The 89th death.
[Text by Pallavi Pundir; photo by DN]
And just like that, Pallavi Pundir–a magnanimous friend, an unpredictable daughter and a malicious sister–has died. It wasn’t like her to pen her own obituary, for introspection was the least of her virtues. Yet, as if forewarned, she scribbled some notes just a few days before her death for those around her to put together in no specific order.
There isn’t much to learn about her. She desperately wanted to be 70 years old so that her cold apathy towards the world would be generally disregarded or tediously accepted. She dreamt of living in a secluded hilly village with no public transport just so she would utilise her rusty Ladybird. Then there was this other time when she decided to join the Armed Forces because she thought she would look dapper in a uniform.
It wasn’t unusual for Ms Pundir to expect something new–no matter how extreme or intense–out of every day. In pursuit of such expectations, she often found herself lost in the face of the ordinary. And ordinarily did she live–she loved the gloomy, rain-riddled skies than the bubbling sun, took pleasure in walking around with books she meticulously covered in glossy newspaper sheets, loathed people who couldn’t take their own dogs out for walks and she detested babies in movie theatres.
And now she is dead, killed by the very extremity she used to yearn for. It was a manic vegan with a hacksaw in the poultry section of the nearby supermarket. She was 25.
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.