A year has passed since the Air India disaster, yet the spectacle of grief continues. The latest twist: an unknown man found nestled in a mother's coffin, a macabre jester in the theatre of mourning. This is not mere tragedy; it is the decadence of a society that has lost its sense of the sacred.
We have become a civilisation of voyeurs, feeding on the misery of others as Rome once fed on gladiatorial blood. The families tormented by this grotesque discovery are not just victims of a crash, but of a culture that has forgotten how to honour its dead. We prod and poke at the remains of the departed, turning their final rest into a circus.
This is the mark of an age in decline, where even death is not allowed its dignity. The Victorians, for all their stiffness, understood the solemnity of the grave. They would be appalled at such a violation.
We, however, simply refresh the news feed. The man in the coffin is a symbol of our times: a nameless intruder in a story that should have been closed. But closure, like decency, is a luxury we no longer afford.
We prefer the endless loop of haunting, the unresolved chord. Until we relearn the art of mourning, the crash will never be over. It will echo in the hollow halls of our collective memory, a testament to our spiritual bankruptcy.
