The 223rd death. [Text and photos sent by Rupali Rakheja] A hypocrite of emotions, perplexed between her thoughts on archaeology and history. Rupali Rakheja died yesterday because of thinking too little about others and too much about her medieval ancestors. She dreamt more than she slept, she was a believer of Foucault's Philosophy. There were days when fellow workers tried to send her to an asylum as she was seen recognizing Khalji in Harappan skeletons. She was a free soul who believed in the freedom of art, discovered her essence in the enigma of thrill and mystery. She was opinionated and firm about her thoughts on living life but was often confused about what food to eat for dinner. She scribbled her words on the

The 222nd death. [Text and photo sent by Prachi Nagpal] As Virginia Woolf said that a woman needs a room and some money to be a writer. Prachi Nagpal didn't know what would become of her, but she surely knew she would have her own room. She had been shifting houses for a long time, and always felt dislocated as Mr. Biswas. She thought, "What does it mean to not own a physical space in this modern world? It actually means nothing." And, the questions came up fluttering to her from all the angles of the world like “What do you want to be?”, “Who are you?” and this cacophony subsumed the voice of nothing, of nobody, that she thought she was. But,

The 221st death. [Text and photo sent by Sharda Mutha] She was found dead, lying in utter solace on a rainy dawn. The raindrops fell on Sharda Mutha’s corpse as if they were trying to push her body underneath the sand, somewhere in the waves. Despite being an extravagant over-thinker, as it seemed, she had eccentric contentment on her face. Her lifeless face had so much life in itself as if she had found her peace and tranquility in death. The raindrops paved their way through the wrinkled face of the 60-year old woman. Her fingers had ink stains as though she was trying to write a poem about how she'd be free after all these years; about how she was going

The 220th death. [Text and photos sent by Lalit Vijay] Lalit Vijay, aged 87, was found dead near a degh somewhere in Koramangala, Bangalore; a place which he had relished since his college days. The autopsy report claims it to be the overdose of biryani but, according to sources, his body had achieved Nirvana after eating two plates of Meghana Special. There's a difference, you see. Mr Vijay was a jolly fellow who tripped madly on Rahul Dravid, the cricketer; Shantaram, the novel and Begum, his wife and soulmate. Amongst the few materialistic stuff found at his residence, there were souvenirs from Lord’s, posters of Virat Kohli, a photo frame with a picture of his family, a locket with green heart and a

The 219th death. [Text and photo sent by Priyanka Elangbam] Priyanka Elangbam died last night with her earphones entangled loosely around her neck. It didn't strangle her. She was listening to some positive affirmation ASMR videos on YouTube, to help her with her "self pity" issues which had been working up lately. Some will say she died peacefully. Some will say she cried a bit before the final breathe. She lost a lot of people recently, close friends and family. She thought it was because she suffocated people who she loved. But that might not have been the case, it was just her over-thinking nature accessing the whole situation. But she improved a lot lately, all because she started loving herself more. One

The 218th death. [Text and photo sent by Kingshuk Deka] Kingshuk Deka always feared what if he were to outlive Luca. The growing cataract in the beautiful feline eyes bothered him. You see, Luca was more than just his pet cat. His warmth was what kept him company on most days. Brushing his golden fur, on a Sunday sunset, calmed him like no other. His purring was all that made sense when nothing else did. More importantly, Luca enjoyed this close place in his heart because he reminded him of a certain someone, of his past and the merrier times. He never had a fondness for cats. He warmed up to cats only because love had befallen him. Luca licked the wounds and

The 217th death. [Text and photos sent by Devyani Srivastava] She was all of 30 when she left this side of the world. It was an anxiety attack that took her to the stars and the moons. Devyani Srivastava was an almost-writer, a half-wanderer and, unfortunately, a full-time civil servant. An hour before she left us, she had played the tabla, her only love for more than 20 years. Ms Srivastava has left no will. Among her most prized possessions were her books, some were by poets Faiz, Ghalib and Rumi; the rest included favorites such as Harry Potter and Goosebumps. She has also left behind an incomplete draft of what could have been her first poetry book, a few bottles of Old

The 216th death. [Text and photos sent by Ginni Munjal] Ginni Munjal passed away yesterday when she experienced epiphany while writing the last word of her yet to publish memoirs. It has been understood by her family and friends that she could not handle the ecstasy of her own life journey captured in her memoirs. Ms Munjal had a very cheerful face. All her life, she was running behind philosophical knowledge that would give her answers to her self-created psychological dramas, but nothing helped her. Just before her death, she was exposed to the spiritual aspect of life, which made her spiritually evolved and transformed her to an extremely happy child. After this spiritual phase, her dream was to create change in

The 215th death. [Text and photos sent by Aparna Tripathy] Aparna Tripathy, 27, was found dead in her room, the movie Dead Poets Society nonchalantly playing on her laptop. Ms Tripathy lived with Goofy and Pluto (dogs) and Hobbes (cat) in a small sea-facing house in Gokarna, Karnataka. Her essential material possessions were a Vespa, a camera, a laptop and a Nokia 1100. And, of course, many-many pictures of her friends who would visit her beach house. The young lady often fantasized about joining the 27 club; in fact, she shared her birthday with Jimi Hendrix who died at 27. She often said -"Maybe, I'd become Cobain's assistant out there. Or maybe start something like a Rolling Stones magazine up there. Or be

The 213rd death. [Text and photo sent by Deepshi Chowdhury] There she lay on her bed, her face serene. Deepshi Chowdhury was found dead in her apartment. Lying on the bed, she was as still as a Paulo Coelho beside her. She died in the most ordinary fashion in contrast to the kind of death she fantasized. Fortunately, a Faiz's ghazal playing in the stereo beside her infused a bit of romantic element to the circumstances. Ms Chowdhury’s friends recall how she wished for absurd things like marrying Urdu, the language of her beloved poets. Her two bosom friends allege her of suffocating them with her love, for guffawing at her own self-deprecating jokes, and catching feelings for people more frequently than she wrote