burning in his throat.
Qawwali (continuing):
"Dil ki kabron mein chupaye, woh jo dard ke khazane,
Jo cheekh bhi na paaye, woh naam hai be-nishaan…"
Man (in English): "Stop this nonsense! Do you even hear me? I don't even know you! Why are you doing this?"
The singer's eyes opened — dark, distant, unreadable. He spoke for the first time between verses, his voice calm, almost tender.
Singer: "You don't know me… but they knew you. Their voices reach me, night after night. I only sing what they whisper."
The clapping started again, louder, sharper, like a drumbeat echoing off the stone walls.
Qawwali:
"Jo laut kar na aaye, unka hisaab mangta hai waqt,
Har zulm ke peeche, koi awaaz rehti hai sakt,
Tum samajhte ho khamoshi, main sunta hoon pukaar,
Jo khoon girta hai zameen pe, ban jaata hai izhaar."
The man in the chair thrashed wildly now, his voice breaking.
Man (in English): "You're insane! Who the hell are you? Let me out! Somebody help!"
But no help came. Only the qawwal's voice, rising, almost ecstatic now — neither joy nor sorrow, but something more dangerous.
Then silence.
The clapping stopped.
The lantern flickered once, then steadied.
The man tied to the chair panted, sweat dripping from his forehead. His question lingered in the air, unanswered.
The qawwal leaned forward, his face disappearing into shadow. He whispered, barely audible:
"Listen carefully… the dead never stop singing."
Lantern flickers.
Silence stretches.
Chair falling sound.
And then, nothing.
Only darkness, and the echo of a song that no living ear was meant to hear.