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Our Self-Written Obituaries – Arunima Mazumdar, Dwarka

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.

Our Self-Written Obituaries invites people to write their obituary in 200 words. The idea is to share with the world how you will like to be remembered after you are gone. (May you live a long life, of course!) Please mail me your self-obit at

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