The Art of Killing Without Weapons
There is a line in Telugu that has been haunting me lately. It strikes a chord so deep that it feels less like a sentence and more like a scar being reopened: “Oka manishini maanasikanga entha champagalamo, antha champesi. Bayataki Prema chupisthe emi upayogam.” It asks a simple, terrifying question: "After mentally killing a person as much as possible, what is the use of showing love outwardly?" We are taught that violence is physical. We look for bruises, for broken bones, for the loud evidence of harm. But I have come to realize that the most fatal wounds are the ones that never bleed. I am talking about the "mental killing." It doesn’t happen overnight. It is a slow poison. It is the consistent invalidation of feelings. It is the silence when you need to be heard. It is the subtle art of making someone feel small, worthless, and crazy for demanding basic respect. When you do this to a person—when you drain their spirit until they are just a shell wal...