The 233nd death. [Text and photo sent by Devika Todi] Devika Todi died while crossing the road to reach her office. An angry bull rammed into her. Her body lay all jumbled up. Her laptop was crushed. Her bag, however, remain intact, along with a picture from her last vacation where she can be spotted on a cliff with blue waves crashing against it. The world never made so much sense to Ms Todi as it did the moment she accepted that road as her bed and her blood as her blanket. Memories came rushing to her, while people with strange faces gathered to look at her finished life. She was of no use to anyone ever again in this capitalist world. 21 years of

The 232nd death. [Text and photo sent by Hassaan Tauseef] Today, 13th April 2018, 13:12. He left. Here is the note he left. Hassaan Tauseef knew this day was different. He woke up to the smell of pines, to the sound of sitar and taste of tea. Still hung over on the love from last night. Sitting on a mountain top, some twenty minutes outside Islamabad, he had that feeling again. It was not the first time but it hoped it wouldn’t be the last. For when it last happened, the memory of that particular sunset haunted his mind. It was by the lake, on a rock, listening to those songs, with one of the only people he cared about. That feeling? He

The 231st death. [Text and photos sent by Sadia hashmi] Sadia Hashmi, 25, was discovered dead in her study in New Delhi. She passed away while writing her autobiography. To our surprise, she was towards the end of the book. The last line of which reads - "...and she lived happily ever after..." The story of her death is quite mysterious. Some people say she got suffocated by the great expectations of people around her. Had she been alive, she would have blamed narcissists for her death. She strongly believed in humanity. It was very difficult for her to see people suffering. People often called her feminist. Although she enjoyed all sorts of freedom during her life time, she still found herself in chains

The 230th death. [Text and photo sent by Ajwah Nadeem] This death was her choice. She didn’t leave a note for anyone. We don’t know why. Obsessed with owning the space she was born into, she strived to grow. Insecurities heaped up onto her, she tried to try. Maybe that is what she wants to be remembered as. Death chased Ajwah Nadeem like a midsummer nights dream. Hope flitted onto her canvas like a comical candle. Let’s not cry, because maybe this is what she wanted. Time has finally stopped for her. Sisyphus has finally decided to let go. Fashioning diamond dreams out of dust, she breathed her energy into them. Her soul would scitter back into its cave, making room for trauma. Trauma

The 229th death. [Text and photos sent by Mrinal Pant] Resting in peace (her exterior very well obscured the storms raging inside) at the least garish corner of her house, Mrinal Pant was mostly seen mulling over the vagaries of life, or racking deepest tendrils of her mind over the question she sought answers for until her last breath--what all can Godot be? A letter from Hogwarts maybe? She had a thing for antagonists, the real and the fictional ones; “Caesar wouldn’t have a Shakespearean masterwork named after him if it wasn’t for Brutus’ undoing” she said, or “Was Sherlock anything minus his arch nemesis Moriarty?” There was no stopping her scandalous opinions. That is what she enjoyed the most- unsettling the normative

The 228th death. [Text and photos sent by Alexander KS] Alexander KS was found dead by the chicken pen on Sunday as the church bells rang to the heavens. By the time he was 22, Alexander was sitting on a pile of cigarette buds between the Satan and the sea. He tried his time under the nutmeg tree but there was no enlightenment. He found out by the age of 23 that he was a fence and there was nothing on either side. He was from a lineage of mountain hunters and forest worshippers and hence could never be seen at the psychiatric's. But he made his appointments like a stealthy hunter and managed never to be caught embarrassing himself. He died of no

The 227th death. [Text and photos sent by Suhasini Soumitra Barman] Drunk on memories, laughter and wine, Suhasini Soumitra Barman left for home last night. Back to her father, best friend, partner-in-crime; her whole universe rolled into one. With their crazy sense of humour and love for all things mischievous, they must be up to some insane prank right now. And in all probabilities, they must already be ready with a hit-list——her sister might be the usual soft target (they’ve missed this beloved ritual for quite a while now). And one can bet on it that they must be brunching together this morning because nobody loved food as much as these two did. Impulsive, reckless and steadfastly kind, her favourite person often fondly

The 226th death. [Text and photos sent by Anam Fatima] All her life she dreaded early mornings. But for a journey, she'd be up and about in no time. Anam Fatima left this world early this morning. On her bedside was kept a copy of A Lust for Life, a note pad randomly scribbled upon and a few letters. It is no secret that she spent her life around books, reading and writing. She obsessed over writers like Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath only to find out they had taken their own life. It made her wonder what would become of her. Will she find a method in her madness or will she succumb? She made it her life's mission for the

The 225th death. [Text and photos sent by Tanvi Lall] Tanvi Lall, 57, was found cold and breathless early this morning, in her own bed donning a creepy smile. It was as if she was denied a fancy closure. On the side, her bed had a stack of neatly sprawled books as her OCD would allow and a struggled, almost unfinished draft of something that could have been a deal breaker for her. Her hands, hours later as well, reeked of cigarettes and the room of prominent musk fragrance. She took the quarter of a bed to announce it as her grave. Her wish to see it raining of french fries leaves us with her. A woman of minutest things, she wanted to be remembered

The 224th death. [Text and photos sent by Swapnil Sinha] At the ripe age of 77, Swapnil Sinha died a child, for he believed that homes belong only to children and that as we grow, homes turn into a carcass of living space; beds become a grave a few inches too comfortable. Bitter almonds didn't remind him of unrequited love. Instead, they reminded him of a poor place of growth, a bad home. Perhaps that's the reason he died while sitting on his chair that was placed beside a kerosene lamp that burnt even as the morning’s glory knocked in. The smell of fuel consumed the scent of bitter almonds. He didn't know answers to a lot of questions and he wasn't interested in