There are eulogies. There are hymns. There are loud duas. There are pictures. There are ofrendas. A wife’s favourite bottle of perfume is placed in the coffin. Ashes are scattered in a river. A body is snugly cocooned in a white shroud.

But how do you mark a death — or a life — without bodies?

Hundreds queued up on Thursday to attend the funeral in absentia of the 24 who died in Wednesday’s bomb explosion at the Sabzi Mandi on the edge of Islamabad.

The mourners moved with the quiet translucence of ghosts, snaking down the main road to pass through a metal detector, be absentmindedly patted down by a police officer and enter the vast grounds sealed off for the funeral with a barbed wire fence.

Traders, shopkeepers, labourers and children quietly followed one another, step by step, heads bowed, wordlessly thumbing prayer beads.

A little girl carrying a little baby on her back stood motionless, seemingly uncertain about how to behave.

A politician and a human rights activist addressed the crowd, the only ones who spoke for a long time.

All around them, the disorder that characterises mornings at the Sabzi Mandi was gone. Streets usually choked with thousands of impetuous labourers and impatient motorbikes and trucks were deserted. Raucous sidewalk fruit and vegetable stalls were empty. Tiny TVs placed in shops displayed noiseless black screens instead of the faces of sobbing soap stars.

It was Thursday mourning in Pakistan and silence, it seemed, was its jarring new ritual.

Such funeral scenes have been repeated tens of thousands of times across this country. The war on terror has exacted a brutal toll. But for the people of this area, bomb blasts are often just the apogee of a life perpetually marked by fear and insecurity.

Residents of “illegal colonies” recently picked for eviction by the government, their fear — whispered, not always openly spoken — is that Wednesday’s blast may signal the death knell for the slums. They can almost hear the bulldozers coming.

“For the last few weeks, police have been coming in droves after the morning prayers and taking tens of people to the police station,” said Abdul Waheed, who has a fruit cart and lives in a katchi abadi across from the vegetable bazaar.

“They keep people there all day and then let them go if they pay a few thousand rupees. Now, it will only get worse.”

After Wednesday’s blast, police rounded up at least 50 residents of the slums, Waheed says. Others say 20, 40, 80 people were picked up for questioning.

“But they’ll be released in a few days once they pay money,” said Jabbar Khan, a rickshaw driver who left the site of the blast just minutes before the bomb went off.

“I’ve cheated death but tomorrow they can come and arrest me because my father is from Jalalabad.”

“I am both Afghanistani and Pakistani!” Khan exclaimed as the crowd broke into laughter. Finally.

Another labourer reassured him. There was nothing to worry about. Let’s be brave.

But no courage should have to brave such futile tragedy.

In the torrent of news and the breathless commentary since the explosion, about who to blame and what security equipment to buy, people’s loss has been overlooked — and the reality that their precarious lives may just have gone from bad to worse.

A man walks up to the crowd and says the cars have arrived to transport volunteers to the hospital so they can donate blood to friends and relatives injured in the blast. People begin to disperse.

A few feet away, police have marked off a ring of land with yellow tape. Inside is a scattered circle of crates of damaged fruit and a hole in the ground, the gaping leftovers of the explosion.

There are more leftovers. Someone has spread a piece of cloth right next to the circle of tape and gathered the waste of human lives. A plaid scarf probably bought from the Lunda Bazaar. A brown sandal embroidered with the word ‘Kadam’. Keys. A mobile phone SIM.

And a thumb.

At this little memorial, there is no bottle of perfume or favourite foods on display to remember those who have passed. The showpiece is a thumb.