Autopsy rooms are the only truly democratic spaces.
Everyone arrives equal.
Godmen. God’s men, women, children.
Millionaires with mansions and islands.
Homeless beggars and pointless recluses.
Poets who think words matter; spoiler: they don’t.
Scholars whose faces haunt memory; ghosts in their own lifetime.
Merchants of honesty smiling through deceit.
All stripped. Naked. Vulnerable.
Even your fear of death looks pathetic here.
The scalpel doesn’t care.
The saw doesn’t care.
Rigor mortis waits for no one
and yet, everyone panics.
Your body is democracy’s ironic playground.
But the paper trails of your freshly exiled existence?
Democracy’s divorce lawyer, scribbling, smirking, judging
scribbling while the rats laugh.
Your organs wait for redistribution like banished scriptures.
But your grave?
Partitioned. Segregated. Assigned.
Hindu here. Muslim there. Christian somewhere else.
Even calcium obeys humans better than humans obey humans.
Even dust is a casteist.
Even worms have opinions.
Even eternity has deadlines.
Families arrive, blinking like startled shadows.
“Who touches which finger first?”
“Which cheek gets the lamp?”
“Does the foot need washing?”
Love smells like bureaucracy here.
Death?
Death laughs.
Death scribbles in margins.
Death rolls its eyes.
Death sighs.
Death drinks tea.
Death yawns.
Death checks a watch that doesn’t exist.
Autopsy rooms are democratic.
Until the stitches are done.
The corpse boxed.
The living arrive to reclaim their differences.
Because equality is terrifying.
Because humans can’t resist hierarchy
even if the dead is decomposing silently beneath their noses.
Even if decomposition is faster than morality.
Even if morality is a rumor.
Even if rumors bite like hungry dogs.
And somewhere, in the middle of this theatre,
the dead whisper
“Congratulations, you survived.
But society still refuses to evolve.
Enjoy your lifetime subscription to hypocrisy,
handed down, stamped in eternity,
from cradle to cremation.
Optional extras: regret, confusion, mild nausea.”
Yes. The only true democracy is where we all lie down,
silent, helpless, vulnerable.
And even then…
we’re still sorted, labeled, judged.
By the living.
By their religion.
By their greed.
By the eternal itch to divide.
By the cat that wandered in and peed on the paperwork.
By the ghosts of everything you ignored.
Because humans are allergic to fairness.
Even when it’s obvious.
Even when it’s free.
Even when the corpse in front of them screams, silently,
“Try harder, you monkeys.
Death is your only level playing field.”
And as the monkeys nod,
You wonder what does true evolution look like
Being the lesser monkey or the greater?
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