The Great Indian Review of Books

Death is a profound thought process. You’re not breathing anymore — veins bursting like landmines. People cry for you, the ones who never cared. Yet there you lie, peace in your heart, a smile on your face, freed from the burden of this mortal, material world that worships gain but forgets to feel. We sell each other in the marriage system, a barter deal straight from an economics textbook. Life? Just a long-lasting inflation. You feel like an indentured laborer, carrying bricks on your back and your heart — yet smear on a fake laugh like makeup. Telling the world, “I’m alright,” while you’re chapped and hollow inside. A haunted mansion of flesh and bone, your tears echo in silence. You deliver monologues to indifferent walls, getting pierced by invisible bullets — but no blood, no death, just the quiet burial inside your chest. You live like a suicide bomber on pause, counting down to detonation — alienated, unloved, unseen. You drink molotov cocktails like Che Guevara, survive nucle...