The 244th death. [Text and photo sent by Julia Julley] Nymph in yellow. She lived among flowers and died among flowers. She clearly remembered her past life as a Cinderella - crawling around in an uncomely green rag. Then came the warm embrace of the Magic Pod, which turned her into the Princess she gladly identified with. She chose the colour of her new garb after the Sun, the most mighty and fascinating of all living beings. The rest of her new life was all meadows and fields and grasslands, but most of all flowers. A sequence of endless frolicking, riding the winds and basking in the sunshine. She lived in an era when it was impossible to tell apart a fairy

The 243rd death. [Text and photo sent by Hetvi Jethwani] The self-proclaimed "mad" scientist Hetvi died on her 42nd birthday doing what she loved, lying down in her comfortable hammock, reading. Sadly, death seized her before she could reach the end of her most recent read. Also known to some by her online alias, BrainySaber, Hetvi was a literature, wordplay, and science enthusiast since her childhood. Had she been alive, she'd have chided the author of this obituary for not saying 'mathematics and science' instead of just 'science'. While she didn't live to be as significant as she thought she would be, the research group led by Hetvi and her college sweetheart made significant contributions to the field of Quantum Computing. The

The 242nd death. [Text and photos sent by Vinitta Mathew] She left in haste from this serendipitous encounter with life. A twisted misanthrope, she bled poems for a week every month. Storyteller par excellence, Vinitta Mathew overdosed on love and on the many conversations she would host inside her head. She overly used the word ‘soul’ but hers remained unhealed. Tired of half-ass men, her longest relationship was with herself. In her final moments the only thing she remembered was that she loved wholly and feverishly every single time she loved. When the end neared, she gestured her tattooed arm to no one in particular for some weed-tea dipped in cotton. Unlike life, her death was painless and she was ready when

The 241st death. [Text and photo sent by Siddhartha Singh] He died at 49, just sort of half a century of something he hoped was worth something. Siddhartha Singh was a prolific poet, but not a penny richer or smarter because of it. He was just good enough to be a lawyer. He died loving the woman who chose to live by his side after knowing everything he was and wasn't capable of. In the end, she can probably say that she loved him just as much as he loved her. In any case, his life was a cornucopia of dilemmas and incrementally worse choices. In the end, he is remembered by two poems he wrote, one of which has been lost

The 240th death. [Text and photos sent by Tanmayee Thakur] Tanmayee Thakur had mastered all forms of delicate living by 22. Tracing her fingers on the silhouettes of clouds, pressing the petals of sunflowers between her lips, breaking open the sap of fruits and consuming their seeds whole. Ms Thakur had been exhumed by the brittle divorce of her parents. But she continued to make love to life. She ate cotton candy under lime-green trees, she made love in aubergine parks, she held wounded birds close to her heart. The circumstances of her death remain mysterious. Her father opened the door to her room one morning, to find her gone. There was no blood, no weapon, no body. It was as though

The 239th death. [Text and photo sent by Kashiana Singh] In leaving as in coming, Kashiana Singh left behind many monochromatic moments. She wrote down a few wishes, on checkered pages (she loved checkered notebooks)in pencilled cursive hand Carpe Diem If I could plant myself on my dada’s knee again I would listen, rapt as he fed me almonds, but I would feel his fingers, where the knuckles knotted stories If I could borrow my nani’s lace dupatta again I would remember to wear it like a pilgrimage I would celebrate her indiscernible life, hued into its layers If I could hold my brother close to my chest I would hold gently, enfolding my arms around his neck I would not let go, embracing ferociously till my breath became

The 238th death. [Text and photos sent by Shadman Alvi] It was a cold frigid winter evening when the news broke out. Shadman Alvi, 62, was found lying cold on the floor of his small house in a city suburb. “It was a heart-attack,” the reports confirmed. The room Mr Alvi leaves behind reflects his life’s simplicity. It includes his favorite pale-yellow lights, a money-plant vine that he named Dobby, a window-side bed and a wall, painted black. The Urdu poster on the wall reads, 'Khushi zahir choti-choti cheezon mein hai', which translates to, 'Happiness is found in small-small things'. These were his mother's words. Mr Alvi’s tombstone reads—‘Inshallah,’ or God-willing. Our Self-Written Obituaries invites people to write their obituary in 200 words. The idea

The 237th death. [Text and photo sent by Dr Santosh Bakaya] Here lies the Mad Hatter! Finally. She kicked the bucket today. Ah, that reminds me, she could not tick off many items on her bucket list. Death came suddenly, when she was plotting her next book, that crook shook her out of her complacence pouncing at her, unexpectedly. The injustices of the world weighed so heavily on her, stirring her out of her snug cocoon, making her write and write. And she writhed on. But now she is gone, no longer writing, no longer writhing. That little diary, the one she used to keep next to her, to trap runaway words, fell to the ground. Maimed. Unclaimed. “You are always on a high,” friends and acquaintances would remark “I am drugged on life,” she would quip. Her relentless

The 236th death. [Text and photo sent by Tikuli Dogra] Tikuli Dogra passed from this world today. A walker found her propped up against a fallen tree next to the stream. Her final words were "I had a good run and one thousand years is long enough.” A worn out notebook, some stationery, a wallet with a photograph of her sons and a few ancient coins were found in a duffle bag next to the stream. A hunter had hammered a wooden stake through her heart. Ms Dogra was the keeper of the words, a story teller also labelled a 'witch', a 'sorceress' accused of laying word-traps. A wanderer at heart she never fitted in the boxes society tried to put her in. She

The 234th death. [Text and photo sent by Mrittika] Mrittika, 27, was found lifeless by a lively corner of Iskcon Temple, her lively abode for the last 7 years. Mrittika was known to have appeared at the footsteps of the temple with a few inscriptions of the English band, Porcupine Tree, on her forearm, something that a Sadhika wouldn't normally qualify with. Citing the inscription, she claimed, it was "the start of something beautiful". Some say that it was an excuse for her to escape reality. You see, when you are a Sadhika, no one questions your plump bottle of rum, the kush in your pockets, lice in those locks and lastly, your unbiased love for sarees. According to the residents of