The 86th death.
[Text by Vivek Tejuja; photo by Unknown]
His relationships were a mess. He lived like that, always fleeting – a man this time, another the next time and then there was no stopping. At the end of it, there was always this hollow feeling – this undefined emptiness which fortunately books filled. Vivek Tejuja did not know how to define himself while he was alive. When men and women asked him what he wanted to be, he just replied with a beatific smile, “Nobody really. Maybe a chronicler of dreams and lost hopes.”
Mr Tejuja was short-tempered, fleeting, quite a fuzzy head but he liked to believe he was loved. He was never too kind to himself. He hated mirrors. He loved his adhrakh chai. He loved dark, lonely, and chilly winters. Sometimes he hoped for someone next to him. Sometimes he didn’t. Mr Tejuja was certain that a sea of happiness existed somewhere, where books would float and old Hindi songs would play all day long. He was under the impression that literature saves lives and maybe it did, his included, till the time he lived.
Mr Tejuja is survived by his library and no partner. He preferred solitude and the company of books to men. Well for most times.
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