The 81st death.
[Text by Pallavi Pratap; photo by Prachi Pratap]
She died on a cold January evening on the terrace of her father’s house, mesmerized by the beautiful sunset of Lucknow, with no one by her side.
Pallavi Pratap spent her last days remembering her life as a child living in the house her parents so fondly built, of the protected childhood she spent with her parents and siblings. Her niece said that she was a kind soul who would help as many women as she could, in their troubles and endeavors. All her life, Palz, as she was fondly called, was confused about what to do with her life, not knowing where she was going. She just did things on whims and fancies of her mind and therefore, never succeeded in attaining any name for herself, in the various fields that she worked in.
She is survived by her niece, as she had no child of her own; and has left behind a library of all sorts of books. Most of them have the date and the place from where it was purchased, scribbled in her handwriting, on the first page. When asked why she would do that, she used to say that many years later if she picked up the book, she may remember a little bit of her past. She was no one famous, just an ordinary small town girl who lived all her life in big cities and mostly hating every minute of it.
Or was she confused?
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 firstname.lastname@example.org.