The 35th death.
[Text by Arunima Mazumdar; photo by Hindol Basu]
On the day she was going to die, Arunima Mazumdar got up rather early to go for a morning walk. She never went for a morning walk in her entire life. Evening was her favourite part of the day; morning was always difficult. She’d shut herself up in the room, the window wide open, letting in gusts of dusty, summer wind, with a half-open book in one hand and a mug of green tea in another. Later, when she’d feel the morning had had its way, she’d come out for breakfast—one slice of buttered bread and a boiled egg to go with it—and sit to settle matters of the day.
Ms Mazumdar made friends easily. She loved easily. She forgave easily. Some adored her for her frankness; others challenged her for being moody. She was independent and always had a bag packed, ready to go away.
She had a lot of stories to tell, but somehow, she never got around to writing them; she used to say that she’d either have to live a life full of miseries or exceeding excellence to be able to write a book. She felt she hadn’t lived enough, or seen enough yet, to do justice to it.
She revered the past, her own and others’. And once, she’d mentioned that she’d find a way to get Chughtai and Manto married only if she were born in that day and age.
That day Ms Mazumdar defied her own routine. It must have been a hint. It must have meant something.
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