The 92nd death. [By Zara Wazir Ali] Death is not an alien thought to my over-obsessive brain. And what I have learned from life is that death brings out vulnerability, being a moment of utter honesty, it will make me unable to keep up any pretenses, so I preserve my obituary to be my final pretense. It should be a personal and hidden yet curious affair. Only one thought remains: I was born alone, I shall die alone, none shall mourn. Thus my death should be an utter secret: One that makes my beloved wonder about my whereabouts years after I am gone. And they ask themselves with worry and wonder about the whereabouts of the unrealistic girl who lived in a world

The 91st death. [Text by Ratna Golaknath; photograph by Meghna Jaswal, or probably her sister Mikta Jaswal] Ratna Golaknath finally stopped thinking and more importantly feeling. The mechanics of her body and brain finally switched off and she passed away peacefully this morning. We know she was not sorry about seeing the end. Years ago, she had written her obituary and her husband has unburied it for us: "Dear ones, I guess I am dead. Treat this as my farewell message. I wrote this when I was 35, for a rather interesting project I stumbled upon via Facebook. Once I go, I want only one legacy to survive about me-that I spread some kindness in your world. I try and will continue to try to

The 90th death. [By David Laurence Libert] David Laurence Libert died quietly and comfortably in his Wisconsin home late Thursday morning at the age of eighty five. He was surrounded by a number of friends and family. He had announced to his dearest that his departure was coming "before the next full moon" and true to his word Mr Libert left his physical body just days later. The Madison native will be remembered lovingly by many in the Driftless region of Wisconsin. He spent the last years of his life bicycling and hiking the many hills, forests and valleys and canoeing the many rivers near his simple one room log cabin he had built with his own hands. All

The 89th death. [Text by Pallavi Pundir; photo by DN] And just like that, Pallavi Pundir--a magnanimous friend, an unpredictable daughter and a malicious sister--has died. It wasn't like her to pen her own obituary, for introspection was the least of her virtues. Yet, as if forewarned, she scribbled some notes just a few days before her death for those around her to put together in no specific order. There isn’t much to learn about her. She desperately wanted to be 70 years old so that her cold apathy towards the world would be generally disregarded or tediously accepted. She dreamt of living in a secluded hilly village with no public transport just so she would utilise her rusty Ladybird. Then there was

The 88th death. [Text and photo by Gayatri Jayaraman] She objectified men, because there is more than one way to close the gender divide. When she laughed, she cried such that it was confusing to know, at any point, whether her tears of joy or sorrow. Often, they were both. She never had a zit, even once. But she had moved 50 houses and never called any one of them home. This is how life ought to be she thought, once, standing at the origin of the Bear Shola waterfall in Kodai, not noticing the white-hoofed bison behind her. Everything was ok but a lie and staying static. She liked waking up to windows that looked out on strange seas. She wrote

The 87th death. [Text and photo by Kanza Javed] If literature touches you, you are no longer afraid of contemplating the otherwise melancholic subjects, like your own death for instance, a theme explore and re-explored countless times in fiction that now it seems like a realm everyone has walked on. What I have learned from writers and poets is that death should not be a boring affair. It should be something magnificent, something mind-numbingly extraordinary and chaotic. Thus my obituary should state an animated demise; the eccentric girl who wrote on her rooftop during those long, solitary, wintry midnights passed away calmly, like Tennyson’s beloved Shalott or Shakespeare’s vulnerable Ophelia, floating down the water, her body, her mind consumed by the waves.

The 86th death. [Text by Vivek Tejuja; photo by Unknown] His relationships were a mess. He lived like that, always fleeting – a man this time, another the next time and then there was no stopping. At the end of it, there was always this hollow feeling – this undefined emptiness which fortunately books filled. Vivek Tejuja did not know how to define himself while he was alive. When men and women asked him what he wanted to be, he just replied with a beatific smile, “Nobody really. Maybe a chronicler of dreams and lost hopes.” Mr Tejuja was short-tempered, fleeting, quite a fuzzy head but he liked to believe he was loved. He was never too kind to himself. He hated

The 85th death. [Text by Shibani Bedi; photo by Sonam Sharma] Here lies Shibani Bedi, sprawled between her achievements and regrets. Her most common refrain was: “I feel like a life less lived, lost in the universe, trapped in non-conformist conformity.” Perhaps the most unoriginal quip in the universe of all quips. Running against time, with aspirations mostly dwelling on the impractical, Ms Bedi, in her last days, lost herself to her universe within, so much so that the distinction between the real and the unreal gave the word ‘blurry’ a complex, the inferior kind in her case. She was known for talking to herself while walking with her Classic Mild in abandoned old streets late in the night. Miss Bedi was a good

The 84th death. [Text by Sheema Mookherjee; photo by Jhampan Mookerjee] Sheema Mookherjee was found departed on a planter’s chair in her verandah at Kanha, Madhya Pradesh. The forest spirits had come and collected her soul. She had just finished a breakfast of kodo (millet) roti and green chutney made with garlic shoots from her garden. The harvested mohua flowers were lying drying in the sun around her sprawling verandah, emitting a heady sugary fragrance in the air. Ms Mookherjee has been living in her Kanha jungle home for the past few decades, ever since she gave up her publishing job in Delhi. She was known for her eccentric produce from her organic farm – ancient grains, bamboo shoots, mushrooms, mahua... Along with

The 83rd death. [Text by Janaki Hrishikesh; photo by Hrishikesh Narasimhan] Janaki Hrishikesh lay peacefully having had the death she desired. She had died in her sleep and what more could she ask for. She always feared a gory death--did not want to be massacred brutally or meet with any fatal motor accident. Her loved ones-husband, son and his family, and all the relatives and friends whom she cherished all her life gathered round her. Some showered encomiums on her--she had been a devoted housewife, tended to her family very well and loved to keep things prim and proper. Ms Hrishikesh’s family recalled the simple but delicious meals she cooked and all the responsibility of the household that she often shouldered unflinchingly. Not