The 254th death. [Text and photos by Nargis Hussair] Nargis Hussair, 27, died on a hot summer evening. They discovered her in the green pond near her mother's house in Kerala where she spent most of her childhood. Earlier that fateful day when a hummingbird died near her window, she walked to the pond, entered the water and started to float, looking up at the blue sky. Suddenly, the sky turned into a kaleidoscope, the clouds formed silly shapes and it made her laugh. She thought about her best friend's apartment balcony, her mother's comb, her dad's mustache and the last lines of a Neruda poem. She eventually forgot to breathe and just like in one of the magical realism novels she loved to

The 253rd death. [Text by Abhishek Basu; photo by Joyona Medhi] He would spend his nights traveling. That's how he'd reduce expenses. It was bound to happen, said the late photographer's neighbour who wishes to remain anonymous. All of Jamshedpur's lines were down since the previous night. It is speculated that Abhishek Basu might've taken down some wires with him when he fell from the abandoned terrace near satellite tower. Ignoring the muted cussings and the paparazzi driven fussings the following morning, Giridhar, the Bihari paanwala had moist eyes at the loss of his one and only chess playmate. When in mood, bhaiya would sometimes get noodles. He ensured that I learn how to use those bideshi chopsticks together with him! At 29, Mr

The 252nd death. [Text and photo sent by Anubhi Chandola] In a distant and cold Himalayan town, Anubhi Chandola breathed her last, cuddled in her favorite green blanket with eyes staring nonchalantly at the wooden ceiling above. On the table her coffee mug lay cold, tinted by the brown of her lips. Her room smelled of whiskey and sex when they found her. Her lifelong love for cinema was evident from the film stills that hung over the fireplace, looking down at her like lovers who long for the return of their beloveds. The cold winds that blew from the west indicated that perhaps her spirit scuttled back to look at the 27- year- old weak and frail body it once called home. She

The 251st death. [Text and photos sent by Sharda Mutha] There she was, in a small bright house that stood around the corner of a hill, visible like the fake-diamond piercing through her hair. It was a clouded afternoon, and the sky was thicker than her last breaths. It seemed as though the 60-year-old woman had consumed too many memories to stay sane. Her scripture-like wrinkles evidently spoke about how small intricate things mattered to her. Small unimportant things like a dog's eyes shining in the sun, beautiful thoughts knocking her mind at midnight, the smell of tea-leaves mingling with the hot water, his eyes on her while she pretended to not notice, the monsoon wind that talks to the half-loved lovers,

The 250th death. [Text and photos sent by Neeraja Anupama] Neeraja Anupama, 27, passed away this evening like the death of a laughter. Dying down in the voices of others. Slowly like a fading sunset but beautiful. Painless, beside her beloved, leaning over his shoulder, listening to stories, smiling. Mirages of life weakened her veins, diminishing the gleam in her eyes. One wonders whether she had ever seen her own light as a star glittering in universe. She always hid behind shadows with her humble gestures. But the love she had for everything was tremendous. Invisible threads of affection were tied to every place, people and things she came across in her life. Her poems spoke more than she did.

The 249th death. [Text and photos sent by Sudeshna Mukherjee] Self Obituary She always said "obituaries are tricky" "They trick you Into writings mushy." Between the mush And the fact a vast chasm creates a slush stripped of all tact Finally! Finally she kicked the bucket A lusty kick unplugged the socket A rebel with many a cause Fought tooth and nail without pause. Eager she was and inquisitive too On what lay beyond the pearly boo On a hunt to question the big D Why? Why? To the one and only? She lived through her struggles hard Dealt with gusto life's unfair cards Making the acquaintance of the big D Quite early in life you see. Blunt and honest to the point of being

The 248th death. [Text and photos sent by Karan Makkar] The hour of departure arrived and Karan Makkar left us all. He would have turned 25 in January, 2020. Though born a Hindu, he revered all the religions equally and followed none particularly. He had qualms about all of them but held grudges against none. He didn’t care whether he be cremated, buried, or be devoured by birds of prey in the Tower of Silence but he requested that once dead, a poem called The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Eliot could be read to his corpse. He was an ardent student of literature and a sincere follower of Mahatma Gandhi. He wished to do many things but succeeded in

The 247th death. [Text and photos sent by Pushpita Majumdar] Pushpita Majumdar, or Pui, as her beloved husband would call her often, left us all. But yes, she died happy; warm, in her bed, with her kids and grandkids sitting beside her; just like she always wanted to. At the age of 80, she was the light of her house, singing and dancing and living life to the fullest. In her final moments, she requested to listen to Ranjish hi Sahi by Mehdi Hassan. She has left behind a set of instructions for her kids titled, ‘What to do when I am dead.’ Perfectionist, as she was, she wanted to die perfectly as well. Born a Hindu, but never really following many traditions,

The 246th death. [Text and photos sent by Waqas Ahmed] A misunderstood artist, Waqas Ahmed, 37, was found dead at his home in Lahore. According to the forensic report, he died of drowning in the depths between his throat and chest. His departure took place right before the sun pierced through the velvety fabric of night and washed the sky in reds and pinks. Mr Ahmed was a collector of spots of brightness. His great art of making sweet honey from bitter fruits would always be remembered. The last page of his personal diary reads as following: "Circle dear, it's a circle. No beginning, no ending, just a constant dance. A slow crawl to the top and a fast descend as you swing to

The 245th death. [Text and photos sent by Anannya Uberoi] Anannya Uberoi, 22, petter of alley cats, quarreler of strange bush squirrels, but otherwise a modest girl herself, rode old Charon’s ferry-boat early this morning. Like most literature-appreciating humans, she has left behind a legacy of journals that, sadly, no one has volunteered to read so far. Unlike most people, however, she was extremely satisfied with the era she took birth in, mostly for the reasons stated: the existence of chai outlets in Delhi, the convenience of taking flights, and medical advancements in the field of neuroscience. She died of a nervous breakdown in the middle of a coding assignment, forensics confirm. Ms Uberoi's intellectual capabilities were realized when she started writing at