The 62nd death.
[Text by Ipshita Mitra; photo by Arpita Mitra]
And she died one winter afternoon, without a warning, almost like the unexpected rain that evening.
Ipshita Mitra was always worried about her social skills; solitude is what she preferred for company. Some who knew her enough termed it ‘agoraphobia’, and others who did not know her enough called her ‘arrogant’. She adored her friends and family. She was a good counsellor, but, often failed to resolve her own dilemmas. “She was such a black-and-white person,” says one of her friends. “Being competitive was just not her thing. For a recluse like her, it is surprising how she could survive as a journalist. Characters did not matter to her much, their stories did,” remembers another friend. Her brief stint at a publishing house quenched the soul of a book lover in her.
After missing out on several alumni meets, she was all set to attend this year’s reunion at her journalism institute. The day before her death, she had pulled out her well-maintained dossier of college assignments and projects from one of the locked study drawers. She must have wanted to unlock her nostalgic self at the reunion. One of her assignments read thus—
(Assignment No. 4) Write your epitaph in not more than 50 words
Cushioned between the pages of a book,
sans fragrance, sans breath
I am that flower;
that wrapped memory;
that concealed emotion;
which resides within you.
I continue to live, revive and resurrect,
Death chose me, and I chose….
you know what!
In the loving memory of Ipshita Mitra (1989-20XX)
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