Deep inside the trenches of a beautiful soul lies a dark, decaying belief built upon generational evils that are waiting to be revived. The right fuel will stoke that fire. It would only be a matter of time before our grandiose facade falls. Intricately woven by language, clothing, cuisine, creativity, and culture, that pseudo-veil is an ephemeral mask behind which we all collectively play hide-and-seek. The best-dressed gentleman in the room can insidiously enjoy watching the withering assets behind the tattered blouses of a street beggar. Even her puny child’s lifeless eyes would fail to invoke empathy.
An Instagram model mourns the sudden passing of her boyfriend, first alone and then with their friends, families, and social media followers. An adventurous act led to an untimely demise. As condolences gently boiled down to consideration, her need for attention shot up. One of the content creators has now become content. On the pretext of wistful remembrance, the grief-stricken girl snorts the empathy dope supplied by strangers on the internet. Each photograph of the deceased carried a memory along with a sentiment to cull likes and comments. Is this a coping mechanism, or is histrionic personality disorder at play? Did the need for attention wreck real love? Such is human nature. We are all constantly swaying between two ends of a spectrum sandwiched by selfishness and altruism. Life begins and ends there. In "The God of Small Things", Velutha and Ammu’s love meets a mortifying end. It also removes the repulsive trails left by Casteism, which was inherited as a culturally bound cognitive dissonance. The author invents her own language to beautifully prove that casteism stinks more than all our bodily wastes combined. A respected work of art.
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