The 38th death.
[Text by Zoya Singh; photo by Vijay Singh]
Zoya Singh always thought that she didn’t belong here. Even the words that she spoke carried in them some sense of oddness and misunderstanding that belonged to some other time, some other era, some place better.
Ms Singh went missing a year ago after she ran away to find herself among the mountains. Her body was found swamped around a lake, in the very perfection of her being, with which she lived. Perhaps, she had found what she was looking for.
Ms Singh grew up reading Plath and Poe, the two Ps that ran her life. She quoted Rousseau in school, and debated with Einstein while she was only seven. In her pastime, she worked at libraries. In college, she found herself in the abode of Lord Shiva, and followed the calls of Christ. She wasn’t a redeemer, but surely, she felt redeemed. She could be found going through the racks at Jacksons’ Books in Paharganj or chatting with kids and dogs in Connaught Place. She was only nineteen.
Ms Singh loved her family, and missed her sister who left her nine years ago. Her friends found solace and wisdom in her, and she loved profoundly her lovers and the dearth that they left in her heart.
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